Vita Nostra (18 page)

Silence.

“Samokhina,” Portnov barked.

Sasha got up.

“Come here.”

Sasha faced the auditorium.

“How many exercises have you completed?”

“Twelve.”

Portnov faced the audience.

“Have any of you wunderkinds accomplished twelve exercises by now? Pavlenko, how many have you done?”

“Six,” Lisa whispered.

“Toporko, you?”

“Eight…”

“And you, Kozhennikov?”

“Three,” Kostya said. Despite bright red blotches, his face appeared very pale.

“This girl gets a pass automatically,” Portnov did not look at Sasha. “She knows how to study. She became a leader after the very first class, now she is gone far ahead of all of you and can face the winter finals with confidence. You—the rest of you—remember: there are only two graded Specialty exams, a mid-term in your third year, and a placement exam in your fifth year. However, the pass-fail test at the end of each semester will be a significant life-defining event for all of you, I promise you that much. Samokhina, you may sit down.”

Sasha sat down. Behind her back, Group A was hushed. Everyone will hate me, Sasha thought almost cheerfully. Although, you’d think… what is there to envy?

At that moment she felt as if a low ceiling had spread apart within her. Massive concrete walls drifted apart, hit by a ray of light. All that was hairy and dark, all that frightened her, trampled her, in this light looked comical and pathetic. As if the underside of a low-budget horror movie suddenly opened up: used and worn-out monsters, Death in a shroud bearing a dry-cleaner’s stamp, a diminutive overweight director…

“Hey, what’s with you?”

Sasha willed herself to close her eyes—and then open them again. Her classmates scurried around, noisily moving chairs around, somebody laughed out loud. Something had happened.

Portnov was no longer in the auditorium. The door was wide opened.

“What happened?” Sasha squinted.

“The class is over,” Kostya explained dryly. “Gym’s next. Did you bring your uniform?”

***

Things were now happening very fast. Left to her own devices, Sasha reached the third floor after the bell; she joined the line still wearing her jeans and a sweater.

“Look who’s here!” the young gym teacher exclaimed. “Alexandra! How come you never come to class? And when you do show up, you’re not wearing your uniform.”

“She has no time, she’s on a special advanced program,” Lisa volunteered. Somebody sniggered.

“You must remember that Physical Education is a major subject, along with Specialty. And that a winter exam awaits all of you, without pity or consideration!”

The line giggled.

“I’ll go change,” Sasha said.

“Go, but hurry up! We’re starting the warm-up! Turn…. Right! And go! Korotkov, hold the tempo!”

Sasha trotted to the locker room. She shook her wrinkled jogging suit and sneakers out of her bag. The narrow, stuffy locker room was overflowing with shoes, foppish boots with fashionable platform soles and stylish stilettos. Jeans and skirts hung on metal hooks like beef carcasses at the butcher’s, a bunch of sweaters lay crumpled on the bench. Somebody’s sweater fell on the floor. Automatically, Sasha bent down to pick it up.

There was no fear. No courage, either. She felt detached, like a fish in slow-motion. One-two-three-four, counted Dima Dimych. Sneakers thump-thumped on the gym floor. Warm-up was in progress.

***

“She didn’t take it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know! You’re trying to get even with her for something…”

“Shut up, stop yelling…”

First years from Group A surrounded a bench in the yard. Lisa perched on the back of the bench, stiletto heels propped on the dirty seat.

“Samokhina! I had a hundred bucks in my jacket pocket. Give it back, or you’ll be really sorry.”

Sasha stopped.

The forth block was over. During Philosophy and History, lists of sample exam questions were distributed. Sixty questions each, one hundred and twenty altogether; obviously, she wouldn’t have the time to learn it. She owed Portnov Exercises thirteen through seventeen by Saturday, and tomorrow’s Tuesday, that means individual session, paragraphs…

“Samokhina, are you deaf?”

After her experience during the first block, Sasha’s brain indeed moved a bit slowly.

They crowded around the bench: Lisa in the company of guys, her friends and minions. Kostya, his face red and pathetic. Andrey Korotkov, massive and grim. Zhenya… Igor… Denis…

“What did you say?” Sasha asked.

Lisa jumped off the bench, approached Sasha face to face, lipsticked mouth pulled into a thin line.

“You were alone in the locker room. My jacket was hanging there. A hundred dollars in the pocket.”

“In the right pocket?” Sasha asked.

Kostya’s eyes widened. Boys exchanged glances.

“In the right one,” Lisa agreed softly. “A bunch of thieves around here. Give it back.”

Sasha closed her eyes. She was sleepy. And simultaneously she was hungry for more exercises. Just like she would normally get hungry for food.

“Your money is behind the lining. Just check.”

The bench stood under a linden tree, the leaves had fallen off and were collected by the janitor. One or two remaining leaves still twitched, clawing to the illusion of life, the branches beat upon each other, scratching and rustling. Aside from that sound, the silence was absolute. It was quickly getting dark. The windows in the main building were lit. A streetlight went on in front of the dorm.

“Go ahead, check,” Kostya said nervously.

Lisa stuck her hand into her pocket. She took a long time. Then her delicate face reddened in the dusk, darkened like a ripe fruit.

“And how did you know that?” she twisted toward Sasha. “How did you know? You checked my pockets, didn’t you?”

Sasha shrugged:

“No. I just guessed. And now you need to apologize. Say: I’m sorry, Sasha.”

“What?!”

Again, Sasha lowered her eyelids for a second. The feeling she experienced during the first block was about to make a comeback.

“Apologize. Now, in front of everyone. You accused me of theft.”

“Buzz off,” Lisa suggested.

Sasha took a step forward. Streetlight illuminated her face.

“You heard me, Pavlenko. Don’t push it.”

Lisa stared into Sasha’s eyes. Very quickly, like a slideshow, emotions alternated on her face: anger, surprise, embarrassment, and finally, a flash of fear.

“What do you want?” Lisa mumbled.

“Apologize.”

“Fine, I apologize…”

In total silence, Sasha’s classmates let her pass. She walked through their formation toward the entrance of the dormitory.

***

Snow fell in November. Early mornings, before sunrise, Sasha would leave the dorm and jog around the yard, leaving a chain of footsteps. Around and around. Stepping into her own footsteps. Just like a year ago.

No one forced her. She realized that without those running sessions, without the silence of the deaf and mute morning, without snow under her feet and a cloud of her breath, she would never survive the pressure. Neither physical, not psychological.

At first Kostya ran with her, but then he begged off. He hated getting up that early; he usually slept through the first block (unless the first block happened to be Specialty). Sasha did not mind, she needed to be absolutely alone. Complete silence and the sound of snow under her feet, crunchy or squishy, whatever her luck happened to be.

Mom still wore a cast. She assured Sasha over the phone that everything was just fine, that she got used to the cast, and that her thumb did not hurt anymore. She and Valentin sent Sasha a care package: winter boots, tights, socks, and even a new jacket with a fur-lined hood. The jacket was a bit small.

A wintery atmosphere reigned in Room 21: Lisa ignored Sasha, Sasha took no notice of Lisa. At first Oksana attempted to make them reconcile, but then gave up and got busy with her own: she had frequent guests, girls from Group B and sometimes even second-year boys.

“Open house,” Lisa murmured through gritted teeth, but no one was listening. Something fell through with that rented apartment of hers. Either she could not afford it, or could not find a decent place, or perhaps—Sasha could believe it—Portnov forbade her.

Once on the way to the post office (it was Sunday, the day Sasha always called home), she saw Farit Kozhennikov and Lisa walking ahead of her along Sacco and Vanzetti. They walked side by side, Kozhennikov was talking, Lisa was listening, and glancing at her face, Sasha felt a great deal of pity for her.

She slowed down. Snow melted during the November thaw, streams of water ran between the cobblestones just like in the spring, and bright yellow leaves swam on the bottom.

Kozhennikov and Lisa separated at the intersection in front of the post office. Kozhennikov nodded and turned left, crossed the street and disappeared around the corner. Lisa leaned on a naked linden tree.

Sasha longed to go over and say something to her. She took a step; a large puddle made a squelching sound. Sasha leapt aside and went back to reality.

Lisa would not be pleased. Sasha had no power to change anything, at least right now.

She slid behind Lisa’s back and entered the stuffy, post office filled with amber warmth. The whole time she waited for her turn in the long-distance booth, she envisioned how some day she would spit in Kozhennikov’s face. How she would gather a mouthful of saliva—and spit; the old man in front of her was already finishing up his conversation, when Sasha realized—feeling bewildered and discontented—that a fraction of her hatred for Farit Kozhennikov fell on Kostya.

“The son is not responsible for the sins of the father,” she reminded herself. Kostya was just as much a victim of Farit’s, as Sasha herself. He ripped and threw away the paper with his father’s phone number. Farit was not his father at all, maybe just the biological part.

“Are you going to make the call or not?” asked the girl behind the counter.

Sasha went into the booth. But even while speaking to Mom, she could not get Kozhennikov and Kostya out of her mind.

***

“Haven’t you slept with him yet?” Oksana sounded worried.

She was washing the dishes. No matter who made the mess in the kitchen, Oksana ended up doing the dishes. Sometimes she threw pots and pans against the wall and shrieked: “What a pigsty!” but then did the dishes anyway. Greasy plates piled in the sink drove her insane.

“They are all hypersexual at that age,” Oksana must have been repeating somebody else’s words. “You are going to lose him, you know.”

Sasha bent over a paragraph. Room 21 overflowed with Lisa and Lisa’s friends and acquaintances. They parked themselves all over the place, even on Sasha’s bed. Sasha did not feel like arguing, she took her books and went to the kitchen, which at that time of night was empty, not counting Oksana and her dishes.

In the past few months of dorm life Sasha got used to sleeping despite loud noises and studying in the middle of an earthquake. Oksana’s words unsettled her, and she found herself constantly returning to the beginning of the paragraph.

“You are a strange creature,” Oksana mused. Her back was turned to Sasha; Oksana was soaping up a plate and could hear nothing except for the sounds of running water and her own voice. “Are you eighteen yet? In the spring? You’re a peanut. Portnov gave you an automatic pass, the only one out of thirty-nine people. And you are still cramming, like a wound-up toy, morning to night. Kostya is a good-looking guy, and we have tons of pretty girls around here, somebody will steal him away, you know. Even the local chicks are not bad here, the schoolgirls…”

The door swung open. The one-eyed Victor, the third year, came limping in, still lopsided and strange. His sweatpants formed bubbles on his knees; a plaid shirt had seen better days. Huge leather gloves covered his hands, and his face was hidden behind enormous dark glasses. Sasha shuddered.

“Hey, girls,” Victor croaked. “Will you pour me some tea?”

Oksana turned her face to him:

“Don’t you have any of your own tea?”

“Hold on,” Sasha put aside her book. She couldn’t concentrate anyway.

The electric teakettle began to hiss; the smell of burned duct tape filled the kitchen.

“Victor, what happened to your hands?” Sasha asked in passing.

Victor looked down at his hands hidden by the gloves. He wiggled his fingers.

“Ah, you know… The winter finals are coming, girls, the winter finals. Must survive the winter finals, that’s the thing.”

“Must survive the finals,” Sasha echoed.

Victor’s dark glasses turned to her:

“What are you worried about, you are only first years, have fun and play games. Celebrate New Year’s Eve. For third years there is a placement exam this winter, ladies.”

Oksana turned off the teakettle. She turned to him, wiping her hands on an already wet dish towel:

“Is it difficult?”

Victor inclined his head:

“I guess you can put it that way.... Difficult. After this exam we are moving to another location. Whoever passes it, obviously.”

“It might be easier at the other location,” Sasha suggested without a hint of conviction.

None of the first years had any clue about where the “other location” actually was, and what exactly it entailed. Some people said it was a very advanced institute, equipped with extremely sophisticated technology, with a dormitory recently renovated according to the contemporary European standards, with a computer on each desk. Others said the place was hidden underground, in deep catacombs. It was also said that the other location was in another city.

Some students—Sasha heard it herself—believed that the other location happened to be on another planet.

Once Sasha suggested to Kostya that the “other location” for the upperclassmen was a mysterious region beyond the grave that no one knows anything about, because no one ever returns from that place. Kostya had a strange reaction to her joke: he went pale and asked her not to make this kind of a joke ever again.

“It might be easier,” Victor agreed melancholically. “What can I say, girls. I really meant to be a merchant marine…”