Vita Nostra

by Sergey

  Out loud she said nothing. Her voice wasn’t really cooperating anyway.

  The blonde briefly looked in her direction before saying, “Actually, I am not going to live here myself. I think I’m better off renting an apartment somewhere nearby. It’s better for you, too—you’ll have more space.”

  Sasha did not respond. The brunette shrugged, her meaning clear:

  You’re the boss.

  “My name is Lisa,” the blonde told Sasha. “And this is Oksana.”

  “Alexandra,” croaked Sasha. “Samokhina, Sasha.”

  “Looks like we’re classmates.” Lisa kept her blue appraising eyes on Sasha.

  “Looks like it.”

  “All this dust,” grumbled Oksana, sliding her plump finger over the desks and the windowsill. “And where are we supposed to get the bed linen, does anyone know? Has anyone seen the superintendent? Easy to get along with?”

  Lisa took her eyes off Sasha. She walked around the room, touching the door of the wardrobe, which emitted a hoarse squeak.

  “We should celebrate,” Oksana suggested. Immediately, not waiting for anyone’s consent, she began to take out jars, containers, and packages from her bag. She took out paper plates and peeled three white paper cups off an accordion-pleated snake, then filled each with some liquid from a murky plastic bottle.

  “Here, girls. We’re roommates now. Help yourself: the sausage is homemade, and here are some pickles. And the bread, well, whatever is left.”

  “Drink—this early in the morning?” Lisa said.

  “We’ll have just a drop.” Oksana picked up a thick slice of the sausage. “To good grades, to easy living. Cheers!”

  Sasha held the cup; whitish liquid splashed on the bottom. It smelled of yeast.

  “What is it?”

  “Moonshine.” Oksana gave her a cheerful grin. “Come on, bottoms up!”

  She bumped her glass with Lisa’s, then with Sasha’s, drank, widened her eyes, and bit into the sausage. Lisa took a small sip. Sasha wanted to refuse, but then thought, Why shouldn’t I? She held her breath and swallowed the murky liquid like medicine.

  She’s never tasted anything worse. All the alcoholic beverages she’d tasted before—champagne on New Year’s Eve and her birthday, the occasional dry red wine—had had a pleasant taste and a nice smell. The moonshine remained stuck in her throat, preventing her from breathing.

  “Eat!” Oksana yelled at her. “Have a pickle.”

  Letting tears stream down her face, Sasha bit into a pickle and then into a fatty sausage and black bread with caraway seeds. Now she was thirsty, but no one had any water. Efficient Oksana assured them that there should be a kitchen, and the kitchen should have a teakettle, and she was going to find everything out. The door closed behind her.

  Sasha took a deep breath. The room swam in front of her eyes, and she felt not exactly happy, but a little easier, and now she wanted to talk.

  She wanted to ask Lisa how she ended up at the Institute of Special Technologies. And whether Farit Kozhennikov was part of her life as well. And what she was thinking of doing next. She wanted to tell Lisa about her terror, and the coins, about Valentin with his precoronary, and Mom, and about the note found by accident in the storage compartment at the train station. Sasha opened her mouth, but then stopped.

  What if Lisa, unlike Sasha herself, is not mad? What if she applied to the institute like a normal student? What if she wants to be here? Who knows what she wants? Maybe she ran away from an odious family situation? Or maybe she’s hiding from a scandal? Or something else, something normal, human, and here was Sasha with her fairy tales?

  On the other hand, the coins . . .

  “Did anyone . . . did you have to pay anyone?” Sasha asked curtly.

  “No one accepts bribes here,” said Lisa distractedly. “And if you mean those coins . . . I gave them to my advisor earlier. If that’s what you are talking about.”

  The door opened, Oksana burst in with a hot teakettle in one hand and a package of tea in the other.

  “Girls, there is a decent kitchen there, even pots and pans! Do you want to have tea here, or in the kitchen?”

  “I don’t want any tea.” Lisa got up. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t forget, lunch is at two. Bring your lunch tickets.”

  Lisa returned when Sasha and Oksana were almost done with the cleanup; all they had left to do was take out the trash and wash the floor. At first, Sasha, drowsy with the aftereffect of the moonshine, flatly refused to participate, but Oksana turned out to be quite pushy: they weren’t expecting to live in a pigsty, were they, and really, the thing to do was to clean up, and then they could relax. She poked and prodded, and soon Sasha discovered a rag in her hand and then found herself standing in line for bed linen in front of the superintendent’s office. The first years were flowing in, some nervous and frightened, some cheerful and noisy. Sasha met tons of new classmates, and their names immediately flew out of her head. Pale and disheveled, Kostya showed up and disappeared again, looking punch-drunk. Sasha carried three sets of grayish sheets, smelling of detergent, to the second floor; meanwhile, Oksana managed to dust the insides of the wardrobe, the tables, windowsill, and even the legs of the three beds.

  Lisa came back, stepped over the mound of trash in the doorway, sighed, and proceeded toward her bed with the stack of sheets set on the mattress.

  “Nice walk?” Oksana inquired cheerfully.

  Silently, Lisa lay down on the striped mattress and turned her face to the wall.

  The dining hall was located in the basement. Before September 1, the official start of school, only the self-service station was open, but even there one could get clear soup with round meatballs in shining enamel bowls and chicken with vermicelli. One was even allowed an unlimited amount of fruit compote, three or four glasses, if one wanted.

  “Good grub,” Oksana stated.

  Sasha noticed Kostya at a nearby table. Her traveling companion hunched over his plate, crumbling a piece of bread into tiny pieces and looking through the other diners without seeing them.

  Sasha went over with a firm conviction: if he wasn’t happy to see her, she would leave immediately.

  Kostya was happy. A lot happier than Sasha had anticipated. He moved out a chair for her to sit down and offered her his portion of compote. Sasha did not refuse.

  “So, you settled in?” and immediately, without any transition: “Listen, they are crazy.”

  “Who?”

  “Those guys they put me in with. The second years. One stutters so much his eyes pop out, and he giggles constantly. And the other one gets stuck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he stretches his hand to get a book off the shelf, and then he . . . he gets stuck, like he’s rusted all over. He stands in this really stupid pose, and he pulls, and twitches . . . and he even sort of squeaks. And then it lets him go. He gets the book and starts reading, as though nothing happened. And they keep looking at each other behind my back, winking . . . Freaks. What am I supposed to do, sleep in the same room with them?”

  Kostya stopped short. He suddenly realized that he was spilling his guts—complaining!—to the girl he had only just met that morning. Evidently, according to Kostya’s internal code of honor, this behavior could not be considered masculine. Embarrassed and upset, he lowered his eyes to his plate.

  “My roommates are first years,” Sasha said. “They seem normal. Relatively.”

  Kostya looked up, saying, “Just have a look around. The entire second year, and third, they are all crippled. Just look!”

  Sasha turned around. A group of third years maneuvered between the rows of tables, one-eyed Victor in the lead. Tall, gangly, and lopsided, Victor’s left leg was lame, and the dishes on his tray jumped and jiggled, threatening to fall off. Behind Victor, a square-shouldered guy in a bright red T-shirt and faded jeans directed himself to the empty tables in the back, smiling and constantly bumping into chairs. The chairs rattled, some fell on th
e floor, but the guy paid no attention and kept moving. Next to him, a girl wearing incredibly high heels took tentative steps. She gazed at the floor, seeing something completely inaccessible to others. Every now and then she aimed her heel at the floor, as if hammering in a nail, froze for a second, lifted her foot with visible effort (her heel seemingly piercing through the floor), and kept walking, swaying slightly.

  “Panopticon,” Kostya murmured. “Where do they get these people from?”

  Sasha gave him a fleeting look. “The first years seem normal,” she said, echoing her earlier statement.

  “Hmm.” Kostya twirled his spoon in the bowl of soup. “Yeah. I’m all set. D’you want to go?”

  The post office smelled of sealing wax; a young mother with a stroller was mailing a large package tied up with string. There was only one postal worker on duty, so Sasha waited while she helped the young mother, and then she asked the middle-aged purple-haired woman to connect her with a long-distance phone number. She entered an echoing phone booth, and, stifling her heartbeat, listened to the long beeps, then jumped with joy when Mom picked up the phone.

  “Hello!”

  Mom was yelling into the receiver, probably having trouble hearing. Sasha yelled too:

  “Mom! It’s me! Everything is fine! I’m all settled in! They feed us here! Tomorrow is the first day of school! How are you?”

  She screamed it out, like a team’s fight song, and listened to Mom’s reply: Everything is good, Valentin called from Moscow, everyone is healthy . . .

  “I’ll call you again soon. Bye!”

  Sasha browsed through the postcards and chose one: “For you, from ancient Torpa.” The postcard pictured the fountain square, swans swimming in the water. Sasha bought the postcard, wrote her mother’s address, and tossed it into the huge blue box with a mail symbol on top. The envelope hit the tin bottom with a dull thud.

  The post office was located about fifteen minutes’ walking distance from the dorm. On the way back, the weather got worse and it started to drizzle. Sasha pulled her head into her shoulders and ran up the concrete porch, yanking the squeaky door open.

  An unfamiliar boy was walking along the first-floor corridor. He took a couple of steps, and then froze in the middle of his move, like a captured video frame. He stood still for a few seconds, then, with visible effort, forced himself to move and continued walking. Then he turned and walked into the wall near the door. He stepped back. On the second try he grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open . . .

  Sasha flung herself up the stairs.

  Lisa and Oksana were smoking, sitting on their beds. The window was open wide, but the smoke refused to leave; instead, cold wind burst into the room, adorned with shiny beads of rain.

  “Could you possibly smoke in the bathroom?” Sasha asked hesitantly.

  All she got in response was ice-cold silence.

  “Good morning, first years.”

  The assembly hall was a large dusty room. Only the last three or four rows of chairs were occupied. Dark curtains covered the windows, letting in half of the necessary light. A screen glowed white behind the stage. Looks like a community center, thought Sasha.

  “The coolest people sit in the back of the bus, like in middle school?” A man stepped up onto the low platform and glanced around the room. “That’s not going to fly.” He added in the same low voice: “Lights, please.”

  The chandelier was lit immediately, and now the room was filled with bright lights, like an opera theater during intermission.

  “Everyone move to the front of the room,” the man on the stage commanded. “Hurry up.”

  The first years began to move, exchanging glances, slowly creeping up closer to the stage. Sasha and Kostya found a spot at the end of the second row, and everyone trying to get to the center seats kept stumbling over their feet. She didn’t care—it seemed incredibly important to be able to leave as quickly as possible if necessary.

  The man on the stage waited. He looked nothing like Sasha’s image of a college professor: instead of a suit, he wore jeans and a striped sweater. His straight blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and he wore glasses, long and narrow like razor blades, that seemed specially designed to allow him to look over the lenses.

  “My name is Oleg Borisovich. Oleg Borisovich Portnov. Young man in the fifth row, yes, you. Don’t be shy, come closer. There are not that many of us, we have plenty of space. I would like to extend my congratulations to you, ladies and gentlemen, on this significant event in your lives: your admission to the first year of Torpa’s Institute of Special Technologies. You are to expect an interesting life and plenty of hard work. Miss”—his finger pointed at Lisa, who leaned over to whisper something to Oksana—“when I speak, everyone else is silent. Please remember that in the future.”

  Lisa choked. The room was very quiet. Portnov took a few steps along the platform, his eyes traveling from face to face, slowly, like the ray of a flashlight.

  “Congratulations, you are now students. In honor of your initiation, the student hymn will be performed. If you know the words, please sing along.”

  A triumphant chord burst out of the sound system. Portnov motioned for everyone to rise. An invisible chorus sang with an appropriate solemnity:

  Gaudeamus igitur,

  Juvenes dum sumus!

  Post jucundam juventutem,

  Post molestam senectutem

  Nos habebit humus!

  Sasha quickly observed the audience. Only a few people were singing along. Lisa stood with her lips tightly shut. Oksana strained to hear the words—her Latin did not seem very strong. Sasha herself knew the text, she’d learned it a while ago in her prep course. The translation of this seemingly joyful song never struck her as happy:

  After a pleasant youth

  After a troubling old age

  The earth will have us.

  Such a lovely beginning. But then:

  Vita nostra brevis est,

  Brevi finietur;

  Venit mors velociter,

  Rarit nos atrociter,

  Nemini parcetur!

  This part she particularly disliked: in this verse, all men were promised an imminent death that spares no one. Vita nostra . . . “Our life is brief, / It will shortly end; / Death comes quickly.” Maybe the medieval students didn’t give a hoot, Sasha thought darkly. Maybe if I were listening to “Gaudeamus” at home, at our university, I wouldn’t give a hoot either, and I wouldn’t have any of these thoughts. But I am in Torpa.

  Vivat Academia,

  Vivant professores!

  Vivat membrum quodlibet,

  Vivat membra quaelibet

  Semper sint in flore!

  The song ended. The students sat down, as if ending a moment of silence. Portnov stood at the very edge of the platform, hanging over the first rows, studying their faces. Sasha caught his gaze and lowered her own.

  “And now we’re going to watch a short film—our school’s official presentation. I would like to ask you to pay attention and refrain from talking and interrupting your neighbors’ viewing. Enjoy the film.”

  The lights went out. The dark curtains on the windows twitched and moved closer together. Behind the stage, a light rectangle appeared on the screen, reminding Sasha of newsreels of her early childhood: something very archaic was in the black-and-white image displayed on the screen.

  “Welcome to the ancient town of Torpa,” announced the deep voice of the narrator. “The Institute of Special Technologies salutes you!”

  A bright logo swam out of the darkness, a rounded symbol, the same as on the front of the gold coins Sasha had collected. Sasha stopped breathing.

  Last night she’d analyzed everything. She’d whispered: “I want it to be a dream,” squeezing her eyes shut. She’d lain staring at the ceiling. She’d seriously believed that she’d been taken into a secret laboratory, where young boys and girls were subjected to experiments that turned them into cripples. Then she’d calmed down and was able to see
some benefit in her situation: what if she were to be taught something amazing, what if Farit Kozhennikov was an alien, and she would have a chance to see other planets . . .

  All night the dormitory had been awake: people yelled, sang songs accompanied by guitar chords, listened to a boom box that thundered somewhere. Every now and then somebody stamped down the corridor, this way and then the other. Somebody called for his friends out the window. Somebody laughed uncontrollably. Going mad with insomnia, Sasha had finally plunged into unconsciousness and dreamed strange dreams. At half past six Oksana had started rustling her plastic bags, filling the room with the smell of pickles, and that rustling and the smell forced Sasha wide awake.

  And now she watched the screen. The film was ancient, older than Sasha herself; the narrator’s voice in the old sound system made her ears pop, but no matter how hard she tried, Sasha heard nothing new or at least informative. Torpa is a beautiful ancient city. Tradition of higher education. Youth stepping into the adult life. Et cetera, et cetera. Black-and-white frames replaced each other: the streets of Torpa (which really were quite picturesque, she had to admit). Swans in the fountain. The institute’s facade, the dormitory’s facade, the glass dome over the equestrian statue. The voice preached the importance of a properly chosen higher education facility, and how this affects one’s employment and career, talked about young specialists who graduate from the school annually, about life in the dormitory, about glorious traditions—the words were familiar and amorphous, they could be placed in any desired combination without losing any meaning. Sasha was caught off guard when the film ended suddenly, the screen darkened, and the lights came back on.

  The first years squinted, exchanged glances, and shrugged. Portnov took a long stride across the stage, stopped at its edge, and laced his hands behind his back.