Vita Nostra

by Sergey

  Sasha had felt sorry for herself. Then she had discovered—and had not been surprised by her discovery—that she no longer knew how to cry.

  “Introduction to Applied Science will be taught for two semesters. We shall have a test in the winter, then in the summer there will be another one. During the third year you should expect a full semester of hands-on projects, followed by a placement exam. This is serious stuff, my dear children. Experience shows that students who excel equally in Specialty and in the Introduction to Applied Science pass the placement exam easily. This means that from now on you must share your efforts between two major subjects: mine and Oleg Borisovich Portnov’s. While you have worked with Oleg Borisovich for a year, you do not yet know me . . .”

  The hunchback smiled.

  He stood in front of the class, almost hitting the ceiling with his head. If he stood up straight, he’d definitely reach it. Nikolay Valerievich wore a black old-fashioned suit. Every now and then he moved his shoulders as if his curved back bothered him.

  “We shall study on an individual basis. Perhaps later we will break into smaller subgroups, three, four people in each, but first I have to figure out the professional abilities of each student. At this point there is only one person here whose future is more or less obvious . . .”

  “And that person is Samokhina,” Lisa suggested.

  Nikolay Valerievich raised his eyebrows. “My dear girl, didn’t Oleg Borisovich teach you to be quiet when a professor is speaking?”

  Lisa reddened, but did not look away.

  “Yes,” Valerievich said, “this person is Alexandra Samokhina. She has very vivid professional abilities that became evident during the first year, and Alexandra will have a customized program. That does not, however, mean that any of you will be left unattended.” He smiled genially at the class.

  Apparently, unlike Portnov, not all of the professors here had manners worthy of the Spanish Inquisition. The hunchback seemed kind enough. Second years exchanged hopeful looks; some even seemed to think that they might be able to goof off just a little bit.

  Sasha had no such illusions.

  The hunchback made his own schedule of the individual sessions, not trusting this task to anyone else. Sasha was the last one on his list; she had time to go to the library and experiment with the new set of exercises.

  The first glance did not deceive her: the new exercises were similar to the old ones, but were substantially more complex. Multilevel transformation of entities, infinitely abstract, that sometimes formed a circle, sometimes compressed to a single point, but always seemed ready at any moment to break through and rip apart the fabric of visualized reality; if these were somebody else’s thoughts, they were so decidedly inhuman that Sasha was simply scared to imagine a brain naturally capable of producing these chimeras. At the same time—Sasha already knew enough to see this—these exercises were astonishingly beautiful in their harmony.

  She remembered her session with the hunchback a minute before her scheduled time slot.

  Auditorium 14 was located on the fourth floor; it was squeaky and echoed. Sasha ran down the corridor, made an effort to calm her breathing, and knocked on the door.

  “Hello, Sasha. Sit down, let’s chat.”

  The auditorium was furnished with desks, just like a classroom. Sasha chose the one near the window. Below her—all she had to do was to reach out her hand—a green sea of linden trees rustled softly.

  “The first year has gone by.” The hunchback sat across from her at the teacher’s table. His ash-blond hair, long and straight, framed his face in two falling curtains. A sharp chin lay on a high white collar. He is so antiquated, Sasha thought.

  “Sasha,” the hunchback said pensively. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a very different, a very special person? Someone who has an extraordinary and very important mission?”

  “No,” Sasha said quickly.

  The hunchback smiled.

  “And it’s for the best. We don’t need any superiority complexes. However, Alexandra Samokhina, this is your time. You are not only our best student, you are also a rare talent and, let’s admit it, a rare gift. You have a magnificent future ahead of you. And what does that mean?”

  Confused, Sasha did not respond.

  “First and foremost, that means that your present is one of daily hard labor, like that of a slave, without idleness, fear, or doubt. The preparatory work that you have done during your first year is nothing compared to what you—we—will have to learn, grasp, and master. Today, right now, we begin to prepare for the placement exam that awaits you in the winter of your third year.”

  She listened, leaning over a small desk. The hunchback spoke with a slight smile on his face, but he was not joking, oh no, Sasha knew perfectly well that he was serious.

  Linden trees swayed outside. Sasha’s left cheek felt the warm wind tasting vaguely of autumn.

  “Sasha, do you consider yourself a corporeal entity?”

  The question was posed in such an indulgent, casual manner that Sasha involuntarily blinked.

  “Aren’t I?”

  The hunchback smiled. In front of him on the teacher’s desk lay a thin attendance journal and a portable CD player.

  “Yes.” Nikolay Valerievich nodded. “At this stage you are quite a bit more physical than I would have liked. We have three semesters to fight this, three semesters during which you will continue destroying your material constituent and building up your informational element. Your conceptual aspect. Your ideal, if you prefer, although in this case this definition is not precise. And we will fight for precise definitions, Sasha, this is going to be very important to us—the accuracy of our definitions. Did you have a question?”

  Portnov never allowed the luxury of questions. Sasha looked away for a moment and watched the linden trees outside the window. On the first day of September they looked green, like in the middle of the summer.

  She could ask what they should expect at the placement exam in a year and a half. Or, what sort of professional abilities she has demonstrated, and what she would be doing for a living. She could have asked a hundred questions that Portnov refused to answer and that puzzled all her classmates. But all she asked was:

  “Do you happen to know—back then, during winter break—if I killed anyone?”

  The hunchback did not seem surprised.

  “No. And by the way, this episode is quite typical. That was the first time in your life when your informational constituent jeopardized the material aspect. Unfortunately, the manner in which it happened was impossible to control, spontaneous and very dangerous. Did you suffer?”

  Sasha looked away.

  “I see. If you think that you’re being trained to become a monstrous killer, you are mistaken.”

  “What am I being trained to become?” The words escaped, surprising her.

  The hunchback moved his shoulders, as if stretching his aching back.

  “Too early, my girl. It’s too soon for you to know. Right now you are still a slave of a framework, a plaster mold with a hint of imagination. With memory, with a personality . . . Yes. I am going to lend you this thing.” His hand, with very long, pale fingers, touched the CD player. “If you wish, you can also use it to listen to music. You are allowed. But this disc”—a paper envelope was placed on the table—“this disc I’m giving you to work on. Please take care of it. You are a second-year student—you know how important certain objects are.

  “And one more thing: before we begin working together, I want to discuss a rather delicate matter. Sasha, it is highly desirable for you to part with your virginity. It is becoming a serious impediment in your development.”

  Sasha blushed so fiercely that her cheeks ached.

  “What . . . What difference does it make?”

  “Everything makes a difference. You will be changing not only from inside, but . . . you will undergo all sorts of changes. Your sensual experience makes a difference, your hormonal status . . . as well as
physiological aspects. Informational balance of your organism. I appreciate your serious attitude toward life, your restraint. Your virtue. But work is work. I’m not saying today or tomorrow. You have time. But start thinking in this direction. Agreed? Good.

  “Let’s begin.”

  The swallows hadn’t left yet. They circled over the yard, perhaps for the last time. Their young flew around in small clusters.

  Sasha estimated the distance to the dorm—across the yard. Every day it was different. Occasionally she managed it in only two steps (a sensation of falling and wind in her ears). And sometimes it took her a few hours, as if she had to cross a desert. Her bag pulled on her shoulder, and Sasha kept walking toward the entrance, which kept moving away, becoming more and more distant.

  She fixed the strap on her shoulder and balanced on her spot, catching her equilibrium. She took the first step; the swallows swept past her face, nearly trimming her eyebrows with the sharp points of their wings.

  Here’s a tree. And here’s the bench. And the porch. Sasha placed her foot on the lower step, held it there to make sure that the porch did not slide out of reach. That’s it. She’d made it. Every time it got easier; perhaps Portnov was right, and soon she would again be normal . . . or, rather, return “to the state that is deemed normal at this point.”

  The key from room 21, which Sasha had had at her complete disposal the entire spring and summer, was missing from the board. As usual, Sasha fumbled for the door frame leading to the staircase. She turned her head—and met the eyes of a new first-year student.

  Short hair, very pale skin. Blond, dark eyes. He stared at her with a terrified expression on his face. Sasha smiled, trying to comfort him.

  “Hey. Welcome!”

  “Hey. What happened to you?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  The boy licked his lips.

  “Nothing. So, I’m gonna go, all right?”

  “My name is Sasha,” Sasha said, surprising herself.

  “I’m Yegor.”

  “Good luck, Yegor,” Sasha wished him.

  Carefully probing each step, she traveled up the stairs.

  Her roommates had already returned from their classes. Sasha entered without knocking; suitcases stood open on the floor. One roommate, Vika, her hair dark and curly, was hanging up her clothes. The other one, Lena, plump and white like a cinnamon bun, sat on her bed with an expression of utter despair on her round, blue-eyed, almost doll-like face. Next to her on the bed lay the Textual Module with the number “1” on its cover.

  Sasha sniffed the air.

  “Were you smoking? Fair warning, girls: if I catch you smoking in this room, I’ll throw you out the window, along with the cigarette. We have bathrooms—smoke there.”

  Vika did not reply. Lena hunched over on her bed, hugging her shoulders with plump arms. Sasha stepped over to her desk and lifted the bag, meaning to take out the CD player. But the pattern of scratches on the desktop reminded her of something. Immediately, involuntarily, one of last year’s mental exercises rotated in her head; when Sasha finally placed the player on the desk, it was much darker outside, and something in the room had changed.

  She turned her head. Her new roommates stood side by side and stared at her with terror.

  “It happens,” Sasha said. “I was just thinking of something. Don’t mind me.”

  “Sasha,” Lena murmured through her tears. “Tell us, please, what will happen to us? Are we going to be just like you?”

  Sasha smirked.

  “It’s not that scary. Just survive the first semester. Work as hard as you can. It’s for your own benefit.”

  She used the first years as a mirror. She saw her own reflection in their eyes: broken, twisted, and fully submerged into herself. Occasionally freezing mid-action. With an intense, terrifying stare. They watched her, unable to hide their fear—and sometimes their revulsion.

  Sasha did not feel offended. These kids were going through tough times: threats and blackmail drove them to Torpa, where they were handed a backbreaking academic load. Finally, they were surrounded by freaks: sick, crippled, and even insane.

  Of course, they tried to handle the situation and pretended nothing strange was happening. Somebody brought a guitar, somebody had a stereo system. The dorm hummed, and the students drank and had fun; strangely enough, some of the third years joined the parties. Leaving her room with a towel thrown over her shoulder, Sasha saw Zakhar, Kostya’s roommate, making out with one of the new girls. The lightbulb went out, or perhaps somebody broke it on purpose; laughter, whispering, the sound of footsteps—the girl escaped to the kitchen, Zakhar followed her, and Sasha shuffled to the showers.

  The water was really hot, just like at home, and Sasha felt partly recuperated. She rubbed herself with a towel and wrapped it around her hair in a turban. The first day of classes had passed: she had tons of homework, and tomorrow she had an individual session with Nikolay Valerievich Sterkh, and she had to show him what she’d learned for the first time.

  The very thought of the player with the CD inserted into it gave Sasha the chills even in the hot steamy shower room. She put on her bathrobe, secured the towel on her head, and shuffled back into her room—it was getting late, and her work was not going to get done all by itself.

  Her roommates had disappeared somewhere, probably to cry into someone else’s beer, thought Sasha. She dried her hair, lay down on top of the comforter, placed the CD player on her stomach, and thought back.

  During today’s lesson Nikolay Valerievich had put headphones on her head and switched on the player. And Sasha—for the first time—heard that.

  The CD contained silence. Deep, dense, devouring everything in its sight. Trying to devour Sasha as well; Sasha had panicked and struggled, like a fly on a strip of flypaper, using all her strength to stay on the edge, terrified to fall into this soft all-encompassing nothing, resisting this grave alien silence.

  Nikolay Valerievich had been talking—she’d seen his lips move. She hadn’t been able to hear the birds outside the window, the rustling of the trees, the distant steps in the corridor—everything had been flooded over by a cement-like silence.

  The first track on the CD had lasted ten and a half minutes. Sasha had been bathed in sweat as if after a long run. Her blouse had stuck to her skin.

  “Sasha, that is not the right way to do it,” the hunchback had said gently, removing her headphones. “You should not resist. You must let it in and let it flow through you. Slowly, not all at once. Without that first step we cannot take another one, nor the third. And we have thousands of steps ahead of us. Here we just lost an entire session, the exam became one day closer, and who knows, perhaps that very day is what you will lack to be fully prepared?”

  “What should I do?” Sasha had asked.

  “Work on the first track. Play it on repeat. Your goal is to make peace with what you are listening to, and for this you will need to cross a certain line within yourself. A line of commonness. It may be difficult. But you must try. You cannot learn how to swim without getting into the water. Tomorrow I shall wait for your first results. I have a great deal of trust in you, Sasha. I’m waiting.”

  Thus spoke Nikolay Valerievich and he had let Sasha go. She had left with the CD player in her bag and a feeling of anxiety in her heart, and here it was, time to work on the first track, but Sasha could not force herself—she could hardly switch on the player.

  The dormitory was full of noise. Guitars strummed, stereo systems roared, people laughed, shouted, broke dishes. Sasha held her breath—and pressed the round Play button.

  Silence came and stuffed Sasha’s ears. It came very close, and was deafening, all-encompassing, ready to pull Sasha inside itself, to envelop and digest. It was revolting and terrifying. Twisting out of its grasp, Sasha tore the headphones off; the drunken voices singing heart-wrenchingly and off-key behind the wall now sounded to her like a choir of angels.

  She made another effort—right before her ind
ividual session, when she had no way out. Sitting in the half-empty reading room, she turned on the player and became almost physically aware of the transition from silence—into Silence. Into the sucking Silentium.

  She probably could have entered an autopsy room. She could pick up any revolting critter. She may have been able to stroll along the school corridors naked if it had been required to pass an exam.

  Yet she could not and did not wish to “let in” whatever was recorded on the disc. She used all the forces to resist it, to build a defensive wall between herself and the Silence. The track ended. Sasha dropped the player into her bag and shuffled up to the fourth floor, to the sunny auditorium 14.

  “Good afternoon, Sasha, glad to see you . . . What happened? Did you listen to the first track?”

  “Twice,” Sasha mumbled.

  “Twice? That’s not quite enough . . . Let’s check. Put on the headphones.”

  Sterkh hitched up his sleeve, extricating a small mirror on a leather strap. A sunbeam danced on the mother-of-pearl surface, disintegrating into a rainbow, and then reassembling, its white flashes biting into Sasha’s eyes.

  “We’re listening to track number one, take a deep breath . . . No, Sasha, no, what are you doing? Let’s start again from the very beginning, but this time you will absorb the new material rather than reject it, agree?”

  Sasha stared down, at the dark-brown wooden floor, striped with gaps between the long, painted planks.

  “Sasha.” The hunchback hesitated, as if considering something. “Sit down, let’s chat.”

  She sat behind a table that resembled the desks she’d had in high school.