Vita Nostra (54 page)

“Now,” Sasha did not say or think it. Sasha
did
it, returning herself into the previous grammatical tense, to the point of ‘Then,’ where she’d set up the anchor.

The snowball fell and drowned in a snow pile. A lantern lit up at the corner of Lugovaya Street. It was getting dark very fast. Sasha’s hands, red and frozen, burned like fire.

A person needs two eyes to determine the exact distance to objects. Two points of view that form an angle. That’s what Portnov was telling them during lectures: your projection onto the nearest future and your projections onto the nearest past are set closer than the eyes on your face, but they guarantee stability to your personal time frame. “Was” and “will be”—two bearings, two legs, when you walk, you can shift the center of gravity a bit forwards, or a bit backwards…

Sasha ran over the snow— slightly ahead of herself, then slightly behind. I was! I will be! Snow flashed white sparkles; Sasha’s shadow became short and fell under her feet, then crawled forward and became longer the further Sasha moved away from the streetlight.

The janitor watched her run.

***

“The language of creation knows no grammatical tense. It has only one mood—the imperative. The first derivative from creation uses the subjunctive mood. The second derivative uses the narrative. “

“But does Name exist in time?”

“Yes. Realized Name becomes a process.”

“If Name is a process, then what is the connection between names and verbs?”

“Do you remember high school physics? Remember the wave-particle duality?”

“Well… in principle.”

“Abysmal ignorance… There is motion and statics. Action and its object. The speed, mass and length of a wave. Names are building blocks of creation. Verb is a command to build, a will in its purest form. An impulse. Concentrated action. Verb can pull a name out of non-existence, and it can send it into non-existence by a single command. All the verbs I’ve even known were egocentric, narcissistic, and meant to succeed…. Geared toward creation at any cost.”

“I see. Then how…”

Sasha looked up at Portnov and promptly forgot her question.

Portnov wore jeans and sweaters. He had blonde hair that was beginning to go gray, glasses with narrow lenses, and cold blue eyes. He was a not a particularly pleasant person, he could be quite rude; Sasha never thought of him as a man, never wondered whether he had a family, a wife, a mistress, any children. Portnov was a teacher, a whip-cracker, an animal tamer. Portnov was Portnov.

Whoever was sitting in front of Sasha was not human. Moreover, it had
never
been human. For the first time in her life Sasha saw—recognized, understood—what exactly was an “embodied function.”

“What happened, Samokhina?”

Sasha stared at him, forgetting to breathe, completely in awe. A glossary? An activator? A textbook? A textbook that was given a human name?

“Oleg Borisovich…” Sasha whispered.

She saw him again: hair pulled into a ponytail. A grey sweater with blue stripes. An attentive glance over the lenses.

“What?”

“You…”

“What about me?”

Sasha swallowed bitter saliva.

“You’ve just seen me?” Portnov sounded surprised. “You manifest entities, read highly complex informational structures, and you’ve only just seen me?”

Sasha managed a shallow nod, and then shut her eyes, trying to drive the tears back into her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” now Portnov sounded worried. “Sasha?”

“You are not human,” Sasha whispered.

“So? Neither are you.”

“But I had been human. I had been a child. I remember that. I remember being loved.”

“Does it matter to you?”

“I remember it.”

‘Trust me, I can remember anything you want. I remember being a child. Being raised by monkeys. Being a girl. Working as a cabin boy. Saving a baby out of the fire, scoring the best goal during the world championship. Memories are projections of events, and in this case it is much less important whether the events are real or not.”

Sasha’s tears rolled down her face, smearing her makeup, leaving black traces on her cheeks and fingers.

Portnov took off his glasses:

“Are you feeling sorry for me?”

Sasha shook her head.

“Are you lying because you are afraid of hurting my feelings?”

He knows everything about me, Sasha thought. He spent so many years turning people into words that it is possible he knows more about us that we know ourselves.

She located a handkerchief in her bag and began to dry her eyes with such effort as if she were trying to rub them entirely off of her face. Portnov watched her with surprise and sympathy:

“Are you scared? Is it unpleasant? Are you simply that used to considering me a human being?”

Sasha sniffed and shook her head.

“Emotional memory,” Portnov murmured. “You have already become a butterfly, but are still trying to crawl. You remember being a caterpillar. Samokhina, get a hold of yourself. We are losing time, and this session is not made of rubber, don’t you agree?”

***

First years crowded the dining hall. Their first winter exams were coming up, but the queue was animated by their laughter and lively conversations; first year girls flirted with the boys, the boys exchanged witticisms. Sasha thought that any first year student at any dining hall of any given institute would behave in the same manner.

Second years sat hunched over their plates—some wearing gloves, some wearing glasses, some with a nervous tic. Even in the dining hall most of them couldn’t part with their books, printouts and headphones. These students had already lived through the destruction and recreation, and now they faced their first exam in Introduction to Applied Science. Sasha mentally wished them luck.

Yegor was not there. Sasha took another good look around, but it was in vain.

Out of the entire lunch menu she chose fruit compote, pale pink, with a slice of apple on the bottom of the glass. She sat in the corner of the dining hall facing the entrance—to make it easier to observe the room.

Here they are, eating and drinking. They are still almost entirely human; they have human psyches and human bodies. With time, during the learning process, they will come out of their human skin and become Words, tools of Speech, the bones and tendons of a highly complex text that is called reality. Words know no fear, and no death. Words are free and conform only to Speech. And Speech—Sasha knew this!—is the core of harmony.

***

“Dear third years, I’m so used to the individual sessions with each of you that it feels a bit strange—and all the more pleasant— to see the entire group in one room. I’m glad this small Auditorium number 14 fits every one of us. Am I right—is everyone here? Do we need a roll call?”

“Everyone is here,” Kostya said with a quick glance around the room. The third years of Group A sat behind the desks, chilly air wafted through the open window, and the heat from the radiators made the air above them tremble.

Sterkh was smiling. His sharp chin nearly touched his speckled tie, arranged in a soft romantic knot. His black suit puckered on his back. Sasha always wondered why Sterkh insisted on wearing his wings even while in his human appearance.

Unlike Portnov, Sterkh used to be human, but it was a very long time ago. Now he represented a combination of two concepts; two poles, two energy flows intertwined under the direction of one will. Perhaps the wings were a nod toward his dual nature; perhaps it was too dangerous to require such a complex organism go through an additional metamorphosis. It could be Sterkh’s personal whim. Or maybe it was something else, something way beyond Sasha’s comprehension.

That thing that Portnov called “emotional memory” flatly refused to weaken. For some reason, Sasha was pleased to know that Sterkh used to be human. Even though whatever he was now was just as far from human nature as an electronic microscope from a tortoiseshell comb.

“Why did I want to gather you today? Today is December thirteenth, and that means that exactly one month remains until the placement examination. This month will require all your strength. Unfortunately, there is no makeup date for this exam: you have exactly one chance.”

Sasha sat by the window, looking askance at the snow-covered street. With the arrival of the cold weather Sterkh forbade her to fly at night; in response to her pleading that she’s not at all afraid of the cold, he shrugged his shoulders in surprise: “What does it have to do with the cold, Sasha? You have so much work now, such a heavy load! Not to mention that footprints of bare feet on the snow are so esthetically displeasing!”

Large snowflakes fell onto Sacco and Vanzetti.

“Today I will tell you in detail what it is like to take the placement examination. It will help you to keep it together and be prepared for the challenge at the defining moment. On January thirteenth, at noon sharp, both groups, A and B, will enter the assembly hall and take their seats. You will be introduced to the examination committee. You will not be nervous, will not feel anxious, you will not have anything with you—under no circumstances you are to have any paper or pens. Nothing! The head of the committee will read out the names, and those called will go up to the stage, choose an examination sheet and sign for it in the ledger. You will have three assignments: the first two are standard; the third one is individual, selected for each one of you according to your future specialization. In the process of completing this assignment you will cease being a human being and commence as Word; for the first time you will
reverberate,
my dears, and this is quite fundamental.”

Sterkh surveyed the audience as if searching for the expression of rapture on the faces turned toward him. No one was smiling: everyone looked at him intently and attentively, fans watching a penalty kick going toward the favorite team’s goal.

“You should not pay any attention to the drastic changes in your condition, time, space, and internal state. This is going to be quite a shock, it is supposed to be a shock, and you should prepare yourself for a shock. The subjective time of the examination may stretch from one minute to several hours. Don’t worry if things happen fast. Don’t be afraid if the examination seems too long. Remember: the goal of the examination committee is to help you, not to fail you. Remember also that you only get one chance.”

Wind beat into the glass. Snowflakes rustled. It was getting dark pretty fast; Sterkh clicked the switch. The overhead light exposed a small dusty auditorium and nineteen third years silently watching their professor.

“So,” Sterkh moved his shoulders settling the wings in a more comfortable position on his back. “Any questions?”

***

“Mommy? It’s me! Can you hear me?”

A very distant voice. As if through a blizzard; something rustles and howls thinly in the receiver. As if from a distant galaxy, as if through a thick layer of water, as if through cotton wool.

“Mom! I’m doing great! How are you?”

“Depends on the day, Sasha, but we’re hanging in, bit by bit… The baby has a cold. I have to take more time off. It’s because I did not nurse him, and his immune system is not as strong as it should be…”

“Stop it, it’s just superstition! It is not your fault! Don’t worry, he’ll be fine!”

“Of course,” Mom sounded anxious and tired.

“Mom, I’m not coming home for the winter break this year…”

That’s it. It was out. It just slipped out.

A pause.

“That’s a shame. Such a shame. But what can you do…”

The phone line filtered emotions like blotting paper absorbs tea leaves.

“Mom, don’t be sad. Everything will be fine. The baby will feel better soon. And I will call you soon.”

“That’s good. Call me, Sasha. Call me.”

“I will. Goodbye!”

She placed the receiver on the “horned” cradle. Sasha stood still for a while staring at the wall.

Portnov called it “emotional memory.”

One month remained until the placement exam.

***

On the morning of December thirtieth drunken first years danced in the fresh snow singing “A fir tree born in the forest.” Nearly hysterical with glee, the third years joined them in groups and one at a time. The second years wandered around, thin and quiet like shadows.

A poster decorated with gouache paints and tinsel invited everyone to the holiday roast. The assembly hall was filled to its capacity. Vika and Lena, Sasha’s former roommates, sang racy ditties, a bit stupid, a bit vulgar, but still funny.

Sasha sat in the assembly hall, in the very midst of a laughing audience, and closer to the end of the show she suddenly thought of Zakhar. She recalled how two years ago he, a second year back then, stood at the edge of the stage wearing Portnov’s glasses spouting complete nonsense, but so courageously and confidently that Sasha, who always cringed in the presence of bad actors did not feel any discomfort, only fear—what if Portnov mistook the quick parody for ridicule…

In two weeks Sasha’s classmates will enter this assembly hall and never return to their previous lives.

She left before the concert ended. Among piles of coats and jackets in the coat room she found her own, with a hook torn off already. She got dressed and left, planning to get home and go to sleep, but the evening over Torpa was clear, quiet and not too chilly. Sasha decided to take a walk; she strolled down Sacco and Vanzetti away from the center of town, toward the outskirts.

Fireplaces and woodstoves had been lit. Smoke rose over the roofs, white in the moonlight, and went straight up in promise of good weather. Sasha’s back itched: she imagined how lovely it would be to fly in this transparent world between snowy roofs and the sky propped up by the silvery pillars of smoke.

The moist cobblestones made the pavement black. A car rode by—Sasha moved to the side. A holiday garland noiselessly blinked on the façade of a dark—closed—café, alternating red and yellow and blue and green flashes.

And nearby stood a man, so still that Sasha had not noticed him right away. Only when he said: “Yes, I understand that,” Sasha flinched and stopped.