They left their suitcases in storage (the compartments did not require tokens, just a code) and found a comfortable bench on the platform, then unwrapped their provisions. Sasha’s sandwiches, which had made her so sad the night before, disappeared within minutes. She shared with Kostya, he shared with her; a bottle of mineral water was opened, Kostya brought out a thermos almost full of coffee. Sasha’s nostrils quivered; breakfast put her in a very good mood. A freight train rolled by the station, the rumble died down in the distance. Silence reigned, disturbed only by the birds.
“The bus is coming in half an hour,” Kostya said with certainty. “The address of this place is twelve Sacco and Vanzetti Street.”
“Do you know who they are, Sacco and Vanzetti?”
Kostya shrugged:
“Italians, I think.”
Another freight train rolled by in the other direction.
“Can you please tell me,” Sasha began carefully, “what made you decide to apply to this… Special Technologies thing?” Who gave you this… this idea?”
Kostya’s face darkened. He looked at her suspiciously, folded dirty napkins and oily paper, and dropped it into an empty trash barrel next to the bench.
“I’m just asking,” Sasha added quickly. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t, and accept my apology.”
“I was forced,” Kostya admitted reluctantly.
“You too?!”
For a minute they stared at each other, both waiting for the other one to speak.
‘That’s strange,” Kostya said finally. “You’re a girl. You don’t’ have military duty.”
“What does it have to do with military duty?”
“Everything,” Kostya said harshly. “Do you think every man should serve in the army?”
“I don’t know,” Sasha said. ‘I guess so.” And, just in case, she added: “But if someone doesn’t want to serve, then he shouldn’t have to.”
Kostya sighed and shook his head.
“My own father gave me an ultimatum. I didn’t get accepted to law school, for the second time already. I was supposed to get drafted this fall. But my father…” Kostya fell silent. He gave Sasha a side glance, as if wondering why he was sharing intimate details of his life with a chance fellow traveler, whom he’d known for about an hour.
“So you didn’t want to go to this Institute?”
Kostya shrugged.
“Whether I wanted or not… it doesn’t matter anymore.”
They fell silent. The platform was still deserted; not a single person showed up, not an equipment inspector, not a street cleaner, no one. The reddish August sun was rising from the bushes. Birds were chirping. The high blades of grass along the railroad were covered by morning dew, each drop a colorful gem.
“And you don’t even have to serve in the army…” Kostya said pensively.
Sasha did not reply. She really did not feel like telling Kostya the story of her meeting with Farit Kozhennikov. She had hoped that Kostya himself had a similar situation, but it turned out much more banal: failed exams, military summons in the fall, a stern father….
“Is it time to go?” she asked nervously.
Kostya glanced at his watch:
“I guess… There is another bench near the bus stop.”
Despite Sasha’s concerns, the metal doors of the storage unit opened easily. Kostya grabbed both suitcases. A crumpled piece of paper was stuck to the bottom of Sasha’s suitcase.
“Trash,” Kostya murmured and held the paper gingerly with two fingers.
It was a note—large penciled letters could be easily read even now, when the note got wet and dirty:
“Leave now.”
There was no signature.
***
Half an hour later they sat in a small bus that Kostya called “a hearse.” The stupid piece of paper spoiled their mood, even though they both tried to pretend it meant absolutely nothing.
Sasha knew she could not leave. Tomorrow was September first; she had to be there. She had to do what Farit Kozhennikov requested, and after that she would have to figure it out.
Kostya was quiet. His zeal disappeared without a trace. The bus came at five of seven, its driver a perfectly average, solid middle-aged man, a worn denim jacket thrown over a black t-shirt. Sasha and Kostya bought their tickets and settled in the back seat. The driver started the engine, and then suddenly they were joined by an old lady with a basket, a woman carrying a shovel wrapped in sackcloth, and two young empty-handed men. It seemed to Sasha that the young men took notice of her and Kostya. Again, she felt lonely and helpless.
First, the bus drove among the fields, dotted here and there with tiny human figures. Then they drove into Torpa. It was not exactly a village as Sasha imagined: brick five-story buildings mixed with single-family homes. It was very much a town, very old and not at all modernized: heavy buildings made out of stone, with occasional columns and molding on the facades. Curved streets, in some places paved, but more often covered with black cobblestones. Windows hidden behind the green shutters. Sloping timbered roofs. Steps touched by erosion.
“Would you look at this,” Kostya said softly. “You could film a movie here. Not too shabby, is it?”
Sasha did not reply.
The bus stopped at a small square, the bus stop under a simple awning.
“Torpa,” said the driver. “We’re here.”
Sasha waited until the two suspicious guys left, and only then did she follow Kostya out. The driver passed them their suitcases, settled back in his chair, pressed on the gas, and the bus disappeared from view before Sasha and Kostya had a chance to look around.
Again, they were left alone. The old lady, the woman with a shovel, even the suspicious guys were gone.
“And whom are we supposed to ask for directions?” Kostya inquired sarcastically.
“There is a sign,” Sasha said, looking around. “Here—’Sacco and Vanzetti, 1.5 km.’“
***
It took them almost half an hour to walk a kilometer and a half; panting, Kostya dragged both suitcases. Surprisingly long, Sacco and Vanzetti Street began at building number 114, then the numbers descended. The sidewalk in turn widened and disappeared entirely. The street expanded like an overflowing river, turning into a boulevard, then narrowed down again, turning into a gorge.
“Elegance galore,” Kostya murmured.
Stone and peeling plaster. Ivy and grape vines stretched over the water spouts. Geraniums in hanging pots. Sasha kept turning her head in all directions: here was a three-story brownstone stylized as a castle, with cozy-looking alabaster chimeras. Over there was an uninspiring concrete building with old-style commercial air-conditioning units. And over there a tumbling-down wooden shack, a young birch tree growing on its roof.
Each awning housed a swallow’s nest. The birds streaked through the air, covering the street with a moving black net, drawing large complicated circles, diving occasionally into the broken attic windows.
Sparrows shrieked above the chestnut and linden trees.
“Seems like a decent kind of place,” Sasha rubbed her aching neck.
The stores were beginning to open.
In front of a bakery stood a dignified little queue—three old ladies with shopping bags. Three men in overalls were smoking in front of a liquor store. On the other side of the street a team of workers were fixing a roof, a pulley strained, an enormous vat filled with resin passed above the heads of passersby, and faded, quivering warning flags strewn on a wire protected the danger zone into which one could not, under any circumstances, take even a tiny step...
Building number 12 emerged as a large house, clearly re-designed several times: two stories boasted colorful bricks—a la gingerbread house—the third story was built out of simple white limestone brick, and the fourth floor was of plain wood. A stone porch, its steps slightly sloping and worn out, led to the main entrance. A black door of impressive height looked haughty and stern. A small plaque shined dully to the
left of the entrance: “Ministry of Education. Institute of Special Technologies.”
“We’re here,” said Kostya, lowering the suitcases onto the pavement.
Sasha stared at the door. A black rectangle with a shiny brass handle. Four steps leading up.
Kostya was out of breath. He had hauled two huge suitcases along the entire Sacco and Vanzetti Street and now had a good reason to be sweaty and clearly short-winded. It was more complicated for Sasha. Trying to control her breathing, she could have sworn that both she and Kostya were thinking the same thing: it was not too late to get out of here. They had one more chance to escape before stepping over the threshold. The moment this door closed behind them, there would be no way back.
Kostya was silent, not wanting to seem cowardly in Sasha’s presence. What am I doing here? thought Sasha in sheer panic. Why am I not home? Why do I go where I have no desire of going, like a passive sheep, an obedient dog on a leash?
Kostya looked around.
“I wonder if there is a café or something like that,” he said seemingly to himself. “Would be nice to get a cup of coffee, I’m really thirsty. Look, there is a place!”
And in fact, right across from the Institute, they saw the entrance to a ground-level cellar with a wooden sign: “Pastry, Coffee, Tea.” A single table with an open striped sun umbrella stood on the sidewalk.
Sasha sighed and glanced back to the Institute’s building. The windows—small on the first two floors, large on the third, dull on the fourth—watched them with faceted eyes.
“Let’s go,” Sasha croaked. “We can’t sit here with our suitcases all day anyway.”
***
The vast half-lit entrance hall seemed deserted. The glass reception booth was empty. Staircases stretched left and right, and in the center of the hall, under a ray of light coming from above, rose an equestrian statue of stunning proportions.
“That’s a stallion,” Kostya stifled a giggle.
Mesmerized, Sasha came closer. It certainly was a stallion: the horse’s belly and legs were carved with a great degree of anatomical precision. Colossal bronze hooves trampled upon the granite pedestal. Immense boots hung from the stirrups. The face of the horseman was impossible to see—it was lost far above, and no matter what angle Sasha tried, she could only see a huge upturned chin and a prominent Adam’s apple.
“First years?”
The voice echoed in the deserted hall. Sasha and Kostya spun around. A short concierge in a printed dress stood by the entrance, her fat finger with a candy-pink nail motioning for them to approach.
“You need the Dean’s Office. Behind the staircase, to the right, you can’t miss it, just look for the sign. You can leave your suitcases, no one will take them.”
***
The long corridor smelled of dust and fresh whitewash. On both sides stretched the doors, just like in high school, but taller and somehow more important looking. The “Dean’s Office” sign left them no chance of getting lost.
Sasha entered and immediately had to squint.
The office was full of light—sunshine burst through the windows. Right in front of Sasha was a wooden partition with an opening. Two women sat on the other side of the partition, one skinny, one corpulent, both wearing white blouses, both with equally impenetrable impressions on very different faces.
“First years?” asked the fat one. “Documents.”
Sasha fumbled with the inside pocket’s fastening and the pin she’d added for safety.
“Hurry up,” said the fat woman. “Young man, if you are ready, you can go first.”
Kostya stepped up to the barrier. The woman glanced at his diploma, opened his passport and checked it against the long list on her desk.
“Congratulations, you have been accepted,” she stated lifelessly. “Sign here. This is your dormitory assignment, and here are the tickets for the free meals at the dining hall. Textbooks will be distributed by your professors. Please wait in the hall while I register the girl.”
The skinny woman said nothing. She glanced at the list over her colleague’s shoulder, then stared up at Kostya with a great deal of attention, squinting slightly. Under her watchful eye, Kostya left the room, gripping a gray stamped envelope.
Sasha approached the barrier. It was old and worn, time had made its surface grainy and three-dimensional. Sasha couldn’t resist and caressed the wood with her palm.
“Your name?” asked Ms. Corpulent, not in a rush to open Sasha’s passport.
“Samokhina, Alexandra.”
“Samokhina,” a long-nailed finger slid down the list. “Samokhina…”
“Farit’s girl,” Ms. Skinny mumbled to herself. Sasha flinched; her sudden move caused the opening of the partition to snap closed.
“Is Kozhennikov your advisor?” Ms. Corpulent asked not looking at Sasha.
“Yeah…”
“Be careful,” said Ms. Corpulent. “He’s a good man, but he can be harsh. Here’s your dormitory assignment, your dining hall tickets. Do you have your coins? You’re supposed to have four hundred and seventy-two.”
Sasha reached into her bag. The combination of this perfectly ordinary office space and this perfectly ordinary bureaucratic procedure with gold coins of obscure denomination, obtained during a bout of vomiting, made her lose her sense of reality. Even the sun outside the windows now appeared illusory.
The woman took the heavy plastic bag out of her hands. She placed it somewhere under her desk; the gold jingled.
“All set,” said the fat woman. “Go, move in, tomorrow morning all the first years are expected to meet at nine in the morning in the assembly hall, straight in front of the main entrance, by the statue, there is a small staircase, you’ll see. Hello, who’s next? Come in!”
“Where is the dorm?” Sasha asked, regaining her senses.
***
The dormitories were buried inside a courtyard, accessible only from the Institute itself, or from a narrow, dark and smelly alley off Sacco and Vanzetti. Peeking at the alley from a distance, Sasha vowed to avoid it entirely after dark.
From the outside, the dorm appeared to be a long, peeling, run-down two-story barrack. The main door was locked. Kostya knocked with a bent finger, then banged on it with his fist, then kicked it rather gingerly.
“That’s strange,” Sasha said. “Are they asleep? What time is it?”
Kostya turned to answer her, but at that moment the door squeaked and opened. Kostya stepped back, nearly falling off the steps.
In the doorway stood a tall, basketball player-sized guy with a black eye patch on his right eye. He was painfully thin and sort of lopsided, as if the entire half of his body was crippled by a permanent seizure. His blue eye looked at Kostya and immediately switched to Sasha. Sasha shrank back.
“First years?” the guy asked in a hoarse strained voice. “Moving in? Got the assignments? Come in…”
He disappeared in the dark, leaving the door ajar. Sasha and Kostya exchanged glances.
“Are we going to be like him?” Kostya inquired with an exaggerated meekness. Sasha did not respond; she found the joke uncalled for.
They entered the barrack, which from the inside was not much more exhilarating than from the outside: brown linoleum, walls painted blue on the bottom and whitewashed above eye level, a staircase with metal railings. Steam rose from somewhere, accompanied by the hum of water in the shower.
“Here,” the one-eyed guy appeared at the reception desk, over which hung a plywood board with several sets of keys. “The girl is going to Room 21, second floor. The boy, Room 7, it’s down the corridor, to the right. Here’s the key for Room 21. There are two second year students in Room 7, they have already arrived.”
“Do you work here?” Sasha inquired tentatively.
“I’m subbing for someone. I’m a third year, actually. Name’s Victor.”
The guy winked with his only eye and laughed. Half of his face remained immobile, and only the corner of his mouth slid somewhere
down. His laughter was so frightening to observe that Sasha barely managed not to burst into tears.
She yanked her heavy bag up the stairs, along a similar corridor, floor covered by the same dull linoleum, with room numbers barely visible on the doors painted white. Sasha reached the number 21, fumbled with the key, her hands trembling, and, after a short struggle, managed to open the door.
Three wire bed frames with striped mattresses. Three desks, three bedside tables. Built-in dresser. A large window, small hinged pane slightly ajar, dusty windowsill. Sasha hauled her suitcase inside, sat down on the nearest bed and wept.
She had about five minutes to lament over her life and her troubles, when she heard steps in the corridor. Sasha barely managed to wipe her tears; there was a short knock on the door; almost immediately the door opened, and two girls walked in. Sasha had seen them briefly in the hallway, on her way from the dean’s office to the dorm. Both were about seventeen, a blonde in a blue denim outfit, and a brunette, plump and round, in a knee-length skirt and a jersey top.
“Hello,” the brunette had a low basso voice.
“Hello,” said the blonde; with one quick glance at Sasha’s red eyes, she inquired: “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sasha looked away. “Homesick.”
“Right,” the blonde threw a disinterested look around the room. “Got it.”
“I kind of like it here,” the brunette said, pulling her luggage closer to the window. “Freedom of living, with no one hanging over your shoulder. Do whatever you want.”
Sasha thought that she would not be able to do what she wanted for the rest of her life. Chances were she would have to do what she desperately did not want to do. Stare into Kozhennikov’s eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses, and execute, execute all of his whims under the pain of cruel punishment...
Out loud she said nothing. Her voice wasn’t really cooperating anyway.
The blonde briefly looked in her direction.
“Actually, I am not going to live here myself,” she said pensively. “I think I’m better off renting an apartment somewhere nearby. It’s better for you too—you’ll have more space.”
Vita Nostra Page 7