Vita Nostra (44 page)

“So what?”

“It’s nothing,” Sasha licked her dry lips. “I guess…” She spoke despite herself, quickly, excitedly. “You can direct time. You make time into loops. For you there is nothing strange happening when a person is reading something… and in an hour it happens to her in reality.”

“All the world’s a text,” Kozhennikov clicked the light switch in the bathroom. “And all the men and women merely words…”

“It’s Shakespeare,” Sasha said. “All the world’s a stage.”

“Everybody makes their own definitions. Shakespeare expressed it that way. You may say it differently.”

“Can I really read my future?”

“Easily. When you buy a train ticket, you are not only reading your future, you are forming it. Your ticket states the day of departure. The number of the carriage. Your seat. That means that in the most plausible future you will appear at the train station, approach the carriage that is mentioned on your ticket…”

“Do you like making fun of me?”

Sasha herself was shocked at the helplessness in her voice. Kozhennikov stopped smiling:

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you. This question is too serious to discuss it without irony.”

He placed his palm on the massive bronze door handle.

“Good night, Sasha. I’m leaving.”

The door opened into the dim corridor.

“Farit…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Sasha mumbled forcing herself. “You helped me… when I… did that thing to my brother.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”

Sasha shrunk in discomfort.

“This apartment… I really like it.”

“No need to thank me for that—you earned this place. Good bye.”

And he left.

***

In the morning, before the start of classes, Sasha approached Denis Myaskovsky. Silently holding his sleeve, she pulled him over to the side, by the window.

“What do you want?” Denis asked grimly.

“I had this happen to me,” Sasha said. “I got stuck… but then I made it through. Myself.”

“But you don’t know what I have!” Denis was upset. “Why are you saying this? You don’t know!”

“I do know,” Sasha looked into his eyes. “I know, Denis. Kostya went through the same thing. Everybody has. Listen to my advice: don’t get up from the table until you learn it.”

“It’s easy for you to dispense advice!”

“It isn’t easy for me, Denis,” Sasha smiled. “I know what I am saying.”

The bell rang to signify the start of Portnov’s lecture.

***

“‘What’s in a name? that which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet.’ In other words, the essence of an object does not change depending on its name. This is a common misconception, not unlike the “world is flat” belief. By verbally identifying an object, by giving it a name, we alter it. And at the same time we prevent it from changing. A name is like a forked stick that we use to hold a snake on the road.” Portnov imitated using a forked branch to press down an imaginary viper. “By the way, consider this: the contradictory nature of a statement almost certainly proves its legitimacy… Come in.”

Pressing his palms to his abdomen, Andrey Korotkov walked in; pale, bent over, he looked miserably ill.

“I am sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at Portnov. “I have food poisoning… Here’s a note from the doctor,” he tore his right hand away from his stomach and handed Portnov a piece of gray paper folded in half.

Portnov unfolded the paper and briefly looked at it—diagonally.

“Go, you are dismissed,” he said brusquely.

A whisper flew around the auditorium. Korotkov jerked his head up:

“But…”

“Go. We’ll talk when you feel better,” Portnov’s voice sounded ominous.

“May I stay for a while?” Korotkov asked, nervously licking his dry lips.

Portnov handed the note back to him:

“Then take
this
back, be so kind.”

Andrey took the paper out of Portnov’s hand and, still bent over, shuffled to his seat. Portnov waited until the auditorium was deal silent once again.

“May I continue? Thank you. However, there is also another misconception—by which a name automatically defines the properties of an object. Here is a pen,” he tossed up and caught a dark-blue pen with a white top. “If I give it the name of … an earthworm, will it slither?”

Second years, Group A, maintained a tense silence. No one wanted to risk an answer.

“It will not,” Portnov let the pen fall on his desk. “Because this given piece of plastic has nothing in common with the processes and events that we are talking about, that we spend time studying… between dance parties and dealing with gastrointestinal problems. Besides, when I say “give a name,” I do not imply any of the languages that are commonly used by any of the living persons. I am talking about Speech that you will begin to study during your third year. Some of you may start earlier. Samokhina, what time are you meeting with Nikolay Valerievich?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Excellent. At four thirty I shall be expecting you in my office in the administration wing. Class, open your books to page four and five. Pavlenko, I would be eternally thankful to you if you stop talking with Myaskovsky during my lecture. For tomorrow’s class, please prepare the additional Exercises eight-a and eight-b from the appendix in your textbook.”

***

At four thirty two she was sitting at the table looking at a sheet of paper in front of her, on which Portnov just drew a straight horizontal line.

“What is it?”

“Horizon. Sky and earth. Top and bottom.”

“What else?”

“Space and surface. A field of application. A screen.”

“A screen,” Portnov repeated with a hint of pleasure in his voice. “Let’s suppose… Here is a butterfly,” quickly, using only a few lines, Portnov drew a large butterfly in the top part of the sheet. “Here’s its projection.” Over the horizontal line he drew an approximation of a shadow with two wings. “How can we express an inverse correlation?”

“We cannot. There is no inverse correlation. I am reflected in the mirror. But the mirror cannot be reflected in me.”

“Really?”

Sasha linked her fingers. She felt as if she were on the brink of understanding something very big, something simple and huge, but as sometimes one forgets a familiar name, that’s how Sasha could not think of it… concentrate… recall.

“Do you remember the diagram on page three?” Portnov asked softly.

Sasha nodded.

“Reproduce it from memory. ‘Creation.’”

Sasha flipped over the sheet of paper. She drew her pencil over the paper without picking it up. The result was a fully closed shape: it remained three-dimensional, while drawn on a one-dimensional surface.

Sasha swallowed. Her drawing existed
in time
—by itself. It had a beginning and an end. In a circle.

“I don’t understand….”

“You will. Right now it’s enough for you to reproduce it correctly. Write “association” in this symbol.”

Sasha closed her eyes. She drew her pencil over the paper; it became very hot in the room. A drop of sweat rolled down her back under her sweater.

“What do you get?”

Sasha gazed at the paper: it depicted the round symbol from the gold coins.

“It’s ‘Word,’” Sasha’s answer surprised her.

“Yes,” Portnov said. “Word. This is your first step into the world of Speech, and it shall also be your last… because Word is tied and looped onto itself. Word is at the beginning and at the end. You have learned to recognize it during your second year, that’s pretty good, but when—if—you learn to
manifest
it, I will tell you that you have earned your diploma with honors.”

Portnov stood up with the look of a man whose work was done well. His office was smaller than Sterkh’s, and it fit only a table, a bookcase and a strongbox in the corner. Portnov crouched in front of the strongbox, unlocked the steel door and with a visible effort pulled out a very large book that resembled a gray brick. He placed it on the table in front of Sasha.

Sasha touched the cover.

“Hands off!”

She recoiled.

“How many times do I have to remind you—do not open books until I tell you? You don’t know what is in there, you are not prepared for what you’re about to see! How many times you’ve been burned because of your curiosity, a frog would have no trouble remembering that!”

Sasha demonstratively put her hands behind her back.

“This is a glossary,” Portnov said, slightly less annoyed. “It is organized in layers. It has five dimensions, five. That means that you, with your measly experience, will be periodically thrown into the irrational “pockets,” with the possibility of time loops. Should you be afraid of that? No. Is it dangerous? Yes! To avoid burning like a matchstick, you must take the greatest possible care in following the rules I am about to tell you. Firstly… Are you listening to me, or still pouting?”

“I am listening,” Sasha said.

Portnov straddled a chair in front of Sasha. He wiped his glasses with the hem of his sweater:

“Firstly, you may only read one informational layer per session.
One layer
. Secondly…”

He took a thin bright-blue stick out of his pocket, and Sasha was surprised to recognize a long birthday candle.

“Before you start working, you must cut off about three centimeters of the candle. It burns about a centimeter a minute, sometimes faster, but three centimeters should be enough. You place it between your fingers like this,” Portnov stuck the candle between the pointer and third fingers of his right hand. “Secure it with scotch tape. And then you light it.”

Sasha swallowed:

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just burn myself with a cigarette?”

Portnov glanced at her over his lenses, and Sasha bit her tongue.

“When you are working with the glossary, Samokhina… if you manage to work with it, of course, you will not be distracted or taken out of your trance by an alarm clock, or a scream, or anything else. Only the sharp sensation of pain. A quick one! You will shake off the flame, and be just fine. Would you like to try right now?”

“I would love to,” Sasha said greedily.

***

The pain was like that of a mosquito bite. Sasha twitched, wishing to slap down the mosquito and return to studying, but the universe composed of myriads of nuances was already sliding off her, like a hat carried away by the wind. This universe was set in constant motion, infused with associations, puzzling and inexplicit, and yet natural and harmonious. This universe that she had just begun to explore—and was already blown away by its wisdom and magnificence. This universe was ideally suited for exploring it deeper and deeper—from association to association, from leaf to root, and further, and wider, analyzing, synthesizing, gasping with joy…

The world went dark. Sasha sat in Portnov’s cabinet. A candle stick smoked between her burned, scotch-taped fingers. Sasha raised her hand to her face: two blisters, one on her middle finger, one on her pointer finger.

“I didn’t have enough time. I hadn’t finished reading the layer. Let’s do it again.”

Portnov got up and slipped on his ring. Sasha tried to stand up, but he gestured her to stay seated. He came closer to the table, grabbed her chin, pushed her head back and slashed her eyes with a reflected ray of light.

Sasha squinted.

Without a word, Portnov picked up the glossary and put it away into the strongbox. Sasha stood up:

“You were going to give it to me!”

“It weighs ten kilos.”

“So what! You were going to let me take it!”

Portnov glanced at her askance. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and paused.

“You still don’t smoke, do you?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“Go ahead, smoke,” Sasha allowed regally.

Portnov took a long drag.

Sasha watched him smoke. Never—very rarely—had Portnov even looked perplexed in her presence. And now he paced around his office, sending smoke rings up to the ceiling, occasionally tilting his head to the side, as if listening to a soundless remark.

Every now and then he would look at Sasha. These glances made her increasingly nervous.

“What have I done wrong now?”

“What is meaning, Samokhina?”

“Projection of will onto its field of application.”

“And what are you? Ever pondered that question?”

“A human being.”

“Try again.”

“A student. An object of your sadistic experiments.”

Portnov burst out laughing. He acted amused even less frequently than puzzled, and now Sasha felt sure—something was not right.

“You will be offered acceptance to graduate school. Think about it long and hard. If you are indeed what you appear to be, you should be very critical of any offer, even the most enticing ones.”

“But I haven’t even finished my second year yet,” Sasha said confusedly.

“Precisely. Precisely, Samokhina,” Portnov smiled triumphantly. “Fine, I’ll give you a hint: you—the object that is sitting in front of me, a biological living creature with inaptly made up eyes—is a projection. A projection of what?”

“You have nothing to do with my eyes!”

“I am asking you—a projection of what?”

“An idea?” Sasha suggested. “What do you call it… eidos?”

Portnov grinned triumphantly:

“Go. Enjoy yourself until six o’clock. For tomorrow, work with the diagram on page eight.”

***

It was dark. Simultaneously with the darkness came a warm spell. The wind carried the scents of water and earth. Sasha stood in the middle of Sacco and Vanzetti, her face lifted up to the sky, and listened to the rustling of streams of water under the flattened layers of snow.

The last few days were remarkably dense. She learned how to fly. Borrowed clothes from a first year student. Fought and made up with Sterkh. Saw a snippet of her own future. Spoke to Kozhennikov about Kostya. Burned her hand… Incidentally, the burn she hadn’t even noticed at first now grew increasingly painful.

Sasha collected a handful of snow from the back of the iron bench and pressed it against her skin. For tonight she planned a lot of work, but the thought of a salami sandwich had just appeared and now refused to depart.