by Sergey
Then Portnov emerged. Sasha thought he looked aggravated. She managed to hide behind the bronze stallion’s leg just in time. Portnov entered auditorium 1. Sasha heard his dry voice: “Get ready. Pavlenko, you’re first.”
Sasha bit her lip.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.
Then Lisa popped out of the auditorium. She was pale as plaster. Sasha felt scared.
Lisa spotted her. She swallowed.
“What happened?” Sasha couldn’t help asking.
“I passed,” whispered Lisa.
And, hugging Sasha’s neck, she burst into sobs.
It was unexpected, and it actually hurt: Lisa’s watch snagged on a lock of Sasha’s hair and pulled it quite painfully. It also felt weird: no one had ever sobbed on Sasha’s shoulder. She’d encountered this only in novels. Her sweater became soggy with Lisa’s snot and tears; shyly, hesitantly, Sasha stroked her back.
“You see . . . you’ve done well. Everything is good now.”
Lisa detached herself and, wiping her face with her sleeve, ran toward the girls’ bathroom; on the way she stumbled, then tried to perform some swing dance moves. She did it all on her own, Sasha thought. I don’t know what Farit did to her, but it did not look like any sort of leniency.
Denis was the second one to emerge. Unlike Lisa, he was red rather that white.
“How did you do?”
“A C.” Denis could not believe it himself. “Holy cow . . . It’s just . . .”
“How’s Kostya?”
“He’s up right now.” Denis was already thinking of something else. “Sasha, I’m going to get wasted. I’ll go into town. I’ll drink myself to the point of oblivion, like a pig in the mud!”
He smiled beatifically, like Cinderella before the royal ball.
Denis left.
The third years’ exam was still going on, and silence reigned in the assembly hall and in the entire school. Losing her composure, Sasha measured the hall with her footsteps.
The sun came out. The glass dome over the statue was set ablaze. The humongous equestrian swam out of darkness as if lit up by limelight. Who was he? Why was he placed there? Sasha walked and walked, listening to the sound of her footsteps. Time passed. Kostya did not come out.
Finally, the door opened; Sasha flew toward it and almost ran over Portnov. It was him, not Kostya, who exited the auditorium: glasses on the tip of his nose, blond ponytail thrown over his shoulder.
“Samokhina.”
Sasha stepped back. Portnov gave her a once-over; they hadn’t seen each other since he recorded an A on her grade sheet.
“I passed him . . .” Portnov gave a casual nod toward the auditorium. “I passed him, although . . . Come with me.”
He turned to the concierge’s glass booth. Sasha peeked into the auditorium and saw Kostya, sweaty, exhausted, but not brought to his knees.
“Did you pass?” she called out.
He nodded curtly, as if not believing it himself. Portnov got the keys from the concierge and signed her journal.
“Samokhina, auditorium 38.”
He walked along the corridor, jingling the keys in his hand. Sasha followed him as if on a leash.
“Did you hit him?” Portnov asked her.
The key turned in the lock.
“No. Well, yes. It just sort of happened . . .”
“I understand. Come in.”
She entered. The chairs were stacked feet up to the ceiling, seats down on the only table in the auditorium. Portnov flipped the chairs upright.
“Come over here.”
A bright-green light, refracted in the pink stone of Portnov’s ring, shot into Sasha’s eyes. She staggered. Portnov grabbed her elbow.
“When is your train?”
“I don’t know . . . I returned my ticket for today . . .”
“I see. There are no tickets for tomorrow; you may not be able to leave.”
Sasha swallowed hard. Portnov took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit up, but immediately put his cigarette out. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t smoke.”
That surprised Sasha. Portnov would be the first person in the school to notice such a minor detail, and it was obvious that he really wanted a cigarette.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m used to it. Please smoke.”
He put away the cigarettes anyway, then sat down and motioned for her to do the same. Sasha gingerly lowered herself onto the edge of the chair.
“Kostya’s . . . Kozhennikov’s grandmother died because of you,” she blurted out.
“Because of me?” He almost seemed amused.
“Because you wouldn’t pass him the first time.”
“I didn’t pass him because he was not ready. The rest is Farit’s business.”
“And Farit is what? A machine that executes the sentence? A guillotine?”
“Ask him yourself.” Portnov gave her a weak smile. “Why did you hit that lazy bum?”
Sasha looked down.
“He didn’t want to . . . could not concentrate.”
“Farit does the same thing. On his level.”
Sasha clenched her fists in her lap.
“Why do you do this to us? What for? Are we somehow different, did we do something wrong?”
Portnov clicked his lighter.
“No. You did not do anything wrong. But you must study, must work hard, and you do not want to.”
“Because you never explained to us what we are being taught, let alone why!”
“You would not be able to understand it. It’s too early.” Sasha watched his lighter release a tongue of fire and pull it back in. “When a child is taught to draw circles, does he understand what fine motor skills are? When a village boy is accepted to an academy—does he understand a lot about what’s going on?”
“A lot? He understands the main idea! A good teacher can elicit interest . . . can explain . . .”
Portnov nodded.
“What is verification, Samokhina?”
“Verification: using empirical data or experiment to confirm the truth of theoretical scientific hypothesis by ‘returning’ to the visual level of knowledge, when the ideal nature of abstract entities is ignored, and they are ‘identified’ with the objects observed,” Sasha said, caught off guard.
Portnov nodded.
“Your learning process is an object of observation. More precisely, it is a process happening under observation. What is happening to you in reality—you are not yet capable of comprehending in your current state of development. It is as if we caught a bunch of young chimpanzees in the jungle, collected them in one place, and, using a certain process, kicked off their transformation into . . . no, not into humans. Into models of worldwide systems and actions of all levels. Inflation, globalization, xenophobia.
“Do you know how to turn a chimpanzee into a model of stock market crisis?”
Sasha was silent.
“And there’s your verification.” Portnov smirked. “You are a good girl, Sasha, and you are balancing right on the edge. On the very border. I don’t want to lose you.”
Sasha stared into his immobile eyes with narrow pupils.
“Listen to me carefully. Tomorrow you are going home. I don’t know how the ticket situation is going to work out, but let’s hope you will get lucky. During your vacation—until February fourteenth—I forbid you to touch any books on Specialty. Do you understand?”
Sasha nodded, still staring at him.
“Watch yourself very carefully. Stifle your aggravation. Keep your aggression in check. I know, you are not used to it, but you are very dangerous to others right now. Especially to those who knew you before and who remember you as a calm, compliant girl.”
“I cannot be dangerous to others,” Sasha said.
“Close your mouth when I am talking. Avoid large crowds. Stay away from stressful situations. Make sure to get your return ticket in advance. I want to see you here on the fourteenth—do not be late. And here’s somet
hing else: no heart-to-heart talks with your mother. I am telling you this because I wish you well.”
“I noticed,” Sasha said hoarsely.
Portnov smiled.
“You are dismissed. Free to go.”
Kostya met her in the dark hallway and hugged her, nearly breaking her ribs.
She waited politely for a minute, then detached herself.
“Sasha . . .”
“Congratulations,” she said officially. “I wish you further success in your studies. Sorry, I have to pack, I’m going home.”
Leaving him behind, she went back to the dorm. Oddly enough, her heart felt light and calm.
Oksana had left the day before. Lisa was not in the room. Sasha threw all her stuff in her suitcase, could not close the lid, and put half of her things back in the dresser. It was quickly getting dark. Sasha glanced at the clock: half past six. The train was coming at 11:23, but she had no ticket and no idea what she should do.
Should she go to the train station? Or try the ticket office first?
Breathing heavily, she hauled the suitcase out of the room and managed to drag it down the stairs. A memory flashed in her mind: she and Kostya, new kids stepping over the threshold of the dormitory for the first time, the stairs, the suitcase . . .
As usual, the concierge’s desk was deserted. Sasha put the room key on the hook for number 21.
It was snowing again. Sasha walked along the narrow alley to Sacco and Vanzetti and looked for a cab.
There were no cabs. There never were when she needed one. Sasha would have to walk along the snowy streets, hauling the suitcase behind her, until she reached the town’s center, and then she’d have to wait for the bus. Oh well, she had enough time.
“Alexandra!”
She recognized the voice and froze on the spot.
“Sasha, I’ve been waiting for you.”
She refused to turn around. She simply stood clutching the handle of her suitcase. Then the suitcase was taken out of her hands.
“I’m waiting to give you a ride to the train station in my car. Shall we?”
“I won’t get in your car,” Sasha said, feeling how her eyes, which had been dry for so long, filled with tears. “Please go away.”
Snow fell slowly. The streetlight glowed.
“You and I need to settle a bit of a debt,” Kozhennikov said, his voice completely different, businesslike. “Coins.”
Sasha remembered leaving the bag of coins in the dorm, in her room, under the mattress.
“They are in my room.”
“Go get them.”
She finally looked at him. Snowflakes reflected in his dark glasses.
“One minute.”
She ran back to the dorm, tore the key off the hook, went upstairs, found the bag of coins, and locked the room. She went back outside; Kozhennikov was waiting for her, her suitcase placed on the ground.
“Here.”
He weighted the bag in his hand:
“Thirty-seven . . . Your inner life is in quite a turmoil, Alexandra.”
She held her tongue and did not respond.
“Sasha, I can get you a ticket, even if there are none at the ticket office. And I will bring you right to the train station.”
“I don’t need your help. Good-bye.”
She walked down the street, not looking back, pulling the suitcase behind her. It was getting heavier and heavier, struggling to turn over, its wheels catching on the pavement. A car followed Sasha, not falling behind and not getting ahead; she did not look to see if it was Farit’s. She only heard the soft sound of an automobile crawling over the snow.
Breathing heavily, she finally detected the lights of the central square ahead of her. The bus was coming in half an hour, and a pretty large crowd was assembled at the stop. Kozhennikov’s car, a milky-white Nissan, stopped nearby.
Sasha purchased a bus ticket and took her place in the queue. The snow stopped. The wind chased away the clouds and pulled the remaining heat from under Sasha’s jacket.
The bus was running late. When it finally arrived, small and slow, it became obvious that not everyone was going to get on. Bickering followed. The driver promised to return quickly and do one more round-trip.
Sasha was chilled to the bone. It was the Old New Year’s Eve. Stars broke out in the sky. Kozhennikov stood next to his car. He did not leave. He waited, his hands stuck in his pockets, and stared up into the sky.
The second time the bus arrived shortly after ten. Gasping for breath, Sasha managed to drag her suitcase into the narrow entrance and placed it next to someone’s bundle; this time, she got yelled at—apparently, she’d stepped on someone’s foot. Trying not to pay any attention, she folded herself into the space next to her suitcase and sighed with relief once the lights of Torpa started creeping backward. She had more than an hour until the arrival of the train, she was going to be fine. It was unthinkable that the ticket office would not have one single lousy ticket . . .
The bus skidded and got stuck in the snow. All the passengers, except for the frailest old ladies, had to come get out and push it; the engine roared, dense smoke poured out of the exhaust pipe, snow flew from under the wheels. Sasha’s toes felt frostbitten; at first she was anxious, then angry, then she stopped caring.
The bus reached the station four minutes before the train was scheduled to arrive. Those with tickets sprinted to the platform. Sasha dashed to the ticket office; the window was closed and a sign indicated no tickets.
Sasha sat down on a wooden bench. Again she thought of the morning she’d spent there with Kostya, the sandwiches, the note that read “Leave now . . .”
Kozhennikov walked into the station. He stopped at the locked ticket window. Sasha did not look up.
She heard the train arrive, but did not even attempt to get up. People scurried around. The breaks screeched; then screeched again, the train started gaining speed, whistled—and was gone.
Kozhennikov came over and sat down next to her.
“Listen, I respect your choice . . . but in half an hour, the train stops at Galcy, fifteen minutes away by car. May I take you there?”
Sasha turned her head.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to help you. I am responsible for you.”
“And are you responsible for Kostya? For . . . all this? Who do you answer to?”
“I surely will answer to someone,” he said seriously. “Let’s go.”
He picked up her suitcase.
She was too tired and too chilly to resist. He put her suitcase in the back of the white car and opened the door. Sasha walked into the warmth; the door shut with a smacking sound.
Kozhennikov sat next to her, removed his gloves, and took out a thermos.
“Here, drink this. It’s tea with cognac.”
A freight train roared by. Sasha took a sip and burned her lips. She caught her breath and took another sip.
“Take my business card. Just in case.”
He placed a business card in her lap, a white rectangle with a telephone number, but no name.
“Use your seat belt.”
The car got onto the highway and immediately gained speed: Sasha threw a sideways glance and saw the speedometer arrow vacillate at eighty miles per hour. Kozhennikov stared at the road; forest trees sped along both sides of the highway. The long rays of his headlights jumped, dove, and flew up on uneven road.
She pocketed his business card.
“Are you human?”
“Let’s agree on the terminology. What is a human? A two-legged creature without feathers . . .”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not joking.”
Sasha fell silent.
“Listen, Sasha. I’m very thankful to you for what you have done for my son. You pulled him out by his ears—saved him—from some very unpleasant things. You are a brave soul, my girl.”
“You are telling me this? You?”
He kept his eyes on the road. Ten
minutes later they reached a tiny station, flanked by woods on all three sides. Fifteen minutes later, the train arrived; Kozhennikov had a short exchange with the train attendant, slipped something into her palm, and nodded to Sasha.
“Have a good trip.”
He lifted her suitcase onto the train.
The train carriage turned out to be split into compartments. Silently, the attendant showed Sasha the top berth in the staff compartment. Sasha hopped in there as she was, in jeans and a sweater, and when she woke up, snow sparkled outside in the sun, and it was almost eleven in the morning.
The train arrived on time. On the platform Sasha saw Mom and Valentin, who searched for her, looking nervous. A few moments later, Mom clutched her, held her tight, then stepped back a little:
“Wow! What happened to you?”
“What?” Sasha was startled.
“You seem taller . . . You’ve grown, a couple of inches at least!”
They grabbed a cab and took their student home in style. Mom chatted and laughed, and everyone around her was told that Sasha got straight A’s on all her winter finals. The cabdriver learned about it, and the neighbors they saw in the elevator learned about it, and all Mom’s girlfriends who called that day were given that information immediately. Sasha thought that Mom had changed as well: she seemed more cheerful, more relaxed, happier . . . less intelligent? She chased away that thought.
Mom’s hand had healed, and the cast had been removed. The apartment smelled different—the smell of Valentin, who’d settled in a while ago, was mixed with the familiar atmosphere. Now it was his apartment, too, thought Sasha with a hint of sadness.
Her room had not changed. Same rugs, same books on the shelves. A new calendar on the wall, its pictures showing snow falling on forest trees, January . . . Sasha had a tough time convincing herself that it was actually her room, her apartment, her bathroom, and there was no need to wait in line for the shower, and no need to bring toilet paper: there was plenty of it in the bathroom, lemon-colored, the embodiment of comfort.
Was it truly just yesterday that they had stood in the empty hall under the belly of a bronze stallion—she, Kostya, Lisa, Denis?