Vita Nostra

by Sergey

  Sasha had never seen her before. But at this moment she recognized her.

  Sasha made a cup of tea, dissolved a bouillon cube in a second mug of boiling water, carried everything back to room 21, sat at her dusty desk, and meditatively opened the yellow book—the Conceptual Activator. Page three, diagram number three. After the initial five minutes, Sasha could no longer tear her eyes away from the diagram.

  The yellow book printed on lousy paper was a key that joined many jigsaw pieces into one picture. It stitched together—with rough, jagged sutures—the difficult experience Sasha had endured during her time at the institute, and her own perception of the world that became so unsteady in the last couple of years.

  There are concepts that cannot be imagined but can be named. Having received a name, they change, flow into a different entity, and cease to correspond to the name, and then they can be given another, different name, and this process—the spellbinding process of creation—is infinite: this is the word that names it, and this is the word that signifies. A concept as an organism, and text as the universe.

  The fourth dimension “sewn” into the diagram wholly eliminated the concept of time. The result was word, and word was the original cause of any process; circles swam in front of Sasha’s eyes, the kind of slow bright dots that usually appeared if one bent down sharply or stood on one’s head. Sasha’s tea was now cold, the broth was covered with a film of fat, but none of that mattered.

  The diagram on page three lay before her like a crystal model of a termite nest. Each fulfilling its individual task, concepts shifted, exchanged impulses, built a hierarchy and destroyed it to erect a new one. Sasha held herself by the hair; the word “harmony” disintegrated into hues like a ray of sunshine and restructured itself—to perfection.

  “Holy cow!”

  She pushed her thumb along the fore edge of the book. The Activator did not seem very thick; it was similar to the format of an old literary catalog Mom used to bring Sasha a long time ago. Each page had a new diagram, new but linked to the previous and to the subsequent ones, one more cell in the never-ending honeycomb of Sasha’s comprehension. The colossal field that she saw for a second had no limit and no end.

  “So beautiful,” Sasha whispered.

  The words slashed her with their inaccuracy, platitude, vulgarity. She blinked—chance tears fell off her eyelashes—and attempted to say the same thing without resorting to ordinary words.

  A gust of wind shut the window. Sheets of paper covered with writing flew all over the room. Sasha shook her head as if falling out of nirvana. She wanted to close the book, but her hand trembled. Diagram number three, heart-wrenchingly perfect, pulled her back, demanded her attention—“it happened all by itself.” It comes, it drowns you, and it becomes impossible to stop . . .

  With a colossal effort she made herself close the Activator. Library dust flew up. Yet she wasn’t relieved, because it was not yet time to relax. She still had the Textual Module to finish.

  She finished her cold tea. Moved the Textual Module closer and opened to the first paragraph. She glanced at the page filled with nonsensical symbols. She closed her eyes in fear and anticipation.

  The tickle of expectation. Now it will begin. Now.

  And Sasha bit into the text.

  She was used to focusing her attention, used to daily hard labor, and it made a difference. Sasha swam, the senseless text parting before her, and she had a lucid sensation that the illumination of truth, the breakthrough, was just around the corner. Just a little bit more . . .

  Silently they passed a three-story building made out of pink bricks, and went up to the porch seated between two stone lions—their faces faded from frequent caresses, but the right one seemed melancholy, and the left one—ironic, even cheerful. The lions rigidly stared at Orion.

  “Hello,” said Kostya.

  Sasha looked up. Kostya Kozhennikov stood at the threshold, a slice of pizza in his hand.

  “Sorry,” Sasha said. “I need to finish the paragraph.”

  Kostya nodded. The next time Sasha tore her eyes away from the book, he was sitting across from her at the table, his pizza eaten by then. Kostya moved crumbs on the tabletop with his fingers, making patterns.

  “Sorry,” Sasha said. “I lost track of time.”

  “Yeah . . . everybody is working today. They are all like mice, noses buried in their books. Portnov yelled at Myaskovsky today for the exercises . . . What happened to you, anyway?”

  “I am growing as a concept.”

  “As a what?”

  “I am a concept. I’m not human. You are probably a concept as well. All of us are structured fragments of information. And it turns out, I like it. I like being a concept. I am growing.”

  Kostya flicked the crumbs off the table.

  “Yegor was asking about you.”

  “Who is that?”

  “The first year you were sleeping with.”

  “And what was he asking you about me?”

  “He wasn’t asking me, he asked Lisa.”

  “Next time he asks, have Lisa tell him that I’m no longer human. And that is why I cannot sleep with anyone any longer. Have you ever seen statistical theory making out with Newton’s first law of motion?”

  “Sasha,” Kostya said. “Listen. Just take care of yourself. You have it harder than all of us. I think . . .”

  “Not at all.” Sasha smiled and immediately became serious. “Myaskovsky, on the other hand . . . he needs our help.”

  “He’s got Popova as his advisor. It’s a little bit easier.”

  “It’s not easier, Kostya.”

  He stared across the table at her in surprise. “You say it so confidently . . .”

  “That’s because I know. I’m sorry, I really have to study. I have tons of homework.”

  Kostya got up, but then paused. “Actually, the reason I stopped by: I was told at the dean’s office that you are going to get an enhanced stipend. Since you are the best student, and all.”

  “Pavlenko will be overjoyed.”

  “Yeah.” Kostya smiled. “Sasha.”

  “What?”

  He looked at her for almost an entire minute, wanting to say something but never managing a single word. He shook his head as if asking for forgiveness, but only—finally—said, “No, nothing. I’m going, see you later.”

  He opened the door—and stood face-to-face with Farit Kozhennikov.

  Kostya retreated, or, rather, flew back as if from a blow to his chest.

  “Hello,” offered Kozhennikov senior, looking at Kostya at the threshold and Sasha in the middle of the room with great interest. “Did you have a fight?”

  Without saying a word or looking at his father, Kostya slipped past him into the corridor. Farit’s eyes followed him. He then closed the door.

  “I apologize for disturbing you.”

  The dark glasses, this time smoky opalescent, made Sasha’s advisor look like a thrill-seeking skier. He came over, tested a rickety chair, and sat down, folding the hem of his dark raincoat.

  “I don’t have that money,” Sasha said. “I threw it away. In the forest.”

  A stereo system was booming on the floor above them. A television set mumbled something behind the wall. A heavy-footed somebody ran along the corridor.

  “I jumped off the train,” Sasha said. “I wanted to run away. But I couldn’t, and . . . anyway, I don’t have the money.”

  “I’m not here for the money,” Kozhennikov said. “I don’t grow rich on you, as you can guess. The coins are only words that no one has said and no one ever will.”

  The light of the table lamp reflected in his glasses.

  Sasha wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Tears of rage and relief.

  “Forgive me,” she managed through clenched teeth.

  “No, I’m the one who needs forgiveness. I showed up and took your peace of mind.”

  “I haven’t had any peace of mind in a real long time. Today I saw Liliya Popo
va, and here’s what I know: there is no Liliya Popova. You are Liliya Popova.”

  Kozhennikov swayed on his chair—back and forth. The desiccated wood crackled.

  “Am I right?”

  “Of course you are.” Kozhennikov smiled. “You are right. But please do not share your observations with anyone else. Who I am . . . what I am—we can discuss later. When you mature.”

  “In case you’re wondering,” Sasha said very softly, “I don’t want to talk about you at all. I don’t even want to know who—no, what—you are.”

  “Fine.” Kozhennikov nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. “Agreed. Now get your things so we can go.”

  “Where?”

  “The institute is renting you an apartment. Just for the time you are enrolled. Here, on Sacco and Vanzetti, across from the school building. It’s an attic loft. Nice place.”

  “I don’t want to,” Sasha said rather awkwardly.

  “Really. Aren’t you sick of this cozy orphanage?”

  He waved his hand around the room: three beds, two of them empty, bare under the striped yellow mattresses, and Sasha’s bed, barely covered with a faded coverlet. A chair with peeling paint, and one more, with only three legs. An open suitcase. Littered tables. Crumpled papers in dusty corners. Sasha was struck with shame.

  “Well . . .”

  “Let’s not waste any time. The landlady is expecting us at half past seven, and it’s already seven o’clock. Do you have time after your classes to go back and forth with your suitcases? No? I didn’t think so. Hurry up.”

  “You were wrong about Kostya.”

  The starry sky was suspended over the town of Torpa. Orion rose above the roofs. A thin film of ice stretched over the sidewalk and the pavement, and even the branches of naked linden trees gleamed under the streetlights. Sasha walked side by side with Farit Kozhennikov, carrying two plastic bags. Kozhennikov pulled her suitcase, and when the little wheels kept sticking between the cobblestones, he picked up the suitcase and carried it.

  “Kostya was the only person who could help me. And you are making a mistake, thinking that he’s a weakling. He’s a very good, strong, honest person.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” Kozhennikov glanced at her sideways.

  “It’s my fault things turned out this way,” Sasha said. “It all happened because of a word. One single word.”

  “It happens. You and I better than anyone know the value of words, don’t we?”

  Sasha slipped on the ice. Kozhennikov supported her arm.

  “Be careful. It’s not far. We just need to cross the street.”

  It seemed to Sasha that the buildings on Sacco and Vanzetti had gotten closer, leaned over to her, almost touching the shingles on their roofs, leaving only a narrow path under her feet and a stripe of sky overhead.

  “May I do some of Denis’s work?”

  “What?”

  “If Denis does not make it, I’ll do some of his load. And you . . . you just leave him alone, please.”

  They passed the institute. Almost all of the windows were now dark—it was late. A street lantern was lit in front of the dark alley; two empty beer bottles were stuck, frozen, in a deep puddle.

  “Sasha, do you think I’m a sadist?”

  “I don’t think of you at all.”

  He laughed at that. “Yes, you do, I know that. Don’t feel too bad for Denis. He’s working hard—but only up to a certain limit. Sooner or later he needs to understand: if he doesn’t jump ‘above his head’—all is lost. The sooner he comes to that realization, the better.”

  “I . . .”

  “And you cannot help him. You helped Kostya because you loved him. And you still do.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true. Unfortunately, you silly puppies let your happiness slip through your fingers forever. And you shouldn’t think it was your fault. His fault was primary—and the most crucial.”

  “I don’t love him. I’m . . . we’re friends.”

  “You are afraid for him. Love is not when you are aroused by someone, it’s when you are afraid for that person. And you will never be able to forgive that kid, Yegor.”

  Sasha stopped. Kozhennikov walked a few steps farther and looked back.

  “We’re almost there. We need to go over there, to the lions. What?”

  Sasha was silent. Kozhennikov came back.

  “What happened?”

  “He’ll understand. When he gets to his second year, he’ll understand everything,” said Sasha with a catch in her voice.

  “Of course, he’ll understand. Shall we keep going?”

  Silently they passed a three-story building made out of pink bricks, and went up to the porch seated between two stone lions—their faces faded from frequent caresses, but the right one seemed melancholy, and the left one, ironic, even cheerful. The lions rigidly stared at Orion.

  Kozhennikov rang the door bell. A woman of about sixty opened the door, sinewy and swift. She took one of the bags out of Sasha’s hands.

  “Maria Fedorovna. And this is Alexandra Samokhina, Sasha. Here are your keys, take them.”

  Two gigantic keys—heavy heads, complicated shafts and grooves—lay in Sasha’s hand. How am I going to carry them around? she wondered. Around my neck, like a necklace?

  “The light key is for the entrance door. The dark key is for your room door. Let’s go.”

  Inside, the building smelled of wet plaster and faintly of perfume. A small yellow lightbulb switched on automatically. The landlady disappeared; Sasha carried her bags up the spiral staircase, following Kozhennikov, who carried her suitcase. The staircase was so narrow that the suitcase kept getting stuck.

  Sasha could not see much in the semidarkness. The thick railings curved like an antique musical instrument. The sound of their steps echoed in the dark. They passed the round window of the second floor, and there Sasha stopped as if her feet had been glued to the stairs.

  Kozhennikov looked back onto the third-floor landing.

  “Sasha?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Did your bags break?”

  “No . . . I . . .”

  “Come on up, the door is right here.”

  Sasha staggered up to the third floor. The corridor was dark, and Sasha stumbled onto her own suitcase.

  “The switch is somewhere here,” Kozhennikov murmured. “Ah, yes, right here.”

  The lightbulb was switched on. Sasha blinked. In front of her was a narrow door lined in blackened wood.

  “Unlock it.”

  The key found its way in easily, without fuss. A soft click. The door opened. Sasha stepped in first and found the switch.

  She stood on the threshold of a tiny, almost toylike apartment. The ceiling was very high near the door and tilted lower, reaching Sasha’s height, near the window. Outside the window was a minuscule balcony encircled by naked grapevines, and farther out stretched Sacco and Vanzetti Street, mysteriously lit by the lanterns.

  To the right was a simple white door, behind which a clean pink-tiled bathroom could be seen.

  “Let’s see. Here are some dishes, electric teakettle . . . Don’t be shy, everything here is for you to use, so make yourself at home.”

  An antique writing desk, or rather a bureau—a multitude of shelves and drawers. The tabletop, made out of walnut, had at some point been stained with ink and then scrubbed almost flawlessly. A bookcase. An ironing board and a small iron. A wardrobe with plenty of hangers. A grandfather clock: the mechanism squeaked and softly, delicately, struck eight.

  Still wearing her street clothes, Sasha sat down on the new, reasonably hard bed with an orthopedic mattress. Kozhennikov pulled her suitcase inside the room.

  “So what is the problem?”

  “I just had a strange thought.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it.”

  “I had this strange thought,” Sasha repeated, “as if I read a piece from . . .” She fa
ltered. “Portn . . . Oleg Borisovich said that one can read a fragment of a possible future in the Textual Module.”

  “Déjà vu.” Kozhennikov smiled. “And what have you read?”

  “About the lions. The ones at the front entrance. I’m absolutely certain.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s nothing.” Sasha licked her dry lips. “I guess . . .” She spoke despite herself, quickly, excitedly. “You can direct time. You make time into loops. For you there is nothing strange happening when a person is reading something and in an hour it happens to her in reality.”

  “All the world’s a text.” Kozhennikov clicked the light switch in the bathroom. “And all the men and women merely words . . .”

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Sasha said. “‘All the world’s a stage.’”

  “Everybody makes their own definitions. Shakespeare expressed it that way. You may say it differently.”

  “Can I really read my future?”

  “Easily. When you buy a train ticket, you are not only reading your future, you are forming it. Your ticket states the day of departure. The number of the carriage. Your seat. That means that in the most plausible future you will appear at the train station, approach the carriage that is mentioned on your ticket . . .”

  “Do you like making fun of me?”

  Sasha herself was shocked at the helplessness in her voice. Kozhennikov stopped smiling.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you. This question is too serious to discuss it without irony.”

  He placed his palm on the massive bronze door handle.

  “Good night, Sasha. I’m leaving.”

  The door opened into the dim corridor.

  “Farit . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you,” Sasha mumbled, forcing herself. “You helped me. When I . . . did that thing to my brother.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said tightly. “Anything else?”

  Sasha shrank in discomfort.

  “This apartment . . . I really like it.”

  “No need to thank me for that—you earned this place. Good-bye.”