by Sergey
“And then what? I mean . . . after everything else? After the exam? After graduation? What will happen to me?”
The hunchback smiled.
“It shall be magnificent. Believe me. But at this stage I simply cannot explain it.”
A few more days passed.
In those rare hours when Sasha managed to fall asleep, she dreamed of the monster from the black city. In her sleep she knew she had to fight, but felt no power, only terror and helplessness, and she would scream and wake up. Lena and Vika, who never managed to move, covered their heads with pillows.
Yegor was avoiding her. Sasha was very sorry that the most unpleasant day in their relationship was now written into her “life history.” But despite all her losses and fears, despite the mind-boggling load of those days, Sasha now felt happier every day.
Her studies with Sterkh, the nightmare of her entire semester, now fascinated her. She did not exactly enjoy them, but was enthralled by the step-by-step progress of how a tiny success led to a bigger one. For the first time she realized the connection between her efforts and her growing internal power—and she no longer doubted her supreme powers. Sasha used to ignore Sterkh’s words regarding her “rare gift,” but now she knew he was right, understood that she did indeed possess an exceptional talent in a still mysterious but infinitely compelling area, and now she, who always loved to learn, had these mesmerizing, not entirely clear, but alluring prospects open invitingly ahead of her.
She longed to speak with Kostya. Tell him everything, ask in secret—how was it for him? What did he feel when he followed the hunchback’s instructions?
But Zhenya, ruddy-faced and menacing, always followed her husband like a shadow. Sasha did not dare to intrude.
“According to the tradition of our institute, second-year students are responsible for organizing the New Year’s Eve party. Considering that our test is scheduled for January third, I’d prefer Samokhina to take care of the annual holiday roast. I will give you an automatic passing grade. And you too, Pavlenko, as long as you turn in all your work today. A bit of clemency on my part—to make sure Samokhina has some help.”
“I can’t do the roast,” Sasha said.
Portnov put his hands behind his back.
“And why is that?”
“I’m very busy.”
“You are busy.” Portnov took off his glasses. “So you propose I interfere with the work of your classmates who at this point have equal chances of passing this exam and having a makeup date? Do you realize how many of your colleagues are hanging by a thread and at this last possible moment trying to accomplish a semester’s worth of work?”
The silence in the auditorium was as absolute as in Sterkh’s headphones.
“Don’t look for trouble, Samokhina. Nikolay Valerievich is prepared to pass you right now and free up some of your precious time for the annual roast. Engage Group B, bring in the first years, but make it happen.”
“I don’t know how!” Sasha got up. “I’ve never in my life had anything to do with amateur performances! I am not going to do it—I don’t want to!”
“Samokhina,” Portnov said icily. “Your responsibility as a student is to study diligently and to meet your obligations regarding socially useful labor. And you will meet these obligations, otherwise you will have an unpleasant conversation with your advisor. Pavlenko, do you have any problems? Do you also have something against amateur performances?”
“No.” Lisa put down her hand. “I will work on the roast, sure. But Nikolay Valerievich’s test . . .”
“I will talk to him,” Portnov promised magnanimously. “As far as I know, he is quite satisfied with your work this semester.”
“I did not tell him anything, if you care to know. I wasn’t the one who blabbed.”
Lisa sat on the windowsill in her habitual pose, a cigarette smoking lightly in her hand.
It had been many months since she’d lived in, or even visited, the dorm. The sight of her old room seemed to cause her revulsion rather than nostalgia—she took a long time looking around, sneered, and even sniffed the air. Then she settled on the windowsill and clicked her lighter—only to hesitate.
“Alexandra, do you mind if I smoke?’
“Go ahead,” Sasha said, pretending to ignore the sarcasm.
Her roommates, Lena and Vika, retreated to the kitchen. Sasha sat behind the desk and opened the Textual Module.
“Anyway, I did not say anything to Yegor. But I know for sure who did.”
“I am not interested,” Sasha said.
“At all?” Lisa took a drag.
“At all. Because it’s a lie.”
“Aren’t you a cool customer?” Lisa waved her hand to disperse the smoke. “Fine. Do you have any ideas about this party?”
“Toporko should perform a striptease.”
“Great idea.”
“All we need to do is convince Toporko.”
“All we need to do is to convince our guys to watch this massacre. Do you know any magic tricks?”
“Sure—as long as you agree to get into a box. And I can ask the superintendent for a saw.”
“A chain saw?”
“A circular saw!”
“And we can put Kozhennikov into the box,” Lisa said.
The room became very quiet.
“Farit Kozhennikov,” Lisa clarified, avoiding Sasha’s eyes. “But yeah, you’re right. It was a stupid joke. So what are we going to do?”
A huge movie projector, a half-century-old technical wonder, stood in the projectionist’s booth. There was also a primitive audio mixing console, and now Sasha, looking at the stage through a blurry window and listening to the actors’ lines, cued different melodies through the speakers.
Lisa proved to be indispensable in preparing the traditional roast. Sasha was amazed—and kept mentally thanking Portnov for giving Pavlenko an automatic passing grade. Somehow Lisa managed to involve about ten first years, a couple of ladies from the dean’s office, and Oksana from Group B (Oksana did not get to pass automatically, but she was a good student and was pretty sure of herself). In only a few days they planned, designed, and directed a half-hour show. Sasha’s participation boiled down to sitting in the projectionist’s booth and turning on the music.
The rehearsal went very smoothly, but when the hall filled with excited, noisy students, when the professorial staff walked in and settled in the third row, Sasha found herself to be exceptionally nervous. To add to her discomfort, the words spoken on the stage were not as audible as they were in the empty hall—Sasha was afraid to miss a cue and strained her ears by the booth’s window.
The actors must have been nervous as well. The beginning was not particularly successful, one of the first years forgot a line, and the punch line of the joke was lost. Panicking, Sasha turned on the music way too loud; Lisa, forced to shout over the music, threw violent glances at the projectionist’s booth, but Sasha, instead of lowering the volume, made it even louder. To Lisa’s credit, she did not lose control; after the first few awkward minutes, the actors found their footing, the holiday roast started going smoothly, and the audience, anemic at first, was now laughing harder with each skit.
Listening intently to the actors’ lines, Sasha heard the door behind her back open and close. She cued “The Dance of the Little Swans,” and only then turned around.
“Sorry, do you mind if I sit here for a while?” Zakhar whispered.
Sasha was taken aback. They exchanged friendly hellos in the hallway, but were not exactly close friends.
“Sveta is looking for me everywhere,” he said with a shrug. “And I’m not in the mood to talk to her.”
“Sveta? First year from room 5?”
“The very same.”
“Are you hiding from her?” Sasha asked with a hint of contempt.
Zakhar sat down gingerly on a three-legged stool. “It’s not what you think. I . . . I am taking the exam on January thirteenth.”
Suddenly remembe
ring her job, Sasha dashed to the window and barely managed to turn off the music at the last second.
The audience laughter was continuous. It looked as if the holiday roast was a big success.
“So?”
Zakhar shrugged.
“For some reason . . . I don’t know. I wanted to see my parents, my brother someday . . . my classmates. You . . . Sasha, I have this feeling like it’s the end of the world. As if after this exam nothing at all will exist.”
“Nonsense,” Sasha said, recollecting her own nightmare in the administrative wing, when she imagined a conveyor belt, dragging third years onto the sacrificial stone. “You know it’s baloney. We are not being educated only to be slaughtered later. We are simply going to be different.”
“We are already different,” Zakhar said. “This New Year’s Eve . . . everyone is laughing . . . Sasha, you are a great girl. I want you to know that.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Me? Nothing. I just . . . Good-bye, Sasha. After all . . . Farewell.”
Sasha gaped at him, her mouth wide open, and did not realize right away that the audience was suspiciously silent. The pause lingered . . .
The “Turkish March”! She was supposed to cue the “Turkish March”!
When, music booming in the assembly hall, meek as a mouse Sasha rose from the music stand, Zakhar had already left the booth.
The holiday roast was a big success. Only that triumph saved Sasha: if her mistake really had led to failure, as it seemed for a moment, Lisa would have murdered her with her own hands. Lisa did in fact admit to Sasha that very thought had crossed her mind—in very strong, undiplomatic language.
On January 2, the first years took their test. For a long hour and a half not a sound came from the auditorium.
Then it was as if a dam broke—two girls came out first, sweaty and happy, then a boy, then three boys at the same time. One after another, eighteen people came out; Yegor was not among them.
Hiding behind the bronze leg of the gigantic horse, Sasha bit her hand. If only Yegor passes . . . if only he passes . . . She would approach him first.
Just let him come out.
Minutes passed. Voices in the corridor died down. Yegor still did not appear.
I bring bad luck, Sasha thought in terror. Those who love me—rather, those who loved me and left me . . .
If Yegor has to take a makeup test, what am I going to do?
The door opened.
Yegor hesitated on the threshold—and walked out into the dark hall. Sasha jumped at him from underneath the statue’s belly. Yegor staggered.
“Did you pass?”
“I passed.” Yegor swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”
Sasha embraced him, squeezed him with all her might. She pressed her face against his sweater, inhaling his familiar scent. She hadn’t held anyone like that for so long. She wanted to freeze like this for an eternity, wanted Yegor’s hand to lie on her shoulder, touch the back of her head, smooth down her hair . . .
But Yegor stood motionlessly.
Sasha heard the beating of his heart. Felt his breath.
She raised her head. Yegor looked down at her. He was not smiling.
“Yegor,” Sasha said, still holding him tightly. “If I upset you, I am sorry. I love you, and don’t you listen to anyone else. It’s all a lie. I was in a very bad way, but now I’m better. Listen . . . let’s go to my room.”
Yegor was silent. She felt him tense up. Perhaps he was trying to control himself.
“Don’t you believe me?”
Yegor did not respond. His arms hung limply along his body.
Sasha took a step back.
“I’m sorry,” Yegor said. “I have to get ready for the English exam.”
He left.
“Greetings, second years, Group A. The magical day has finally arrived, and our test is finally here . . .”
Portnov spoke, shuffling through the grade books stacked on the edge of the table. He pulled out two of them, took his time signing them, and moved them to the side.
“Samokhina, Pavlenko, congratulations. Samokhina, the leader of the class, keep up the good work. And Pavlenko who walked the path of glory from failure to a straight-A student. Both are dismissed. Take your grade books and get out of here.”
“Such a bastard,” Lisa said when they found themselves in the corridor.
Sasha nodded.
“I hope everyone in our group passes.” Lisa moved her shoulders uneasily. “Listen . . . We should keep our fingers crossed for them.”
Sasha nodded again.
The test lasted four hours, and no one left the auditorium during that time. Lisa couldn’t handle the pressure; she went back into town. Sasha went with her, but came back halfway. She moved like a pendulum, back and forth, and listened to the sound of her own steps. She would sit down—and get up again; then repeat it all over. Everything was exactly the same as yesterday. Tinsel garlands still decorated the entrance to the assembly hall; Sasha couldn’t banish the thought that garlands and wreaths were the traditional adornments of animals to be sacrificed.
Shortly after four, when darkness descended outside, the second years of Group A stumbled into the corridor. Some people remained standing, leaning on the wall. Some, eyes bulging, raced toward the bathrooms.
Sasha rushed over to Kostya. “How was it?”
“It was fine,” replied Zhenya Toporko, coming out of nowhere.
“He passed everyone.” Denis Myaskovsky was still breathing heavily. “He was brutal, that bastard. . . . Ugh.”
Kostya squeezed Sasha’s hand, silently and forcefully. Then he turned and walked down the corridor, Zhenya trotting behind him.
Exhausted, Sasha closed her eyes.
On January 12, exactly on the due date, Sasha’s brother was born and named Valentin.
The day before, on the eleventh, she had taken Sterkh’s test. The hunchback had called people in one by one. Sasha had walked in last. She had been shaking, but not with fear.
“Sasha, please don’t worry so much, everything is fine. Take the headphones, I’m going to play a track that you have not heard before, and your task is to perceive it as fully as possible. It is not so much a test as it is an overview, a concluding lesson. Are you ready?”
Sasha had regained her senses once she left the auditorium. Her classmates, mad with joy, had been having a chicken fight: Zhenya on Kostya’s back squared off against Lisa on Denis’s back. The girls had slapped each other with rolled notepads, trying to get the other “chicken” off her partner’s back; the boys had neighed, clucked, and kicked, and the entire corridor had brimmed with stomping and laughter. Sasha had thought that a medieval carnival—the momentary freedom from a hideous burden—in its hysterical glee, resembled the point when the Specialty test was definitely passed . . .
“What are the sparrows singing on this last day of chill? We live, we breathe, we made it, and we are living still!”
A few minutes before, Sterkh had written in her grade book the word “Outstanding.” Specialty tests were always graded.
One more year remained until the placement exam.
On the morning of January 13 the first floor of the dorm was swamped with suitcases and bags. The rooms stood wide open. First years had left the day before, except for a few girls who stayed behind for some reason; Sasha suspected they wanted to say good-bye to someone.
“Good-bye, little’uns!” Zakhar saluted the first-year girls. “Until we meet again . . . on the other side!”
The third years walked into the assembly hall, one by one, and the door closed behind them.
On January 16, second years had a Constitutional Law exam. Sasha ended up with something about splitting assets after divorce. She couldn’t remember how one was supposed to split property, and mumbled something inarticulate, burning with shame. The professor seemed displeased, but for some reason still gave her a B.
Kostya was sitting on the windowsill outside the aud
itorium. He was probably waiting for Zhenya.
“I left my grade book on the table,” Sasha said. “Would you mind grabbing it?”
“Sure, no problem,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, he asked: “When are you leaving?”
“I don’t know yet,” she replied. “I don’t even have the tickets yet. Mom’s still in the hospital, I don’t know when she’ll be coming home, and I . . .”
Kostya stared at something behind Sasha’s shoulder. She turned around. Ten steps away from them stood Sterkh; his ash-blond hair, this time brushed smoothly, framed his gray face, spilling onto his collar.
“Hello, Nikolay Valerievich,” Kostya said.
“Good afternoon, Kostya. Sasha, have you taken the exam yet?”
“Yes,” said Sasha.
“Then come with me, we have something to discuss.” The hunchback motioned her over with a long finger, and she went as if pulled by an invisible rope.
She expected to be taken to his office. Instead, the hunchback grabbed his hat and coat, told Sasha to get dressed, and they went outside. The day was sunny. Clear sky encased Torpa in a blue dome.
“Have you eaten yet?”
“No . . .”
“Terrific. Sasha, congratulations on successfully completing your winter exams. To the left, please, toward the sign. There, on the second floor, is a fabulous restaurant.”
“I have a new brother,” she said, surprising herself.
“Then we have a perfect reason for celebration.”
Restaurants, with tables draped with starched tablecloths, doormen, and cloakroom attendants, always made Sasha uncomfortable. The two of them were escorted to a private nook, and Sasha immediately tucked herself into a window corner—from there, she could see the street, pigeons on the molding, and a scrap of the sky.
“Here’s the menu. Sasha, what will you have?”
“This.” Sasha pointed her finger randomly. “And this. And mushrooms.”
Their appetizers arrived.
“How do you feel?”
“More or less . . . not bad. I wanted to ask you—how are the third years? Are they doing well, did they pass? All of them?”
