Vita Nostra

by Dyachenko, Marina

  She finished her second year and completed the so-called “internship”—almost an entire month of renovating the dorm. She liked working with the paint roller, liked the whitewash spray, and enjoyed walking around in work clothes stained with paint and chalk. She liked coming from the dorm back to her loft, taking a shower and sprawling on her bed with a book.

  She read nearly a hundred books that month. She read with a remarkable speed, read everything—classics, memoirs, travel logs, harlequin novels and mysteries. She had gone through the entire collection of the Torpa regional library with a fine sieve. The textual module, the conceptual activator, the exercise sets—all the Specialty books had been taken away from her by Portnov and Sterkh.

  Sasha would read until she couldn’t discern the letters any longer. Then she would brew some tea and sit on the windowsill without turning on the lights.

  The sky would grow dim like a screen. The street lanterns would light up, and Sasha’s breathing would get labored. She would wait, watching the surrounding roofs. A rare passerby would glance at her curiously.

  Quite often the waiting would be futile. At half past one in the morning, gloomy and disappointed, Sasha would slide off the windowsill and go back to bed. And lie there for a long time, listening to the rustling noises of the night, until falling into a deep sleep.

  But once in a while—two or three times a week—an enormous shadow would conceal the stars over Torpa for a second, and a dark figure would land on the opposite roof. It usually happened on the border of evening and night, when the sky was still light on the west, but the streets were already dipped in a dense darkness.

  Then Sasha, choking with joy, would leap from the windowsill out on the street and unfold her wings—sometimes right above the pavement.

  “… Sasha, of course, you can go. But it will be difficult and unnatural for you. It would be best if you went for three days, just let your family know right away—a lot of students do just that; a couple of days at home, and the rest of the time with their friends on some trip. Why should you be stuck inside four walls the entire time? Careful, don’t step on the shingles, they are broken…”

  In the summer even the nights above Torpa were hot and humid, steam rose up from the ground, and the air trembled gently over the tiled roofs that retained the heat of the midday sun. During the short periods of rest Sasha would stretch on the tiles, absorbing their warmth, watching the stars, smiling vacantly.

  During their nightly flights Sterkh did not so much instruct her, as—she understood it well—allowed her to materialize. He supervised and held her back with a great deal of tact; she slipped up only once—when she rose especially high over Torpa and suddenly saw that the town itself represented a phrase, a long complex sentence, and the comma could be moved easily.

  Her right wing pressed to her side and the left one stretched out, gritting her teeth with unexpected pain in hollow bones, Sasha went into a tailspin. The lights of Torpa melted, merging into concentric circles. Then the lights went dark. Sasha plummeted into the world of many dimensions, cold and dry like discarded snake skin. Somebody’s will plucked her out of the darkness, again she saw the ground underneath, so very close, and expanded her wings right above the pavement.

  Sterkh did not even reprimand her:

  “You skidded. Lost control. Nothing happened, but do you see how important it is for me to remain close?!”

  She calmed down incredibly fast. Perceiving herself as a Word made her forget the concept of fear, and even the wretched pink telephone did not cause her the usual despair.

  Sterkh insisted on her return home as a well-brought up young lady, on foot and always through the front door.

  “You are not going to crawl through the window like a cat into the birdhouse, are you? It’s so esthetically displeasing, don’t you agree?”

  Sasha thanked him profusely for each of those night strolls. She did not know how she would have survived that summer without flying over Torpa’s rooftops.

  On the train on her way home Sasha recalled in minute detail the tiles and the waterspouts, the sparrow nests and the weathervanes of the old town; she thought of a boy who once saw her out of his window. He was reading a book about The Kid and Karlsson Who Lived on the Roof; Sasha laughed and waved to him.

  The train rushed through the forest. Sasha dreamed of coming back to Torpa.

  ***

  “Here we go, he’s awake!”

  A soft hesitant crowing could be heard from the bedroom. Wiping her hands on the way, Mom rushed into the room. At the door she smiled conspiratorially:

  “You are not going to recognize him.”

  Sasha sat at the table, moving the tip of her knife over the wooden cutting board. She thought malapropos of a lifeless baby lying on that table, and of herself pressing the telephone receiver to her ear, accepting and absorbing the silence, wringing out fragments of somebody else’s information. Thankfully, she did not have the pink cell phone back then. But then she had enough trouble without it.

  It so happened that coming home on vacation, Sasha was constantly afraid of something: of appearing insane. Of killing a man. Of turning into a monster in front of everyone. Now when these fears were behind her, or so she hoped, Sasha was afraid of the moment when she would have to tell Mom about her return ticket.

  The ticket lay in the pocket of her bag. The day after tomorrow, an evening departure.

  “Come, baby Valentin, come, sweetie-pie… Your sister came home… Sasha is here... Let’s go say hello…”

  Mom entered the kitchen smiling, a dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy with an intelligent albeit sleepy look on his face nestled in her arms. Sasha put aside her knife and got up.

  How he had grown! From a little worm he’d turned into a human being, a child. He looked like Mom and like Sasha—the hair, the lips, the forehead. He had something of Valentin’s as well; sitting in his mother’s arms, he gazed at Sasha with cheerful incredulity, as if asking—and who do we have here?

  “This is Sasha, your sister. Sasha came home. Our baby Valentin meet Sasha…”

  “Hello,” Sasha said.

  The baby looked at her with mistrust—and suddenly smiled.

  Sasha understood why Mom called him “a sunny baby.” His round face became even rounder, and the dimples on his cheeks lay in semi-circles. Her brother watched her with sincere joy, as if he’s been waiting for Sasha for a long time.

  As if he loved her.

  ***

  “Shall we crack open the champagne?” Valentin rubbed his hands cheerfully. “In honor of Sasha’s return?”

  Mom just put the baby to bed; he fell asleep soundly and without complaint. Sasha had a chance to notice that Mom’s lullaby was different—not the one from six months ago, not the one that she sang to Sasha. It was a new song.

  One day of Sasha’s time at home went by. One out of three days. Only two remained, but neither Mom, nor Valentin, not even the baby knew about it yet.

  “Sasha, for you, darling. Be healthy, and let all your dreams come true.”

  “Mom, it’s not my birthday!”

  “But we didn’t get to celebrate you birthday with you! Tell me, how was it?”

  “The usual. I bought a cake, a chocolate one, kind of like this one. Brought it back, some kids came over, so we had the cake, made some tea…”

  “What, no wine?” Valentin asked suspiciously.

  “No, we’re not allowed to consume alcohol.”

  The moment Sasha said it, she bit her tongue. Valentin and Mom exchanged meaningful glances.

  “What’s so strange about it? It’s the usual practice in many schools these days,” Sasha lied.

  “In our dorm we drank up to delirium tremens,” Valentin said.

  “You see—and was that normal?”

  Valentin again looked at Mom, but she did not respond—she watched Sasha, propping her cheek on her fist.

  “Since I moved into the loft,” Sasha said to end the uncomfortable pause, �
��everything is really good. I get enough sleep. It’s such a pretty loft, I have a flowerbox, even a small fireplace, not a decorative one, a real working one, and in the winter I can make a fire.”

  This time she bit her tongue extremely painfully.

  “What do you mean—in the winter?” Mom asked. “You won’t be there in the winter, you’re going to transfer from Torpa, right?”

  “Well, yes,” Sasha said quickly. “I mean… It’s still under consideration, right? They may not allow me to enroll as a transfer student, or something else may happen…”

  “I thought it was decided,” Valentin said.

  “Yes, but there could be all sorts of circumstances. Who knows what could happen,” disconcerted, Sasha squished a piece of the cake on her plate. “What if some official wants to transfer his relative to the third year group. For example. And then there is no vacancy left for me. It’s not all that easy, is it?”

  Mom was silent.

  “Don’t you want to leave Torpa?” Valentin asked silkily.

  “Well,” Sasha swallowed a piece of cake with effort. This was not the right time, not a good time at all for this conversation; she so desperately wanted to relax peacefully and not think of sad things, so desperately wanted to push this discussion to a later time…

  “Well, I guess… I think it’s better for me at Torpa. I have friends there… and I formed connections with the professors, informal ones. I have an enhanced stipend. And I’m not even talking about the apartment… I mean, in Torpa I’m a star, and here I’d be just a dog’s tail.”

  Mom was silent. Sasha did not dare look up.

  “Aren’t you exaggerating?” Valentin asked.

  “No,” Sasha glided her finger along the edge of her teacup. “I miss you, of course, and I would like to live with you. But I got used to it in two years… and it’s school, you know. I’m nineteen years old. It would be a pity to have to start all over again.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend there?” Valentin smiled encouragingly.

  Sasha hesitated. This was a perfect opportunity to lie. They would believe in love.

  “Well… what can I tell you… sort of, yes.”

  “And what did you say your specialty is called?” Valentin threw a sideways glance at Mom.

  “Professor of Philosophy,” Sasha made up this lie in advance. “And theory of culture. On a college level. Secondary academic institutions…”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “Why not? It’s a good profession. And I might be asked to do some graduate work,” Sasha tried to speak effortlessly and at the same time self-confidently.

  Silence descended upon the kitchen. It was so quiet that she could hear the rustling of the bubbles rising in the glasses of unfinished champagne.

  “I see,” Mom’s voice was hollow. “Good night, I’m going to bed.”

  She rose and left the kitchen. Sasha stared at the uneaten cake.

  ***

  She opened her eyes. Mom stood at the door of her room, silent and still.

  “Mom?!”

  “Shhhh… Did I wake you up?”

  “No,” Sasha said automatically. “What happened?”

  Mom took one step. And one more tiny step. As if she did not dare getting closer.

  “Nothing happened. I got up… I didn’t want to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

  She turned to leave. Then stopped again in the doorway.

  “I had a dream… Remember how we went for a boat ride?”

  “What boat ride?” Sasha propped herself up on one elbow.

  “The boat ride around the lake… Don’t you remember? We had these oars, bright yellow, plastic ones…”

  “No. What time is it?”

  “Half past twelve. You wouldn’t remember, you were only three years old. I’m going, go back to sleep.”

  She left, closing the door behind her.

  Sasha lay on her back. A boat ride… She had clear memories of herself at three years old, remembered the cubbies in her day care center, remembered the merry-go-round in the park…

  But not the boat ride.

  Mom must have dreamt it.

  ***

  At half past two, still unable to sleep, Sasha tiptoed to the balcony. She struggled through the drying coverlets and swaddling blankets and stood in the fresh wind. She leaned over the railing.

  She had two days left at home, and Mom had yet to find out.

  Sasha desperately longed to walk into Mom’s bedroom, hold Mom in her arms and cry. She wanted it so much that she even took one step.

  Then she stopped.

  She looked down. She swung her legs over the balcony railing and perched on top, kicking her feet in mid-air. The pink phone stayed in her room, on the rug next to her bed, and Sasha knew that she was not going to leap, was not going to soar, not going to rise above the city… Even though the evening was warm, and ascending streams rose up from the earth, and there, up above, the air was infinitely fresher and cleaner than here on this balcony.

  She felt sorry for Mom. In the grand scheme of things she could care less about Valentin; chances are he wouldn’t be all that upset about Sasha’s decision… but she felt so sorry for Mom that her pity made it hard to breathe. Her ribs hurt.

  She closed her eyes. No, she’s not going to fly, not going to allow for the temptation. But is she forbidden from sending up a tiny projection of herself? A reflection of Sasha Samokhina in the mirror of the August sky?

  She did not have a chance to decide whether her actions were out-of-bounds. Everything happened by itself. She sat clutching the balcony railing, and she rose higher still above the linden trees; the street stretched into a yellow ruler, and only every other streetlight burned along the road. Advertising boards opened up like windows, brightly, even harshly lit. Sasha’s shadow drifted, drawing slow circles in the sky.

  “I’m sitting on the balcony, I’m not flying. I don’t manifest anything, and I don’t read forbidden books. I don’t listen to extra tracks. I am not doing anything wrong…”

  The dark spot of the park lay underneath her feet. Sasha inhaled its scent of grass and freshness through her widening nostrils. She slowed down, wanting to linger in that fresh stream: the stink of hot asphalt and old exhaust gas made her suffocate, especially after the clean air of Torpa.

  August. A sea of stars. A dull, dusty city below. One of the many shadows of the Eternal City that perishes and is reborn every second. Sasha’s shadow circled and circled, and she herself sat on the balcony, as if hypnotized by the light of the distant flames.

  She is Word; she’s a verb in the imperative mood… not yet… she’s still human… but how can she fly?!

  Baby Valentin’s smile.

  He’s also a word. Mom says gently: “Sunny baby.”

  And somebody says: “Moron, creep, idiot!”

  And that is what will happen.

  And somebody says: “Get up! It’s already half past seven!”

  And somebody says: “Go away.”

  There are words that are simply trash, refuse, they turn into nothing immediately after they are spoken. Others throw shadows, hideous and pathetic, and sometimes gorgeous and powerful, capable of saving a dying soul. But only a few of these words become human beings and pronounce other words. And everyone in the world has a chance of encountering someone whom he himself spoke out loud…

  The sun was rising.

  Sasha sat on the balcony railing like a parrot on its perch, and stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

  ***

  “When are you planning to return to Torpa?”

  “I have a ticket for tomorrow night.”

  The answer burst out of her with suspicious ease. Perhaps Sasha’s shadow still soared over the city and park, while Sasha herself sat in the kitchen, smearing a pat of butter on the slice of white bread.

  “What do you mean—tomorrow night?!”

  Mom’s face looked exactly the way Sasha feared it would look last night.
<
br />   “You got tickets for tomorrow—in advance?!”

  Sasha pressed the butter onto the smooth wheat fabric, flattened it out, and then pressed it again.

  “I have extra classes, the summer sessions. Even during vacation.”

  “You are lying,” Mom said sharply.

  Sasha looked up in surprise.

  “I’m not lying. I know it sounds strange. But it is true.”

  “Or at least partially true,” she added to herself.

  Mom seemed pensive, as if she were calculating something in her head.

  “When you are done eating, could you please run out and get some milk?”

  “Sure,” barely containing her relief, Sasha placed her tortured slice back onto the plate. “Be right back.”

  ***

  When she came back, her brother was already awake and lay on his back, thoughtfully studying the merry-go-round horses that swam slowly over his crib. Mom had already cleaned up the kitchen and was now pushing her iron over the ironing board. Steam rose over the baby’s blue shirt.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “What?!” Sasha almost dropped the bag of groceries.

  “I’m coming with you. Valentin can watch the baby for a couple of days.”

  “It’s vacation time right now, there is no one at the Institute.”

  “Then who is going to teach the extra classes?”

  “My professor… Mom, wait, are you going to check up on where I live, who my friends are, what I do there?!”

  “I want to see with my own eyes who’s teaching you, and what is going on there.”

  “It’s a typical learning institution.”

  Mom shook her head.

  “No. You’re hiding something.”

  The iron pressed into the shirt stretched over the board aggressively, like a tank. Mom kept pushing the iron over the same perfectly smooth spot.

  “At first I didn’t want to humiliate you with my nurturing: beginning of independence, friends, boys… Then, to tell you the truth, I had other priorities. Then… Sasha, admit it, have you been threatened, and now you are afraid of confessing?”

  “What am I supposed to confess?”

  “Is that a cult? Do they make you pray?”