Vita Nostra

by Sergey

  “This concludes the official part of the proceedings. Let’s start our work. This year, thirty-nine first-year students were accepted, which makes two groups. Let’s call them Group A and Group B. Understood?”

  The first years were silent.

  “Students whose mentors are Liliya Popova and Farit Kozhennikov, please come up.”

  Sasha swallowed and remained seated. Lisa walked up the squeaky stairs, nervously smoothed out her very short skirt, and stood to the side. A tall guy whom Sasha had seen at the dining hall stood next to her. A student elbowed his way out of the center seat and stumbled over Sasha’s feet.

  “Should we go?” Kostya asked quietly.

  Sasha got up.

  The stage was wide; nineteen people could have spread out from curtain to curtain, holding hands. But everyone huddled together, as if trying to hide behind one another’s backs.

  “Allow me to introduce first years, Group A,” Portnov motioned toward the stage. “Please welcome Group A.”

  Someone in the audience clapped a few times.

  “Your schedule will be posted right after the first block. Group B, which is now sitting in the audience, will be going to Physical Education—the gym is on the third floor, class starts in five minutes. Your second block is Specialty; we’ll meet then and have a chance to chat. Group A has Specialty during the first block in auditorium number 1. Everyone, please proceed to your assigned blocks. You now have four minutes—tardiness is not appreciated.”

  Portnov stepped down the squeaky steps and left the hall through the side entrance. Lisa moved back and smoothed out her miniskirt again. Sasha was shocked by the length of Lisa’s legs.

  “Sasha!”

  Sasha looked back. Oksana, still wearing the same jersey sweater, was waving to her from the audience.

  “We’re going to be in different groups, that’s a shame, isn’t it?”

  “Off to the gym . . . ,” somebody mumbled.

  “I don’t even have any sneakers, just regular shoes . . .”

  Group B slowly pulled out of the hall. Sasha turned to Kostya.

  “Who’s this Liliya Popova?” she whispered.

  Kostya shook his head.

  “I have no clue.”

  “What do you mean?” Sasha was surprised. “But you are . . . how did you get here, anyway? You said your father . . .”

  “Yes.” Kostya nodded. “My father is Farit Kozhennikov. Why?”

  Auditorium number 1 was located on the first floor, off the hall with the equestrian statue. The sun was beating from the outside, the glass dome shined like a projector’s lens. The light was washing over the stallion and equestrian’s sides and rolled off them like water off a seal’s back. Precise shadows of enormous feet in stirrups lay on the floor.

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was your father?”

  “How was I supposed to know you knew him too? I thought . . .”

  “If he . . . if you are his son, how could he stick you into this hole?”

  “How do I know? I hadn’t seen him for many years. He divorced my mother when . . . that’s not important. He showed up and gave me an ultimatum, and . . .”

  “But is he really your father?”

  “Well, I suppose so, considering that my full name is Kozhennikov, Konstantin Faritovich!”

  “Holy shit,” said Sasha, utterly astonished.

  Group A flowed into the small auditorium, similar to a middle-school classroom. A blackboard with a dusty rag and a piece of chalk made the similarity all the more obvious. They barely had time to choose their seats and place their bags on the floor when the bell rang dismally in the hall, and immediately—that very second—Portnov entered: a long blond ponytail down his back, glasses perched on his nose, and an intense stare over the narrow lenses.

  He pulled his chair away from the massive teacher’s desk. Sat down. Laced his fingers together in front of him.

  “All right . . . Good morning again, students.”

  He was answered by dead silence; only a spaced-out fly kept throwing itself against the windowpane. Portnov opened a thin paper logbook and glanced over the list.

  “Biryukov, Dmitry.”

  “Here.”

  “Bochkova, Anna.”

  “Here,” said a plump girl with a pale, sickly face.

  “Goldman, Yulia.”

  “Here,” a voice said from the back row.

  “Korotkov, Andrey.”

  “Here.”

  “Kovtun, Igor.”

  “Here.”

  “Kozhennikov, Kostya.”

  A chill moved over the auditorium. Many heads turned. Kostya visibly tensed up.

  “Here,” he croaked.

  “Myaskovsky, Denis,” Portnov continued as if nothing had happened.

  “Here!”

  Sasha listened to the roll call, doodling on the side of the page of her notebook. Nineteen people. Her high school class had almost forty students . . .

  “Pavlenko, Lisa.”

  “That’s me,” said Lisa.

  “Samokhina, Alexandra.”

  “That’s me,” Sasha breathed out.

  “Toporko, Zhenya.”

  “Here,” murmured a small, very young-looking girl with two long braids.

  “Everyone is present,” Portnov admitted with satisfaction. “Take out your notebooks. On top of the first page, write ‘Portnov, Oleg Borisovich.’ In case somebody missed it, my subject is Specialty.”

  The first years fumbled around. Kostya did not have a notepad, and Sasha supplied him with a sheet from her own notepad.

  “In the future you must bring your textbooks and notepads to every class. Regarding textbooks . . .” Portnov unlocked a wooden cabinet and took out a stack of books. “Samokhina, give these to your classmates.”

  Sasha, an eternal straight-A student, got up before she had time to be surprised. Even the most intelligent teacher usually required a few days to memorize the first and last names of his students. Portnov memorized everyone’s name from the first try; or did he pay special attention to Sasha?

  She accepted a heavy stack of books that smelled like an old library. The books looked identical and not very new. Sasha walked through the auditorium, placing two books on each desk.

  The cover had an abstract pattern of colored blocks. Black letters folded into two words: “Textual Module.” Underneath was a large number “1.”

  “Do not open the books,” said Portnov quietly, before one of the first years curiously lifted the cover.

  Hands jerked back. Again, silence prevailed. Sasha placed the last two books on the desk she shared with Kostya and sat down.

  “Attention, students,” continued Portnov just as softly. “You are at the beginning of a journey, during which all of your strength will be required. Physical and mental. What we will be studying is not for everyone. Not everyone can handle what this does to a person. You have been carefully selected, and you all have what it takes to make that journey successfully. Our science does not tolerate weakness and takes cruel revenge on laziness, on cowardice, and on the most infinitesimal attempt to avoid learning the entire curriculum. Is that understood?”

  The fly threw itself at the glass for the last time and fell limply on the windowsill.

  “To everyone who puts their best effort into the process of learning and does his or her absolute best, I will guarantee: by the time the process is completed, these students will be alive and well. However, negligence and indifference bring students to a sorry end. An extremely sorry end. Understood?”

  A hand flew up to the left of Sasha.

  “Yes, Pavlenko,” said Portnov without looking.

  Lisa got up, convulsively tugging on her skirt.

  “You see, no one asked our opinion when we were sent here,” her voice trembled.

  “And?” Portnov looked at her with interest.

  “But can you expect us . . . Request that we study so hard . . . if we don’t want to?” Lisa tried hard not to allow
her voice to squeal.

  “Yes, we can,” Portnov stated lightly. “When a toddler is being potty-trained, no one asks his or her opinion, right?”

  Lisa remained standing for a moment, and then sat down. Portnov’s answer took her aback. She wasn’t the only one. Sasha and Kostya exchanged glances.

  “Let us continue,” went on Portnov, as if the interruption didn’t particularly faze him. “You are Group A of the first year. I will be your Specialty professor, responsible for lectures on theory and individual studies. With each new semester, your work will get more complex, and other special subjects will be added. I want you to understand that Physical Education is considered one of the primary subjects in your curriculum. Do remember that. Aside from that, during the first semester you will be studying Philosophy, History, English, and Mathematics. Most of you were good students, so it will be enough to simply do your homework in those subjects. The situation with Specialty is different. It will be difficult. Especially in the beginning.”

  “You’ve already put the fear of God into us,” someone said from the back row.

  “Hand, Kovtun—first get your hand up, then share your thought. In the future, a breach of discipline results in an extra Specialty assignment.”

  Silence.

  “Good. We have gotten through the introduction. Let’s begin. Kozhennikov, do me a favor: take the chalk and draw a horizontal line on the blackboard.”

  “In the middle?” Kostya specified.

  Portnov glanced askance at him over the glasses. Kostya shrugged, looked down, picked up the chalk, and carefully drew a straight line from one edge of the blackboard to the other.

  “Thank you, you may sit down. Class, look at the board. What is it?”

  “Horizon,” said Sasha.

  “Perhaps. What else?”

  “A stretched rope,” Lisa suggested.

  “A dead worm, view from the top!” Igor Kovtun quipped.

  Portnov smirked. He picked up the chalk and drew a butterfly in the top part of the blackboard. Underneath, below the horizontal line, he drew another butterfly, just like the first one, but in a dashed line.

  “What is that?”

  “A butterfly.”

  “A swallowtail.”

  “A cabbage white!”

  “Projection,” Sasha said after a short pause.

  Portnov glanced at her with interest.

  “Very good. Samokhina, what is projection?”

  “It’s an image of an object on a flat surface. Reflection. Shadow.”

  “Come here.”

  Sasha disentangled herself from her desk clumsily. Rather unceremoniously, Portnov grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face the group. Sasha glimpsed a surprised look on Yulia Goldman’s face, a slightly contemptuous one on Lisa’s, a curious one on Andrey Korotkov’s; in the next second, a black scarf descended upon her face, and darkness came.

  Somebody gave a nervous giggle.

  “Samokhina, what do you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  Sasha paused, afraid of making a mistake.

  “Nothing. Darkness.”

  “Does it mean you are blind?”

  “No.” Sasha was offended. “It’s just if you cover a person’s eyes, the person won’t be able to see.”

  The audience was by now laughing openly.

  “Attention, students,” Portnov said drily. “In reality, each one of you is in the same situation as Samokhina. You are blind. You stare into the darkness.”

  The giggling subsided.

  “The world, as you see it, is not real. And the way you imagine it—it does not even come close. Certain things seem obvious to you, but they simply do not exist.”

  “And you, do you not exist?” Sasha couldn’t help herself. “Are you not real?”

  Portnov removed the scarf from her face. Under his gaze, she blinked confusedly.

  “I exist,” he said seriously. “But I am not at all what you think.”

  And, leaving Sasha standing there in a state of complete shock, he crumpled the scarf into a little ball and threw it carelessly on his desk.

  “Samokhina, you may sit down. Let’s continue.”

  Sasha held up her hand. The hand trembled, but Sasha continued to hold it stubbornly. Portnov half-closed his eyes and said, “What now?”

  “I wanted to ask. What are you going to teach us? What specialty? And who are we going to be when we graduate?”

  An approving whisper fluttered through the audience.

  “I am going to give you a notion of how the world is structured,” Portnov explained, with a huge emphasis on his alleged leniency. “And, what is even more crucial, a notion of your—every one of you—place in this world. I cannot tell you more at this point, since you will not understand. Any other questions?”

  The girl with the braids, Zhenya Toporko, held up her hand.

  “Excuse me . . .”

  “Yes?” Irritation could be easily discerned in Portnov’s voice. Zhenya quivered, but made herself go on:

  “If I don’t want to study here, and I want to cancel my enrollment . . . May I do it today?”

  It became very quiet. Kostya gave Sasha a significant look. Lisa Pavlenko’s eyes lit up.

  “It is very important to dot all the i’s,” Portnov stated unemotionally. “You have passed a very difficult and competitive selection process. You have been accepted into a well-established learning institution that does not tolerate doubt, uncertainty, and other forms of idiocy. So no, you may not cancel your enrollment. You will study here; otherwise, you will be dismissed and simultaneously buried. Your advisors, Liliya Popova and Farit Kozhennikov, will remain in that role until your fifth year. Their responsibilities include stimulating your excellent academic performance. I hope all of you have had a good chance to meet your advisors so you have an idea of how effective they can be in that regard.”

  A minute before Sasha thought the auditorium was quiet, but now the silence was absolute. It was deadly.

  “Open your books to page three,” Portnov continued nonchalantly. “Read Section 1, slowly, carefully, paying attention to each letter. You may begin.” He sat down and gave the students one more piercing look.

  Sasha opened the book. The inside cover was clear of text: no author’s name, no publishing data. “Textual Module 1, Section 1.” The yellowing pages were worn at the corners; the font was absolutely typical, just like any normal textbook . . .

  Until Sasha began to read. There was nothing typical about that.

  She stumbled on the very first line. Word after word, paragraph after paragraph, the book consisted of complete gibberish.

  Her first thought was “printing error.” She threw a quick glance at Kostya’s textbook, and at the same time he peeked at hers.

  “Is yours the same garbage?”

  “No talking,” Portnov said quietly. “Continue reading. Pay attention. I warned you: you will have to work hard.”

  “It’s not in Russian,” Anya Bochkova squealed softly.

  “I did not say it was going to be in Russian. Read silently to yourself. You do not have a lot of time left in this class.”

  Sasha lowered her head.

  Somebody laughed. Giggles spread over the class, like an epidemic, but Portnov ignored it. The laughter died down on its own. Sasha forged through the long, senseless combinations of letters, and her hair stood on end. She imagined that somebody was repeating those sounds after her in a dark room with mirrors instead of walls, and each word, after reflecting over and over in the mirrors, finally gained meaning, but by then Sasha had moved two sections ahead, and the meaning flew away from her, like smoke from a fast-moving locomotive . . .

  When she finished reading the relatively short section, she was dripping with sweat. She labored to catch her breath. Five paragraphs at the very end were underlined with a red pen.

  The bell rang outside.

  “Homework,” Portnov said. “R
ead Section 1 three times, from beginning to end. The underlined paragraphs are to be memorized. By heart. Tomorrow we have one-on-one practice during the third block. Kozhennikov will compile the list.”

  “Why me?” Kostya jumped up.

  “Because you are now the prefect,” stated Portnov matter-of-factly. “Class is dismissed. You next class is Physical Education.”

  Group A, unusually silent, stopped in the hall, at the foot of the massive staircase. Group B was walking down, chatting happily; the gym class seemed to have put them in a good mood. Oksana walked down the stairs, her cheeks burning bright red in the semidarkness, like two slices of watermelon.

  Upon seeing the other group, Oksana slowed down. “Any reason you look so miserable?”

  “You’ll find out,” Lisa promised darkly.

  “We should get to the gym,” Kostya suggested. “No point in standing here until midnight . . .”

  “Prefect,” said Lisa with an unidentifiable modulation. “Is your last name Kozhennikov?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “And who is Farit . . . Sorry, I don’t know his full name?”

  Kostya clenched his fists.

  “He’s my father. So?”

  “Leave him alone, it’s not his fault,” Sasha said softly. “He’s in the same situation as the rest of us. He was forced into it as well.”

  Lisa turned sharply and started walking up the stairs. The miniskirt clung to her butt, and her long tanned legs flashed in the semidarkness.

  “Hmm, isnt’t it all so much fun,” said Andrey Korotkov, a tall, square-shouldered guy older than most of them—he probably ended up in Torpa after his military service.

  Sasha, trying not to look at anyone, followed Lisa up to the third floor, to the door with a modest sign: sports center.

  The gym teacher was a gorgeous dark-haired creature around twenty-five years of age. A thin yellow shirt clung to his powerful chest and back muscles; bare shoulders and arms demonstrated an impressive physique. In front of the lineup, Dmitry Dmitrievich (that was his name) shared his entire life story with the group: he used to be a professional wrestler, enjoyed considerable success, got hurt during a match, was forced to leave professional sports and become a coach, and since he had no teaching experience, he was happy to be employed by a regional college. While telling them all the minute details, the gym teacher smiled shyly; Sasha understood immeditately why Group B seemed so happy, especially the girls. Dima Dimych—because how else but informally, like a good buddy, could one address him?—resembled a powerful but naïve tiger cub, and the thought that their schedule included four gym classes a week now made them deliriously happy, instead of depressed as it should have. Dima reminded them to wear athletic uniforms and sneakers to each class and promised to teach special classes, wrestling for boys and table tennis for girls. Yulia Goldman, feisty and lively, immediately claimed discrimination—Why, she asked, did he think wrestling was only for boys? Why couldn’t girls wrestle? To the vast amusement of the audience, Dima blushed and promised “to think of something.” By way of warm-up, he suggested they take off their shoes, split into three teams, and play a game of basketball.