Vita Nostra (27 page)

Sterkh was very upset. For a long time he did not say anything, shaking his head, looking at grim-faced Sasha, then staring out the window, then he sighed:

“Try track two. You seem to have fully blocked that first one. Such energy, such inner strength you have demonstrated, Sasha, but it’s directed in a diametrically opposite direction! You work very hard at resisting it, instead of processing it!”

“I’m trying,” Sasha said.

“You are trying to achieve the opposite. You are fighting for your own conventional image, two arms, two legs…You dream of a warm shower… Sasha, nothing corporeal has any significant value. Anything that is truly valuable is beyond material substance, just think about it. You will understand, you are an intelligent girl, I have a lot of faith in you.”

Then he let her go, and she left. Yulia Goldman was waiting for her turn in the hallway; when door number 14 closed behind her, Sasha massaged her face with both hands, rubbed her temples, and squeezed her eyes.

She knew that track two would have the same effect. The very thought of having to listen to
it
again nearly drove her insane.

***

Sasha’s class was offered very few liberal arts classes this year. She did not like the “Constitutional Law and Fundamental Principles of Government.” The professor was older and cantankerous, and the subject itself had nothing in common with the concept of learning: it was more of an excursion that skimmed the surface of criminal and civil code. The stream of bureaucratese disgorged by the professor made Sasha sleepy. At the end of the class she did fall asleep for a second, and dreamed of Sterkh who stood in the middle of the auditorium holding an enormous pair of scissors. Sasha woke up: the bell rang. The professor threw a contemptuous look at the students and said goodbye until the next lecture.

The next block was English, and Sasha found this class just as nonsensical and boring as the previous one. Endless grammatical constructions, exercises that she had to write down, topics she had to pass every month; Sasha felt time stand still. She remembered getting this desperate feeling in high school, albeit rarely, mostly in the spring, especially during a meeting or a home room assembly…

Entering the hallway, she stopped at the bulletin board with the posted schedules. First years gathered around, and Sasha had to push aside some gaping girl in order to move a little closer. Let’s see, Physical Education three times a week, and then Specialty takes almost all of her time: Portnov, Sterkh, individual studies and group lectures. Plus homework: paragraphs, exercises, Sterkh’s CD…

Sasha pushed her way out of the crowd and shuffled downstairs to the dining hall.

Denis Myaskovsky sat in front of an empty plate, studying some sort of an illustrated magazine with several bright inserts depicting blurred colorful spots. In line for food, Sasha listened to his conversation with Korotkov:

“What do you have there?” Andrey asked.

“It’s from Sterkh,” Denis hesitated, as if holding back. “Didn’t you get one?”

“He gave me a book,” Korotkov seemed timid. “Just a regular book, though…”

“Andrey, it’s our turn!” Oksana called him from the buffet. “Give me your ticket and get your soup!”

A little later Sasha saw that Sterkh indeed had a very individualized approach to each student. Oksana, Lisa and Andrey Korotkov studied Introduction to Applied Science using textbooks. Kostya had a print-out rolled into a tube. Zhenya Toporko carried around a thick notepad. Three or four people had portable players, but unlike hers, those used cassette tapes. However, no one discussed their progress—individual sessions with the hunchback became a forbidden topic among second years from day one. It was a taboo.

***

“Thus, meaning is a projection of will onto the surface of its application. Meaning is not absolute and depends on the choice of space and the method of projection. Last year the most gifted of you stumbled upon fragments of meanings while studying the textual module. However, the first year is over! Now you must apply conscious efforts to use the textual module as an intermediary between you and the archive of meanings available to you at this stage. Theoretically, you may encounter just about anything, including a fragment of your most feasible future. We have thirty seconds before the bell rings, does anybody have any questions?”

Sasha sighed. Now she saw Portnov’s classes in a completely different light. Even though reading the textual module still resembled swimming in muddy waters, flashes of enlightenment waited for her on the surface. Even the sets of exercises, which flowed from one into another and formed a highly complex pattern in her mind, now made her happy.

“Toporko, do you have any questions?”

“N-no...”

“Good. Class is dismissed, individual sessions are tomorrow, prefect, please compile a list. Samokhina, nice work.”

***

Portnov praised her; she was pleased with her progress, while sessions with Sterkh were becoming more and more tortuous.

She managed neither track three, nor track four. Sterkh ordered her to return to the first track; Sasha hated this process, and the more time passed, the harder it was for her to even climb up to the fourth floor and enter the sunlit and spacious Auditorium number 14.

Sterkh was getting gloomier with each session. Hints of aggravation were now discernible in his gentle voice.

“Sasha, I am very disappointed. Two weeks have passed since the beginning of this semester, and you… I am getting the impression that you are consciously sabotaging my class.”

“No. I…”

“I am not threatening you. I’m just sorry… I’m worried about you. I never write reports to advisors, at least not during the semester itself. But in the winter we have an exam, and the result of this exam is a document. It’s going to be recorded in your grade book, and your advisor will be forced to take action, I won’t be able to do anything at that point.”

Sasha bit her lip.

“Nikolay Valerievich,” she said hoarsely, “maybe I just don’t have any talent? Could it be that I’m unsuited for this work? Maybe I should,” she stumbled, “maybe I should be expelled, because there is just no point? You don’t need useless students, do you? Because I am trying, honestly, I just can’t…”

The hunchback stroked his chin with long, thin, white fingers:

“Sasha, just drop it. Firstly, if you have been accepted, you are fully capable. Secondly, you must study hard instead of dreaming or twiddling your thumbs.”

“But I am working hard,” Sasha said. “I always have. I’m doing my best.”

“No,” Sterkh said sharply, steepling his fingers. “You are not making an internal effort. Your classmates have gone far ahead of you, new leaders have emerged in your group; Pavlenko is doing very well, Goldman, Kozhennikov… And you are way too restricted; you have gotten yourself into a corner. All your preparatory work—a whole year of extremely intense work!—is being wasted right now… Incidentally, have you thought about solving our delicate issue?”

“What, right here and right now?” Sasha could not help it.

“Not right this minute,” Nikolay Valerievich smiled as if telling her: I forgive this cheek, you silly girl, I understand you are stressed out. “But the sooner, the better. Better for you, Sasha.”

***

There were no more swallows. For a while Sasha stood in the middle of the yard, watching the clear September sky. A sparrow flew by, and above it, over the rare clouds, flew an airplane. Sasha imagined herself in an airplane seat, looking out the window, watching the quilt-like ground beneath her—fields, forests, lakes and a tiny populated area, a town called Torpa. She wondered if one could even see it from an airplane.

Sasha dragged her feet to the post office. Rather, she simply started walking, but her feet dragged her to the post office; she ordered a long-distance call and a minute later stood in the stuffy booth with a plastic receiver in her hand.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice.

“Hello,” said Sasha after a minute pause. “How are things? Can I talk to Mom?”

“Mom sends you her love,” Valentin said readily and cheerfully, almost too cheerfully in Sasha’s opinion. “She’s at the hospital, on bed rest. She could have stayed home, but you know, it’s just safer. She has a terrific doctor, a comfortable room, good conditions. And an excellent prognosis, it looks like you are going to have a baby brother!”

He spoke easily, without pauses, free of any noticeable tension. Sasha relaxed her shoulders:

“When is she coming home?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s much better to err on the conservative side, you know? I’m going to buy her a cell phone, and you will be able to call her directly!”

“Cool,” Sasha said.

“What’s new with you? How is everything going? How are your classes?”

“Everything is fine,” Sasha rubbed the polished telephone shelf. “I have to go now. Tell Mom I said hello.”

***

Kostya stood at the entrance of the post office. In the last few weeks they had not exactly avoided each other; they’d behaved as distant acquaintances and limited their communication to simple greetings.

“Hello,” Sasha said.

“Hello,” over the summer Kostya had changed; the skinny teenager was replaced with the confident physique of an adult male. He had a tan, and his face looked wind-blown. Sasha remembered that on September first he still stuttered and limped on his right leg, but now all the consequences of Portnov’s “stage” were gone entirely. Kostya had restored himself out of the ruins and once again become himself.

Or nearly himself, Sasha thought sadly. Just like the rest of us.

“Did you call home?” Kostya inquired, suddenly violating the standing order of their current relationship.

“I did,” Sasha said. “Why?”

“How are things at home?”

“Mom’s having a baby,” Sasha admitted, surprising herself. “With the new husband.”

“That’s what’s going on,” Kostya murmured.

“Yes, that’s what it is,” Sasha forced herself to straighten up. “See you.”

“Wait,” Kostya said to her back. “Do you have five minutes?”

“Five, but no more.”

“But no less, either?” Kostya smiled tensely.

They moved towards a gray park bench covered with picturesque yellow leaves. Sasha blinked; for a moment she imagined that the bench was purple, and the leaves blue. In the last few days she learned to change the colors of the outside world—or rather her perception of those colors—on her own accord, and now during boring lectures on constitutional law she could entertain herself by mentally changing the color of her professor’s face, the tint of her hair, the shades of her blouse and handkerchief.

“Sasha,” Kostya said. “I need to talk to you.”

“I noticed.”

“I love you,” Kostya said.

“What?!”

“I love you,” he shrugged, as if apologizing. “Forgive me, I was an idiot, I love you, marry me.”

The leaves turned green, the bench—bright orange. Sasha blinked.

“And I don’t love you,” Sasha said. “And I am not going to forgive you. If you crave regular sex, and you can’t afford a prostitute, then marry Zhenya. She’d love to marry you.”

Kostya paled. Sasha saw his Adam’s apple twitch. His tan, bronze just a minute ago, was now yellow, like a lemon.

“Good luck,” Sasha said, and her voice broke. She did not know why she’d said what she said, and why she had used those particular words. However, a word spoken was past recalling. Sasha turned and, with increasing speed, followed Sacco and Vanzetti toward the institute.

Where did he come from? Why did he come to her right now, when winter exams hung over her like a guillotine? While Mom was on bed rest, and Valentin was discussing their bright and happy future in a forced cheerful voice? In the summer she never thought of Kostya… Actually, she only thought of him when she saw him, just as detached and indifferent as she was herself. Back then she did not care about Kostya, she turned into a puddle of warm wax, she saw through the sky, but she couldn’t walk through an ordinary door. And on September first he sat next to Zhenya, and Sasha took it as a sign of fate, and she never wanted to think in this direction again.

Why did she bring up prostitutes?

But why did he sleep with Zhenya on New Year’s Eve, when he and Sasha did not even have a fight? If they had quarreled, screamed at each other, slammed the doors… then she would understand. Of course, Sasha would not have forgiven him either. Or maybe she would have, because a fight is one thing, it’s another thing entirely to just get drunk and jump into somebody else’s bed…

A group of third years stood by the school entrance. Zakhar turned and waved to Sasha:

“Greetings to the young nubile generation! How’s it hangin’?”

“A little to the left,” Sasha responded and wondered where she could have picked up this vulgar turn of phrase.

The third years laughed heartily, as if it were the funniest joke they’d ever heard.

***

October came.

Sasha sat in auditorium fourteen, and across from her sat Sterkh, and they had been quiet for the last fifteen minutes. Sasha’s lips were dry; all the words she could say—”I’m trying,” “I’m working hard,” “It’s not working for me,” “I cannot”—all these words had already been said multiple times. Sterkh, sad and haggard, moved his shoulders more than usual, as if the hump on his back really annoyed him.

Rain fell outside. The water rustled in the pipes. Tiny drops flew into the open window.

“How are you doing in Specialty? Oleg Borisovich seems pleased with your progress…”

Strangely enough, in the last few weeks Portnov’s exercises became Sasha’s safe haven. Mind-bending, occasionally almost crippling, they “worked”—they gave in to her efforts. And Sterkh’s assignments did not; for almost a week now Sasha did not even try to play the CD. She felt disgust; no, even worse—she felt repulsion.

“Did you work on it yesterday?”

“No.”

“And the day before yesterday?”

“Nikolay Valerievich, I can’t!”

The hunchback shook his head heavily:

“This is not good, Alexandra. I hate threatening someone, reprimanding people… punishing them… But right now you are your own worst enemy. Only you, no one else. Go and think about your fate. About the winter test. About the exam, which is a little more than a year away. And think about what your advisor is going to say regarding your “I can’t.” As soon as you feel ready to work, let me know. I am prepared to give you additional time. I will help you as much as I can. But you, yourself, have to step over the threshold. You must make that decision.”