by Sergey
Was it truly Farit who gave her a ride to the train last night? “I am very thankful to you . . .”
Was all that happened to her . . . for real?
Sasha lay down on her bed. That sensation—of a familiar hard bed rather than an orphanage-style steel-mesh bed—assured her that she was truly home.
That night they had a big party. A custom-made cake was delivered from a bakery. Mom’s friends congratulated her; Valentin, who had gained a bit of weight in six months of his new family life, labored in the kitchen, eliciting praises from the gathered women.
Sasha smiled, nodded, and spoke occasionally. Even so, the guests glanced at her, at first curious, then surprised, and finally uneasy. For some reason, Mom looked nervous. Sasha apologized and went into her room, lay down, fell asleep, and did not hear the guests depart.
“Sasha, do you feel well?” Mom asked the next morning.
“Sure. Why?”
“You’ve got this stupid new habit—you freeze mid-word and stare into space. What’s all this about?”
“I don’t know,” Sasha said sincerely. “Maybe I just pause to think of something before I speak?”
Mom sighed.
Sasha really had grown two inches in the last four months. The notches on the door frame did not allow for mistake: Sasha had stopped growing in ninth grade at a normal human height: five feet five inches. And now she was five feet seven inches. Mom was surprised and happy about it.
“Do you have some special physical education classes there?”
“Oh yes, we have such a cool gym teacher!”
Mom wanted to know everything about the institute: living conditions in the dorm, what she was eating, about all the teachers. Sasha mostly stuck to the truth, carefully filtering everything Mom was better off not knowing, though. Dima Dimych presented some excellent topics for discussion: his kindness, his youth, and his dancing skills.
“I suppose all the girls have a crush on him?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” Sasha blushed, remaining perfectly calm inside. Her intuition suggested that at this moment blushing would be appropriate.
Another excellent conversation topic was provided by the History and Philosophy professors. Sasha boasted about the homemaking skills of her roommate, talked about winterizing the windows and making their room nice and warm. Central heat? There were some interruptions, but only short ones. Alcohol? Are you kidding, Mom, they watch us like crazy in that dorm, the superintendent checks all the rooms all the time . . .
“So what about the transfer?” Valentin interrupted her at some point.
“What transfer?”
“You wanted to transfer out of Torpa. Remember?”
“Yeah.” Sasha was caught off guard. “But frankly speaking, it’s a good school, the teachers are excellent, and the kids are great. Maybe I should stay put.”
Mom and Valentin exchanged glances.
“Sasha, just think for a minute,” Mom said carefully. “Imagine you are trying to get a job. You will immediately be asked: What school did you graduate from? And you will have to tell them that you have a diploma from a completely unknown provincial school in a teeny town no one has ever heard of . . .”
“I’ll think about it,” Sasha said quickly. “But if I transfer, I shouldn’t do it right after the first semester, don’t you think?”
“But we should start planning in advance,” Valentin stated with a great deal of authority.
Sasha nodded, trying to wrap up that conversation as soon as possible.
A few days later she realized she missed the institute.
It was impossible, but nevertheless it was true. Sasha missed the dorm and her classmates. Individual sessions on Specialty, paragraphs and exercises, the familiar strain and tiny achievements, the ordinary labor of anyone who desires to learn—all this turned out to be the point of Sasha’s existence. Here, at home, in warm comfort, life had no meaning. Whether you woke up at ten in the morning or at noon, whether you watched television, went for a walk in the park, or went to the theater or attended a concert—none of it mattered; there was no point, a day was lived in vain, then one more day, and then a week. Sasha felt blue, stared at the ceiling, slowly but surely sinking into a real depression.
“Sasha, what are you doing stuck at home? Go for a walk. Call somebody. What are your former classmates doing? Who is studying where? Don’t you care?”
But she really didn’t.
A week before the end of her vacation Sasha went to the park. The very same park she’d measured with her steps so many times, dotted with familiar overgrown bushes. This winter the park had undergone a metamorphosis: a skating rink was built, the trees were decorated with lights and garlands, and skates could now be rented at a shack that stood nearby, unused, for many years.
Sasha hadn’t skated since seventh grade, but now something drew her to the rink. She stepped on the ice and moved forward, spreading her arms, ready to be clumsy and slow. Not even close: only a second later, she accepted the dull blades of rented skates as a continuation of her own body, and the uneven, dented ice seemed familiar and comfortable.
She went around in a full circle. Ceased to think and simply moved. She flew, imagining the surface of the ice as the snowed-in ground far below. Lights flickered in naked branches, multihued snow shimmered. Sasha skated, oblivious to her surroundings, a little surprised, but joyful; a couple of hours passed before she got tired and looked around for a bench.
They were sitting at the edge of the ice. A rather large cluster: four guys and as many girls, and in its epicenter reigned Ivan Konev, a law student now, owner of a soft curly beard.
“Hey, Kon.”
“Hey, Sasha. Decent skating. Guys, move over.”
Sasha joined the group.
All of them went to the most prestigious schools, except maybe one girl, somebody’s sister, who was still a high-school student. But even she, of course, was looking forward to something economics-international-ish with a concentration in law. They had plenty of questions for Sasha, all with a hint of sympathy: What’s there to do in Torpa? Do they sell pickles at the stores there? Are there bedbugs in the dorm?
“Only cockroaches,” Sasha assured them.
“Ivan! It sounds fabulous! Maybe you should transfer to Torpa.”
The girl who asked the question was a daddy’s girl in an expensive-looking pale pink sheepskin coat. She had trouble understanding why they were wasting time at some stupid ice-skating rink, when normal people were enjoying themselves in decent clubs. Sasha seemed to aggravate her to no end: the girl must have some interest in Ivan Konev. Her cell phone kept ringing ostentatiously.
“I just might transfer there,” Konev said. “Why not?”
Sasha changed her shoes and returned the skates to the rental office.
“You’ve grown,” Ivan said, giving her a once-over. “I wasn’t imagining it.”
All of them went to a café, had a few beers, and Sasha felt unexpectedly relaxed. She even managed to crack two or three jokes that made everyone laugh uproariously, even the girl with the cell phone. It was already almost midnight when the group dissipated; most people got into cabs, and Ivan Konev walked Sasha home by himself.
“Listen, Samokhina, you have changed so much.”
“How? I’d like to know myself, really.”
“Well.” Ivan spread his arms. “I look at you, and it seems as if we’ve never met. And I’ve known you since first grade . . .”
“Yes,” Sasha said. “But they say it does happen. People mature, you know.”
“Maybe I really should transfer to Torpa . . .”
Sasha bit back her response.
“Your face has changed,” Konev continued. “Your eyes are strange. Your pupils . . . Listen, do you—are you on drugs?”
“No,” Sasha said with surprise. “Of course not.”
“What is your profession called?”
“That will be decided during the third year,” Sasha said after a pau
se. “Transferring to the next level . . . Specialization.”
“I see,” Konev said, and it was abundantly clear that he saw nothing. “Just one more thing. When you stare at something in the distance, what do you see?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, like right now. I thought you’d forgotten about me . . .”
“I did?”
“Listen, are you seeing anyone in Torpa?”
Sasha slowed down. “No. There was this one guy, but . . . anyway, not anymore.”
“I see,” Konev repeated. “But seriously, you are going to transfer, right? To a normal school, and closer to home?”
“Seriously? No.”
They stopped in the dark yard of Sasha’s building. The windows were lit, a lone streetlight emitted a dull shine, and a man in a fur hat strode down the path from the underground walkway, a briefcase under his arm. Probably working late.
“I am leaving in a week,” Sasha whispered.
“It’s a shame. At least give me your address.”
“Town of Torpa, Sacco and Vanzetti Street, 12, room 21, Alexandra Samokhina. Write, if you . . .”
Three figures emerged out of the darkness behind the passerby. The man with a briefcase didn’t have a chance to even look back: he received a blow on the head and fell down. His hat rolled away and was immediately snatched up.
Ivan grabbed Sasha’s hand. Three people, having brought down the fourth, did not rush to scurry away with their loot: they just kicked the fallen man, punched him in the stomach, in the face, stomped over him . . .
She felt as if a glass had cracked and burst into shards. As if the shards flew into her face. Sasha tore away from Konev’s spasmodic embrace.
“Hold it! Freeze, you bastards!”
She remembered Portnov’s caution, but could do absolutely nothing about it. Her hatred toward the thugs beating up a helpless victim was far stronger than any warning.
They dropped their victim and turned to face her. They seemed surprised to see a girl running toward them; one even stretched his lips in a smirk . . .
A thin rivulet of blood spattered onto the white snow that sparkled blue under the glow of distant streetlights. And immediately—a stream, a fountain. Stars were smeared before her eyes in the ripped fabric of storm clouds; a sudden chill cut her like sandpaper. Sasha found herself sitting in a snow pile, three people lying unmoving near her, the fourth crawling away, wheezing, toward the main road.
Her hands hurt. Her palms. Sasha looked down: both index fingers were covered in a sticky film of blood, like a dark latex glove.
She glanced around, looking for someone, but all around her was stillness, darkness. A car drove by without stopping.
Sasha dipped her hands into the snow.
There was a telephone booth in the underground walkway. A call for an ambulance was free. Just dial 003.
In the morning, getting ready for work, Mom was slicing bread and singing softly. Sasha came out of her room, and words fought to get out of her, rising up her throat.
“Mom,” she wanted to say, “don’t let me go back to Torpa. I can’t go back. They are doing something with me, I don’t know what. I can’t go back, I am scared!” But she said nothing.
“Good morning, Sasha.” Mom smiled and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Would you like an omelet? With sausage?”
Sasha saw her face, tenderly lit by the morning sun. Mom was alive, healthy, and happy. Sasha could hear the sound of water—Valentin was in the shower.
“Mm-hmm.” Sasha nodded, her lips squeezed tightly together.
She went back to her room and closed the door. She fell on her knees and threw up: unspoken words rolled around the room, gold coins smeared in slime.
“Miss! Get up!”
“What?”
Darkness. The train rocked softly.
“Miss, we will be in Torpa in fifteen minutes! Get up, you have a ticket to Torpa!”
Passengers slept under dusty, railroad-issued blankets. Windows were sweaty and frosted over in some places. Snow, nothing but snow, swam along both sides of the train. Somewhere a spoon jingled in an empty glass.
“I want it to be a dream,” Sasha murmured.
But nothing happened.
Part Two
At the end of April the prolonged chilly spring suddenly gave way to almost summery warmth. One morning at half past four Sasha woke up with an unyielding need to wash the windows.
Birds were waking up and night clouds parted. Sasha sat up in her bed. Since the third years had passed their placement exam and moved to a different location, the dorm had become more spacious. Lisa had finally found an apartment and now lived in town, in an alley between Sacco and Vanzetti and Labor Streets. Oksana now shared a room with a friend of hers from Group B, and Sasha—what an unexpected luxury—now had the entire room 21 at her disposal.
She felt about for her slippers. She registered: “These are slippers. They protect me from cold floors.” She got up, then stood for a while, establishing the ever-changing gravitational vector. Approached the window.
For the past few weeks she’d felt like painting her image on the glass. She painted at night when the light was on inside, and it was dark outside. Sasha traced her reflection with gouache paints. Every day the painting looked different. The morning light tried to get through in vain: the gouache was opaque and lay in a thick, dense layer.
Must get water, Sasha thought. Windows are washed with water.
She moved to the door. The door frames had a lousy habit of slithering out of her reach like a marinated mushroom escaping the fork. That’s why Sasha first felt for the door with her hands, found the obstacles on the right and left sides, and only then exited the room.
The linoleum floor shone dully. A distant window was reflected on the painted wall. So beautiful, Sasha thought.
She walked along the corridor, trailing her hand on the wall just in case.
The tin bucket stood in its usual spot under the sink. Sasha filled a one-gallon jar with water and transferred it to the bucket. One more jar. And one more. Three gallons of water. She picked up the bucket by its narrow handle and carried it to her room.
In her absence the door had managed to shift a couple of feet. Sasha bumped into the door frame and splashed a little bit of water. It is fine. Now I will be able to enter.
She found strips of old pillowcases that served as cleaning rags behind the radiator. The heat had been turned off two weeks ago. Sasha tore off the paper strips, pulled out the yellow foam, wet one of the rags, and, dripping water on the floor, guided it over the painted image: up and down and left to right. For some reason, her painted reflection had blue eyes.
Eyes. Must see. Lately she could think only of things that could be seen through her eyes. Lines in textbooks could be viewed: Sasha read, trying not to move her lips, and the pages changed colors under her glance. Redness inched slowly from the book’s spine, filling the page with cranberry juice, and then the page faded, became yellow, and then an emerald color. When she read, Sasha stopped thinking altogether.
The paint was becoming blurry. Sasha moved her hand from side to side, every now and then dipping the rag into the bucket, but she did not squeeze it dry; her body felt relaxed, blurry like the picture on the window. As if she, Sasha, were but a puddle of hot wax. The space around her contracted and stretched, time broke off the hands on her watch and got tangled up in the bowels of the electronic alarm clock. Time served no master and answered no one. It was just half past four—and then here it was, eight o’clock, time to get ready for school.
Sasha dropped the rag into the bucket. She glanced at the sky through the still cloudy glass. She opened the window: outside the air was cool and smelled of lilacs.
“Get ready for school.”
She moved her eyes to the slightly ajar door of her wardrobe. Wardrobe is for clothes. Put on clothes. Get books. Notepads. Time for classes. First block is Philosophy.
She would move in a crowd of fi
rst years, greeting them, nodding, occasionally even smiling. These are people. Must speak with them. She would take her usual seat and open her notes. She would listen to a succession of unfamiliar words, her face static, unmoving; she would laugh when everyone else laughed. She would take notes, write down word after word.
She would always try to be the last one to exit the room—in order to let others hold the door open. Slowly. Gradually. The second block was free—no class. It was time to read the textbook.
Holding on to the wall, she would go to the library. Greeting the librarian’s chair, she would sit by the window and open the Textual Module in the spot where, instead of a bookmark, lay a birthday card from Mom. The card depicted a sheep with a bouquet of bluebells.
She’d picked this card on purpose. Common sense told her that her birthday was important for her mother. She’d called home and, while speaking, held the card in front of her eyes. Only Mom’s voice remained now: Sasha could not see her and could not imagine her, so she’d spoken to the sheep. The sheep had smiled; Sasha knew she was supposed to feel happy, and she’d smiled back.
Since that day, the card reminded her of something she could not imagine. This is a sheep; the sheep is happy. It was my birthday. I am eighteen years old. I must read paragraphs seventeen and eighteen.
“He did not sleep all night. He had plucked the flower because he saw in this action a deed he was in duty bound to perform.”*
Nonsensical combinations of letters stretched like caterpillars, grabbing onto one another with tin hooks. The process resembled swimming in muddy waters: Sasha would see nothing and hear only the screeching of her own ground-up thoughts. Then suddenly she would swim up to the surface, and in front of her—just for a moment—opened distant flashes of meaning.
“At the very first glance through the glass door the bloodred petals had attracted his attention, and it seemed to him that from this moment it was perfectly clear what in particular he was called upon to perform on earth.”