Vita Nostra

by Sergey

  “Yes,” Sasha said. “Your professors have quite a technique. Ours dragged their feet up until the last possible moment, they never told us anything.”

  “But I didn’t get it,” Yegor said. “If I bought those skis—then everything would have turned out differently, right?”

  Sasha took a step back. “I don’t think so. You see . . .” But then she fell silent.

  A horde of first years showed up, stunned by their first lecture. They gathered around silently, hesitant to get closer to the bulletin board, made nervous by the spooky crippled second year and the third-year girl, normal-looking on the surface and thus even more terrifying.

  “I am a verb as well,” Sasha said. “But I’m a verb in the imperative mood. I suppose nothing would have worked out for us anyway . . .”

  She was silent again. She didn’t want to continue this conversation surrounded by a bunch of frightened children. There was really no point in continuing it—she had told no one about the “loop” that Farit Kozhennikov put her in for pedagogical reasons, no one but Kostya.

  So she turned to the first years. “Hey, what do you want? Do you need to copy your schedule? Then go ahead, copy it down, the bell is about to ring. Do you know what happens if you are ever late for class?”

  Pencils began to rustle. Girls started whispering to one another. Sasha took hold of Yegor’s sleeve and pulled him aside; they hid in the shadow of the bronze equestrian, but Sasha was not in a rush to let go of his sleeve.

  “You see, Yegor, one’s own experience is an individual method. When you understand something, when you know it for sure, but cannot explain it to someone else who has not had the same experience . . . well, it’s a very unpleasant feeling. I can only imagine how Cassandra felt.”

  “I don’t understand,” Yegor said. “I’m a little slow these days . . . after this summer.”

  “It’ll pass. Everything will pass, in the grand scheme of things. Where is that girl Natasha, the one who lent me her sweater?”

  “She failed the summer finals.”

  “How?”

  “She failed Specialty. She took it three times. And failed. Where do you think she is now?”

  “Same place as Zakhar,” Sasha’s voice sounded hollow.

  “Who’s that?”

  “You won’t remember him. It doesn’t matter, Yegor. But how are you? How do you feel . . . after all this? And who’s teaching Introduction to Applied Science, how is it?”

  “You sound like my mother,” Yegor said.

  Sasha smiled wistfully. “Is that bad?”

  “It’s weird.” He shrugged slowly. Just as slowly, he said, “But if we are Words, we couldn’t have had a relationship anyway.”

  “Except for a grammatical kind,” Sasha forced a smile.

  Yegor looked down.

  “Forgive me. When I was still a human being . . . I was wrong.”

  All of them are to blame, and everyone has admitted his guilt, and now I’m drowning in their apologies, Sasha thought grimly, sprawled on her bed and thumbing through the Textual Module. She learned to scan the paragraphs, skimming the surface, without diving into the grinding chaos of words. This method did not replace her usual meticulous study technique, but its value was undeniable. Unlike Portnov’s exercises and Sterkh’s trials, no restrictions were imposed on the paragraphs: Sasha was allowed to read the entire textbook if she wanted to, which is exactly what she was doing at the moment with a sense of serene pleasure. In moments like these a magnificently curved fragment of a sphere that enveloped the planet appeared in front of her eyes, so very close; the sphere was pearly-gray, the color of smoke, and it teemed with ideas and meanings, images, bits and whole impressions. All was accidental and all was interdependent, and it seemed that all she needed to do was to reach for a fresh meaning, grab it, process it, comprehend it—and everything would change. The world would change.

  This is where geniuses scoop up their ideas, Sasha thought, almost without envy. They don’t understand how it works, they rely on intuition: reach out with your hand—and here it is, your idea.

  What a depressing way to go through life, hoping for ideas.

  She had ten minutes left until her lesson with Sterkh, the first one this year. Sasha closed the book and put it in her bag, then checked to make sure she had her pens and pencils.

  She sighed, put the pink case with her telephone around her neck, locked the door, went outside, took two steps in the direction of the institute . . .

  And froze, as if her feet had been glued to the cobblestones.

  Mom was walking down Sacco and Vanzetti. She swiveled her head, peering at the numbers of the buildings. For an entire minute Sasha wanted to believe that it was a mistake, that the woman moving along the paving stones only resembled Mom, but was really somebody completely unfamiliar.

  In an instant, two alien worlds collided. Torpa, the institute, Sasha’s metamorphosis, words and meanings. Mom, home, previous human life. The worlds that had never before come into contact now overlapped, and Sasha felt a dull pain in her temples at the thought of how this meeting would turn out.

  Her initial impulse was to run over to Mom, shout, curse, scream in her face. “Leave! Go away from here!” However, Sasha restrained herself, only to have her second impulse flow through her: hide. Bury her head in the sand like an ostrich. Once she managed to overcome that temptation, she realized that there was nothing she could do. She had no idea what action to take, and the time before her lesson kept shrinking, Sterkh was expecting her in seven minutes . . . no, in only six, now.

  Mom stopped in front of the institute. A cluster of first-year girls whispered among themselves, heads close together, throwing quick glances at the second-story windows. Mom had to ask them a question, but she also clearly wanted to know what the students were saying before she interrupted. Sasha could understand that: sometimes you can understand more about a school by listening to a chance conversation.

  Mom stepped from foot to foot. She clearly felt lost and stupid. Sasha could imagine Mom had taken a long time to make the decision to come to Torpa, and had no idea what she was going to see, and now here she was: a charming provincial town, strange but very beautiful. A four-story institute building on Sacco and Vanzetti Street. The girls, perfectly lovely on the outside, clearly anxious, but what young students wouldn’t be in the beginning of September?

  “Girls, excuse me, are you students here?”

  The group separated.

  “Yes, we are,” a tall, beautiful girl in a very revealing outfit, more appropriate for a beach, replied cautiously.

  “Do you know Sasha Samokhina?”

  “Is she a first year?”

  “Third.”

  The girls exchanged glances.

  “We don’t know any third years yet . . . almost no one. We’ve just started.”

  “I see. I’m sorry.”

  Mom marched over to the entrance of the institute and took hold of the door handle. She disappeared inside.

  Sasha bolted toward the alley. Flew into the yard and over to the dorm. Please let him be home. Let him be home . . .

  She banged on the door to room 3 with her fist. This double room was given to the newlyweds Kostya and Zhenya last semester.

  “Come in,” said Zhenya’s annoyed voice.

  Three minutes remained until her session with Sterkh. The pink phone hung on her neck.

  “Sasha?”

  She turned. Kostya was walking down the corridor, two steaming mugs in his hands.

  “I need your help,” she said without preamble. “I have a session with Sterkh at twelve oh five. And my mother just arrived.”

  “Your mother?”

  “I forbade her, but she came anyway, without warning. What the hell am I going to do? Go see Sterkh, please, and I’ll take your slot . . .”

  Kostya placed the cups on the floor and looked at his watch. “My slot is right after yours. Twelve fifty-five.” And without looking back, he rushed to the exi
t.

  The door opened. Zhenya peeked out, dressed in a bathrobe, sleepy-looking. She glared at Sasha.

  “Samokhina?”

  “Kostya made you some tea,” Sasha said pointing to the floor.

  Then she beat a hasty retreat.

  Mom stood in the middle of the vestibule, skeptically observing the bronze equestrian under the dome. The dome lit up when the sun came out and faded when a chance midday cloud floated by.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  Sasha’s voice made Mom jump.

  “Sasha?”

  Mom was uncomfortable. She clearly felt guilty, and at the same time she was very happy to see Sasha.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “For you, of course.” Mom’s cheeks flushed.

  “Did something happen?”

  “No . . . it’s just . . .”

  “You decided to check up on what they are teaching me here?”

  “No.” Mom looked away. “It’s just . . . I wanted to see you.”

  “Then should we go to my place?”

  Students watched them with curiosity. Parents were a curiosity here—she remembered Kostya’s mother at his wedding; she couldn’t remember another one. Sasha led Mom out of the institute and farther down the street; they passed the lions. She used the lighter key to unlock the front door, the darker one to unlock the door to her loft.

  “Come in.”

  Mom looked around at the tiny, almost doll-like apartment with its antique bureau and ivy outside the window.

  “Nice place you’ve got yourself here.”

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Sasha maintained a casual, confident tone with ease. “You can rest after your trip. How was your journey?”

  “Sweetheart . . .”

  Mom faltered. Sasha gazed at her, simply and guilelessly, without offering any assistance.

  “We said so many things to each other . . . so much. I know you did not want me to come. But I simply cannot live with all this—with everything we’ve said to each other.”

  Sasha stretched her lips in a polite smile. “Mom, they were just words. They didn’t cost anything. La-la-la, blah-blah-blah. We said some words, we threw them away, we forgot them. I’m sorry, I have to go to class. There is a teakettle, biscuits, kefir. Wait for me, will you?”

  Mom’s eyes followed her to the door. Only now did Sasha notice how bloodshot, anxious, and haunted her eyes were.

  She ran up to the institute’s porch, jogged up to the fourth floor and higher, to the attic. She stopped in front of the dusty round window and considered the situation.

  How much of a problem was Mom’s visit?

  Actually, it was not that threatening. Not that Sasha could see. Sasha did not break a single rule dictated by Kozhennikov. Maybe only her session with Sterkh, because Sterkh always made the schedule himself, and hated it when students shuffled things around. But then Sterkh did not normally write reports because of small indiscretions. Sasha would explain the situation to him; it was a force majeure, a special circumstance, after all.

  She’d done the right thing by leading Mom away from the institute. But theoretically, what would Mom even see there? What sort of compromising thing? Limping, wretched-looking second years? But don’t cripples have rights to higher education?

  The institute was encased in a thick layer of informational insulation, and in two years Sasha had had plenty of chances to be sure of that. A protective layer of stable living conditions, coupled with tangible provincial mediocrity. A casual bystander wouldn’t see anything suspicious. Just like Kostya’s mother came for his wedding and saw nothing unusual. Students, lectures, exams. Love, the wedding. The difficulty of getting the superintendent to assign a room to the newlyweds. Striped mattresses in dorm rooms. A student dining hall.

  Gradually, thickening with every year, the same informational vacuum enveloped everyone who ended up here for a long period of time. It was simple, ordinary, provincial: “a student in Torpa.” And no one cared. The world is full of someone’s acquaintances and relatives who exist—and yet they don’t. People don’t write or call for years, and no one really cares. But they do exist—somewhere.

  Sasha drew a deep breath. Mom had come—this was out of character; no one had expected this turn of events. Yet there was nothing tragic about it. One thing was certain, though: Mom had to return home tonight!

  She waited. Kostya was with Sterkh in auditorium 14. She hoped his session was going well . . . the first session this year. Kostya had taken off immediately, without asking questions, had just ran—to cover for Sasha. She wondered if he had been prepared.

  She wondered about Mom.

  Sasha squeezed the pink phone in her hand. She could see the street out the round window: if Mom decided to sneak out of Sasha’s loft and turn up at the institute to hold some sort of an inspection, Sasha would notice.

  A minute before her—or Kostya’s—official time slot, she went down to the auditorium. Kostya came out; Sasha scrutinized his face, trying to discern: Were things normal? Good? Did everything work out?

  Kostya was smiling. “Everything is fine.”

  “Thank you,” Sasha whispered gratefully and, holding on to the phone case on her chest, she entered the auditorium.

  “Good afternoon, Nikolay Valerievich, I apologize for rescheduling, it’s my fault, there are circumstances . . .”

  “Calm down, Sasha, no need for such excitement. It’s all perfectly fine. Kostya and I had a terrific session. Just don’t do it again. What happened?”

  Sasha sat down and laced her fingers together. “My Mom came to Torpa.”

  Sterkh raised his eyebrows. His triangular face remained impassive, but Sasha could tell right away that her news made a much bigger impression that she had anticipated.

  “She’s leaving tonight,” she rushed to say. “I’ll take her to the station.”

  “But do you know why she came?”

  “We had a fight in the summer, before I came back. She . . . well, I convinced her to change her mind. At least I thought so. Anyway, she really wanted me to drop out, to transfer.” Sasha lowered her eyes.

  “Does she still want that? Why did she come—for what, exactly? Did she tell you?”

  “She wants to make sure that I haven’t been involved with some religious cult,” Sasha admitted after a pause.

  “It is strange,” Sterkh said pensively. “Are you two very close?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, we used to be. It’s different. She got married, had a baby . . .”

  “I know. Sasha, there is no reason to worry and no reason to upset her. You can introduce her to Oleg Borisovich, to me . . . to other professors. Give her a tour of the institute. But the sooner she goes back home, the better it will be for her and for you.”

  “Right,” Sasha said. “Nikolay Valerievich . . . I have one more question.”

  “Yes?”

  “What is a verb in the subjunctive mood?”

  “Do you have a young man named Yegor Dorofeev in mind?”

  Sasha sat up straight. “Yes.”

  Deep in thought, Sterkh touched his sharp chin.

  “It is a fairly rare specialization. All verbs are extremely valuable, but the subjunctive mood has its own specific nature. When it comes to Speech, it specifies projecting structures that unfold a fan of possibilities. You and Yegor are no longer together, am I correct?”

  Sasha frowned. “Is that important?”

  Sterkh stretched, rearranging his folded wings. “You don’t think that is any of my business? Then maybe Yegor isn’t any of your business . . . just as you wish. Let us repeat the step-by-step inner transformations—”

  “Yes, we broke up,” Sasha said through gritted teeth. “And so we have nothing in common any longer.”

  “You are on edge.” Sterkh sighed. “You are worried about the situation with your mother. Fine, let us continue this discussion. Verbs in the subjunctive mood are very vulnerable. The uncertainty of such verbs . . . n
o, let me try something else. Sometimes—during the formative period—a person like that, especially a young person, may become a shadow of another verb. A verb in the imperative mood. The imperative entity leaves imprints, the subjunctive entity accepts them. Like stamps and sealing wax, like molds and putty, like two DNA strands. Thus, the subjunctive entity lives and acts the way the imperative entity wants it to, whether consciously or subconsciously.”

  Sasha’s jaw dropped.

  “I said ‘may become,’ I did not say ‘that is what always happens.’ But this much is certain: the boy fell in love with you when you needed it, and broke up with you when it was necessary for you.”

  “But I didn’t want him to break up with me! It’s just the opposite, it was important that he stay with me! Because at that moment—”

  “I understand perfectly. You did not want him to. But you needed for him to break up with you. You had to be alone.”

  Sasha was silent for a long time. Sterkh did not rush her; he leafed through his daily planner, rubbing his chin. Only a year ago Sasha might have had a breakdown over such news. She would have tried to not believe it. She would have surrendered to despair.

  Now she found herself perfectly calm. As if everything Sterkh was talking about she knew or had predicted in advance.

  “Nikolay Valerievich. Are you sure I influenced Yegor?”

  “I am not sure.” Sterkh looked her in the eyes. “But I cannot exclude such a possibility.”

  “Is this . . . Will this have an impact on his fate?”

  “He’s long been removed from under your influence. I spoke with his Introduction to Applied Science professor, she consulted with me. He is a talented but a very complex student. Unfortunately he is not particularly diligent. He needs to study harder; he missed a lot during his first year.”

  “He will study,” Sasha said firmly. “I will talk to him.”

  Mom sat at the table, half-turned to the window, at the same place where Sasha loved to spend her evenings. The cardboard silhouette of Mom’s face stood out against the background of the pink sunset.

  Sasha stood still. For a second she thought that Mom was a wax sculpture placed in front of the window. Even her eyes appeared dull and immobile.