by Sergey
And he left.
In the morning, before the start of classes, Sasha approached Denis Myaskovsky. Silently holding his sleeve, she pulled him over to the side, by the window.
“What do you want?” Denis asked grimly.
“I had this happen to me,” Sasha said. “I got stuck . . . but then I made it through. Myself.”
“But you don’t know what I have!” Denis was upset. “Why are you saying this? You don’t know!”
“I do know.” Sasha looked into his eyes. “I know, Denis. Kostya went through the same thing. Everybody has. Listen to my advice: don’t get up from the table until you learn it.”
“It’s easy for you to dispense advice!”
“It isn’t easy for me, Denis.” Sasha smiled. “I know what I am saying.”
The bell rang to signify the start of Portnov’s lecture.
“‘What’s in a name? that which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet.’ In other words, the essence of an object does not change depending on its name. This is a common misconception, not unlike the ‘world is flat’ belief. By verbally identifying an object, by giving it a name, we alter it. And at the same time we prevent it from changing. A name is like a forked stick that we use to hold a snake on the ground.” Portnov imitated using a forked branch to press down an imaginary viper. “By the way, consider this: the contradictory nature of a statement almost certainly proves its legitimacy . . . Come in.”
Pressing his palms to his abdomen, Andrey Korotkov walked in; pale, bent over, he looked miserably ill.
“I am sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at Portnov. “I have food poisoning . . . Here’s a note from the doctor.” He tore his right hand away from his stomach and handed Portnov a piece of gray paper folded in half.
Portnov unfolded the paper and briefly looked at it—diagonally.
“Go, you are dismissed,” he said brusquely.
A whisper flew around the auditorium. Korotkov jerked his head up. “But . . .”
“Go. We’ll talk when you feel better.” Portnov’s voice sounded ominous.
“May I stay for a while?” Korotkov asked, nervously licking his dry lips.
Portnov handed the note back to him. “Then take this back, be so kind.”
Andrey took the paper out of Portnov’s hand and, still bent over, shuffled to his seat. Portnov waited until the auditorium was dead silent once again.
“May I continue? Thank you. However, there is also another misconception—by which a name automatically defines the properties of an object. Here is a pen.” He tossed up and caught a dark-blue pen with a white top. “If I give it the name of . . . an earthworm, will it slither?”
Second years, Group A, maintained a tense silence. No one wanted to risk an answer.
“It will not.” Portnov let the pen fall on his desk. “Because this given piece of plastic has nothing in common with the processes and events that we are talking about, that we spend time studying . . . between dance parties and dealing with gastrointestinal problems. Besides, when I say ‘give a name,’ I do not imply any of the languages that are commonly used by any of the living persons. I am talking about Speech, which you will begin to study during your third year. Some of you may start earlier. Samokhina, what time are you meeting with Nikolay Valerievich?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Excellent. At four thirty I shall be expecting you in my office in the administration wing. Class, open your books to page four and five. Pavlenko, I would be eternally thankful to you if you would stop talking with Myaskovsky during my lecture. For tomorrow’s class, please prepare the additional exercises eight A and eight B from the appendix in your textbook.”
At four thirty-two Sasha was sitting at the table looking at a sheet of paper in front of her, on which Portnov had just drawn a straight horizontal line.
“What is it?”
“Haven’t we done this before? Fine. Horizon. Sky and earth. Top and bottom.”
“What else?”
“Space and surface. A field of application. A screen.”
“A screen,” Portnov repeated with a hint of pleasure in his voice. “Let’s suppose . . . Here is a butterfly.” Quickly, using only a few lines, Portnov drew a large butterfly on the top part of the sheet. “Here’s its projection.” Over the horizontal line he drew an approximation of a shadow with two wings. “How can we express an inverse correlation?”
“We cannot. There is no inverse correlation. I am reflected in the mirror. But the mirror cannot be reflected in me.”
“Really?”
Sasha linked her fingers. She felt as if she were on the brink of understanding something very big, something simple and huge, but as sometimes one forgets a familiar name, that’s how Sasha could not think of it . . . concentrate . . . recall.
“Do you remember the diagram on page three?” Portnov asked softly.
Sasha nodded.
“Reproduce it from memory. ‘Creation.’”
Sasha flipped over the sheet of paper. She drew her pencil over the paper without picking it up. The result was a fully closed shape: it remained three-dimensional, while drawn on a one-dimensional surface.
Sasha swallowed. Her drawing existed in time—by itself. It had a beginning and an end. In a circle.
“I don’t understand . . .”
“You will. Right now it’s enough for you to reproduce it correctly. Write ‘association’ in this symbol.”
Sasha closed her eyes. She drew her pencil over the paper; it became very hot in the room. A drop of sweat rolled down her back under her sweater.
“What do you get?”
Sasha gazed at the paper: it depicted the round symbol from the gold coins.
“It’s ‘Word.’” Sasha’s answer surprised her.
“Yes,” Portnov said. “‘Word.’ This is your first step into the world of Speech, and it shall also be your last . . . because ‘Word’ is tied and looped onto itself. ‘Word’ is at the beginning and at the end. You have learned to recognize it during your second year, that’s pretty good, but when—if—you learn to manifest it, I will tell you that you have earned your diploma with honors.”
Portnov stood up with the look of a man whose work was done well. His office was smaller than Sterkh’s, and it fit only a table, a bookcase, and a strongbox in the corner. Portnov crouched in front of the strongbox, unlocked the steel door, and with a visible effort pulled out a very large book that resembled a gray brick. He placed it on the table in front of Sasha.
Sasha touched the cover.
“Hands off!”
She recoiled.
“How many times do I have to remind you—do not open books until I tell you? You don’t know what is in there, you are not prepared for what you’re about to see! How many times have you been burned because of your curiosity? A frog would have no trouble remembering that!”
Sasha demonstratively put her hands behind her back.
“This is a glossary,” Portnov said, slightly less annoyed. “It is organized in layers. It has five dimensions. That means that you, with your measly experience, will be periodically thrown into the irrational ‘pockets,’ with the possibility of time loops. Should you be afraid of that? No. Is it dangerous? Yes! To avoid burning like a matchstick, you must take the greatest possible care in following the rules I am about to tell you. First . . . are you listening to me, or still pouting?”
“I am listening,” Sasha said.
Portnov straddled a chair in front of Sasha. He wiped his glasses with the hem of his sweater.
“First, you may read only one informational layer per session. One layer. Second . . .”
He took a thin bright-blue stick out of his pocket, and Sasha was surprised to recognize a long birthday candle.
“Before you start working, you must cut off about three centimeters of the candle. It burns about a centimeter a minute, sometimes faster, but three centimeters should be enough. You place it between your fingers lik
e this.” Portnov stuck the candle between the pointer and third fingers of his right hand. “Secure it with Scotch tape. And then you light it.”
Sasha swallowed. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just burn myself with a cigarette?”
Portnov glanced at her over his lenses, and Sasha bit her tongue.
“When you are working with the glossary, Samokhina—if you manage to work with it, of course—you will not be distracted or taken out of your trance by an alarm clock, or a scream, or anything else. Only the sharp sensation of pain. A quick one! You will shake off the flame and be just fine. Would you like to try right now?”
“I would love to,” Sasha said greedily.
The pain was like that of a mosquito bite. Sasha twitched, wishing to slap down the mosquito and return to studying, but the universe composed of a myriad of nuances was already sliding off her, like a hat carried away by the wind. This universe was set in constant motion, infused with associations, puzzling and inexplicit, and yet natural and harmonious. This universe that she had just begun to explore—she was already blown away by its wisdom and magnificence. This universe was ideally suited for exploring it deeper and deeper—from association to association, from leaf to root, and farther, and wider, analyzing, synthesizing, gasping with joy . . .
The world went dark. Sasha sat in Portnov’s cabinet. A candlestick smoked between her burned, Scotch-taped fingers. Sasha raised her hand to her face: two blisters, one on her middle finger, one on her pointer finger.
“I didn’t have enough time. I hadn’t finished reading the layer. Let’s do it again.”
Portnov got up and slipped on his ring. Sasha tried to stand up, but he gestured for her to stay seated. He came closer to the table, grabbed her chin, pushed her head back, and slashed her eyes with a reflected ray of light.
Sasha squinted.
Without a word, Portnov picked up the glossary and put it away in the strongbox. Sasha stood up.
“You were going to give it to me!”
“It weighs ten kilos.”
“So what! You were going to let me take it!”
Portnov glanced at her askance. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and paused.
“You still don’t smoke, do you?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
“Go ahead, smoke,” Sasha allowed regally.
Portnov took a long drag.
Sasha watched him smoke. Never—very rarely—had Portnov even looked perplexed in her presence. And now he paced around his office, sending smoke rings up to the ceiling, occasionally tilting his head to the side, as if listening to a soundless remark.
Every now and then he would look at Sasha. These glances made her increasingly nervous.
“What have I done wrong now?”
“What is meaning, Samokhina?”
“Projection of will onto its field of application.”
“And what are you? Ever pondered that question?”
“A human being.”
“Try again.”
“A student. An object of your sadistic experiments.”
Portnov burst out laughing. He acted amused even less frequently than puzzled, and now Sasha felt sure—something was not right.
“You will be offered acceptance to graduate school. Think about it long and hard. If you are indeed what you appear to be, you should be very critical of any offer, even the most enticing ones.”
“But I haven’t even finished my second year yet,” Sasha said confusedly.
“Precisely. Precisely, Samokhina.” Portnov smiled triumphantly. “Fine, I’ll give you a hint: you—the object that is sitting in front of me, a biological living creature with ineptly made-up eyes—is a projection. A projection of what?”
“You have nothing to do with my eyes!”
He waved that off. “I am asking you—a projection of what?”
“An idea?” Sasha suggested. “What do you call it . . . eidos?”
Portnov grinned triumphantly.
“Go. Enjoy yourself until six o’clock. For tomorrow, work with the diagram on page eight.”
It was dark. Simultaneously with the darkness came a warm spell. The wind carried the scents of water and earth. Sasha stood in the middle of Sacco and Vanzetti, her face lifted up to the sky, and listened to the rustling of streams of water under the flattened layers of snow.
The last few days had been remarkably dense. She’d learned how to fly. Borrowed (stole?) clothes from a first-year student. Fought and made up with Sterkh. Saw a snippet of her own future. Spoke to Kozhennikov about Kostya. Burned her hand . . .
Actually, the burn, which she hadn’t even noticed at first, was now growing increasingly painful. Sasha collected a handful of snow from the back of the iron bench and pressed it against her skin. For tonight, she planned a lot of work, but the thought of a salami sandwich had just appeared and now refused to depart.
A group of girls from Group B, Oksana’s classmates, walked by. A door screeched loudly—the lights were on in the basement café across the street, somebody was laughing, and the radio was on.
Sasha crossed the street and went down five steps. She opened the door and entered the café.
“Hello. I’d like a salami sandwich and coffee. And tomato juice, please.”
The wooden tables were occupied by students, mostly first years, smoking and chatting noisily. Sasha saw Natasha, the girl whose sweater and slacks she had been wearing for the last two days. Tipping her head to her shoulder, the girl was animatedly saying something, and next to her, with his head close to hers, sat Yegor.
Sasha approached, carrying a small tray in front of her. Natasha noticed Sasha first and fell silent, as if she were gagged.
Yegor turned around.
“Hello,” Sasha said. “May I sit down?”
“Sure,” Yegor said hoarsely. “But you see, we were just leaving.”
“Don’t rush.” Sasha threw a meaningful glance at the barely touched pastries, at the full cups of hot tea. “Don’t rush, I need to tell you something.”
Natasha did not respond. With shock, Sasha realized that the girl was afraid—truly afraid, jokes aside.
“Look at me,” Sasha said gently, addressing Yegor. “Why are you looking away?”
He looked up reluctantly. It’s a bit too dark in here, Sasha thought. If I could send reflected rays of light into people’s eyes—just like Portnov and Sterkh—and in this light see the internal configuration of a person . . .
Yegor recoiled.
“Why are you staring at me like that? Just like . . .”
“Like who?”
Yegor was silent.
“Listen to me, both of you,” Sasha said, smiling beautifically. “Right now you are on your second semester. In a few weeks you will undergo the deconstructive stage. I think that’s what they call it. You will disintegrate into parts . . . on the inside, and will only be able to think of what is in front of your eyes. You will feel no love, no fear, nothing that would distract you from learning. It is going to be not all that unpleasant, more like strange. And then, if you study hard, and you will, you have no choice . . . you will recompile. And then you’ll be just a little different. And then, during your second year, when you begin Introduction to Applied Science, then you will remember my words, Yegor. And then you will understand. You will understand something, but chances are, I will never know about it.”
Yegor and Natasha stared at her with open mouths. Sasha bit into her sandwich with gusto.
“You should eat. Your tea is getting cold. I wish you all the happiness in the world. Natasha, don’t be mad at me, I’ll return your pants and your sweater . . . at some point.”
They silently watched her eat. Sasha drank her juice, finished her coffee, touched a napkin to her lips, and got up. They still hadn’t touched their food. She shrugged.
“See you later, kids. Remember me kindly.”
“But you don’t understand . . . ,” Yegor began.
“Did you ever
buy those skis?”
Yegor did not reply.
“That’s a shame,” Sasha said. “Winter’s almost over. All right, I’m off.”
They may have continued watching her, even when the door closed behind her back.
Spring came.
Water flowed between Torpa’s cobblestones in streams, and disintegrated paper boats rested in the deep puddles.
Sasha’s life had drastically changed; the solitary existence in her own apartment, the ability to spend evenings at her writing bureau and read, reread, and simply think in the quiet atmosphere of her room, watching the lights of the lanterns on Sacco and Vanzetti—this was an expensive luxury, and Sasha valued her new status very highly.
She no longer attended lectures; she now had an individual schedule. She would sleep in until ten o’clock, then drink coffee she made on the tiny electric hot plate. Then she would open her notepad, in which Portnov wrote her assignments, and would begin working.
First, the Textual Module. No matter how hard she tried, none of the “meanings” incidentally appearing to her during her studies would qualify as a “fragment of a possible future.” Still, though, she progressed through it. Then the Conceptual Activator. Portnov required her to work on it in writing, pulling all the available sequences and associations into one chain. By twelve o’clock the lines would merge in front of Sasha’s eyes; sheets of paper covered with dense writing refused to fold, and when she leaned over, she could smell the gentle scent of the ink that filled her ballpoint pen. Sasha would inhale the scent and smile, thinking about the magnificent harmony of world order, about the beauty of logical constructs, and about the golden sparks of chances that appear without warning out of nowhere to highlight, set off, and emphasize the infinite precision and exactitude of the informational depiction of the universe.
Then she would go for a walk around the town of Torpa. Passersby stared at her, some with shock, some with fear, and some with curiosity; pretty soon Sasha got used to their stares and ceased to notice them.
The river spilled out of its banks and broke the wooden dock. Leaves popped out of buds. Sacco and Vanzetti was wrapped in green linden smoke.