Vita Nostra

by Dyachenko, Marina

  “I can’t,” she shook her head. “I cannot do what he wants me to!”

  Kozhennikov took off his glasses. He did this so rarely that Sasha forgot what his eyes looked like: brown, common, even ordinary. With normal pupils.

  “I once said that I would never ask you to do anything impossible. It is true. But think about it: everything you’ve ever done for me has been based on an overcoming an obstacle—a small step over an internal limit. It was difficult. But it could be done, Sasha. It can be done now.”

  Sasha shook her head in despair.

  “Think of Kostya, think about him passing the winter exams,” Kozhennikov continued softly. “Do you remember—he had given up, washed his hands. He could have died and brought others to destruction. While it was absolutely feasible—possible!—to pass the exam and survive. There was an exit—and you proved it to him. I’m very sorry that Kostya is not able to pay you back for that act of grace. He can’t help you now, he doesn’t have enough… Although that is not important.”

  ‘Tell me,” Sasha said with effort. “Kostya’s grandmother… You were related to her, did you know her? And how did you kill her, tell me, please? By yourself? Or did you have help?”

  Kozhennikov’s eyes remained undisturbed.

  “What makes you think I killed her? She was very sick and bed-ridden most of the time. Sasha, the average life span around here is sixty-seven years. Seventy-six is a stroke of luck.”

  “And if Kostya had passed the exam the first time?”

  “People are mortal. All of them.”

  A cat slunk out of the doorway, pale-orange, almost pink. The pigeons simultaneously flapped their wings and flew up, circling Sacco and Vanzetti and disappearing over the tiled roofs.

  “I am very sorry about the way things worked out between you and Kostya,” Kozhennikov said.

  Sasha looked away. The conversation was over, Kozhennikov could continue chatting, or he could be quiet, it did not make any difference. None whatsoever.

  “Listen,” Kozhennikov put his glasses back on and pushed them up with an index finger. “I believe I know how to help you.”

  “How?”

  “Break through the impossible. Simply a mechanical gesture. Steal a wallet at the market. Break a window with a naked fist. Do something that you consider impossible. It will loosen your rock-hard stability and will help you to burst through to the next level. Do you understand?”

  “Doubtful,” Sasha said.

  ***

  Kozhennikov got behind the wheel of his milky-white Nissan, waved to Sasha and drove away. She remained standing in the middle of the street, watching the pink cat lapping up autumn water from a puddle. Blink—and the cat turned emerald-green in her eyes, and the water became carmine-red; Sasha rubbed her face with her fists.

  The town market was only ten minutes away, if she walked slowly. Steal a wallet?

  The window of the bakery was conveniently located at the level of Sasha’s chest. Slam her fist into it? What could she possibly do to “cross the threshold,” to stop being herself?

  Or maybe buy a ticket and leave Torpa. Forever.

  She walked without purpose, not toward the market, but away from the center of town. She passed the Institute; two first-year girls teetered out of a ground-level café. Both were absolutely smashed; holding onto each other, they crossed the street and disappeared into the alley. What are their parents thinking? Sasha wondered. Doesn’t anyone care about the fate of the children who left the family home to study in an unfamiliar town?

  What is my mother thinking?

  Mom is thinking of her new, yet unborn baby. Of a creature, whose right to live has not yet been officially authorized. Of course, medical science has been developed and all that, and women over forty are giving birth…

  Sasha stumbled and stuck her foot into a puddle. She stomped her foot, shaking off the water, and remembered that under her bed was a box with a pair of fall shoes. She brought them to school after vacation—she bought them with Mom at a store sale, a good, sturdy pair of shoes….

  She missed Mom. She missed her so much that her eyes filled with tears. She was thrown out, banished, forcefully ejected from the normal world, where Mom was always near, where she could hug her any time she wanted to, where the door could be open when Mom came home from the office. A normal human world…

  It was entirely possible that the parents of all the students in the Institute were dealing with the most crucial life problems right now. Some may be going through a divorce. Some fight a grave illness. Somebody is in the middle of a custody battle, somebody is expecting a child. And all of them prefer to think that their grown children are getting an education at a decent, albeit provincial, institution of higher learning. And no one suspects that the success of their endeavors, their health and even their very lives depend on the academic performance of their forgotten children, abandoned in Torpa. It was a vicious circle…

  Sasha had not noticed reaching the end of Sacco and Vanzetti; following what looked like a country road, she arrived at the riverbank. Yellow and brown leaves floated down the river; some flattened themselves upon the surface, trying to merge with their own reflections. The others bowed like sails, as if trying to fly away. Some chickens pattered around. And the log, on which Sasha and Kostya sat a long time ago, and on which Sasha spent her New Year’s Eve—that very log was still there.

  Sasha sat down and stretched her legs.

  Five minutes passed, then ten, then half an hour. Sasha was now missing the second block, English; leaves continued to float in the river, an endless, solemn, unhurried caravan. Gazing at the black mirrored water, Sasha thought for the first time in two years—for the first time in her life, if she were absolutely honest—that, perhaps, it did make some sense to jump into this blackness from the wooden bridge that crossed the river a few hundred feet away from her. Jump, splash, break that mirror along with the sky reflected in the water.

  She rose, still considering. Was it deep enough? Or would it only reach up to her waist? On the other hand, people drown in bathtubs that are certainly not made with suicide in mind…

  Leaving footprints on the wet sand, she approached the water. The grass on the southern tip of the hill was still summery green and dotted here and there with wild asters. Sasha moved along the bank, circling the swampy parts, looking at the water and flowers on the hill. A yellow curtain of willow branches hung in front of her; yesterday, when she was working on one of Portnov’s paragraphs, something about the willow tangle sounded in her head, and she was trying to recollect that sentence, when she heard a splash, immediately followed by a scream, and then another splash.

  Sasha was not the first one to think of jumping off the bridge. Somebody more courageous—or less intelligent—had just jumped, and now two people were carried off by the stream.

  Sasha’s mouth dropped open.

  Both were fighting the current, one was shouting. The other one was trying to reach him, taking large wide strokes. The water carried both of them past Sasha, and she finally came to her senses and dashed after them along the stream. She tore through the willow branches and burst into a sandy horse-shoe shaped beach. Here the river changed direction slightly; the opposite bank was pretty high, with easily discernible swift nests. Under the steep bank whirlpools were visible, and there, into the vortex, the current now carried the two people. One was still shouting, choking, coughing, and shouting again.

  Sasha looked around in panic—the beach was deserted. A hundred feet away stood a concrete wall covered by graffiti.

  “Help!” Sasha yelled, even though it was abundantly clear that help was nowhere to be found.

  In the state of sheer panic she took off her sneakers. The wet sand was cold as ice, and just as hard. Sasha dashed to the water, staring at the drowning people in terror and realizing that she could not possibly save either of them; she had no chance—they would have taken her along with them.

  The scream was cut short. One of the
drowning people did something to the other one: choke him? Held him under water? The convulsive splashing was replaced by measured strokes: one of them swam to the shore, dragging the other one along.

  Sasha thought he swam for a really long time. The current carried both of them lower down, where the ground was swampy and marshy, where it would be impossible to climb out. The swimmer turned onto his back and worked his free arm; the person he pulled along resembled a pile of wet rugs.

  Reaching the shallow waters, the swimmer got up, and Sasha recognized him. It was the first year named Yegor: blonde hair was plastered over his head, his eyes were red, and lips blue. The drowned guy was also a first year Sasha had seen around the Institute, but did not know his name. He looked much worse: face swollen and bluish, lips nearly black.

  Yegor took a wondering look around the area and saw Sasha:

  “Got a cell phone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go find a phone booth. Call an ambulance, hurry.”

  Sasha ran. She stepped on a shell with her bare foot, gasped with pain. Came back and pulled on her sneakers, hopping on one foot, not bothering with the socks. She had enough time to watch Yegor place the drowned boy on his stomach, and, muttering something, press braced palms on his back; after that she had no more time left.

  She found a phone booth not far from the bridge, across from the last house on a quiet, almost rural road. Sasha tore off the receiver and was relieved to hear a distant beep; she had a fleeting memory of last winter, of pushing tiny buttons with her bloody fingers, and the bodies lying behind her in the snow, the bastards she’d mutilated herself…. People.

  A chill settled over Sasha, but at that moment a voice came on the line.

  “Someone just tried to kill himself!” Sasha shouted. “He drowned! He was pulled out, but now he’s not breathing!”

  “Address?”

  “It’s by the river!”

  “The river is long. What’s the address? Where are we supposed to go?”

  Sasha looked around. A few squiggles were painted on the fence across from the phone booth, vaguely resembling letters and numbers.

  “Lugovaya, seven dash one!”

  “Got it. Sending a car over.”

  ***

  The ambulance arrived thirty minutes later. By then, thanks to Yegor’s resuscitation skills, the drowned first year not only started breathing, but opened his blurry eyes and started writhing and struggling. He screamed, spewed profanities and seemed to be completely deranged.

  “Did he drown, or is it delirium tremens?” asked a grim nurse in a gray uniform, when the student was finally stuffed into the van.

  “He jumped off the bridge—he was drunk,” Yegor explained. “He’s really a normal kid.”

  “Normal,” muttered the doctor, exhausted, with black circles around his eyes. “We have two ambulances in the entire town. Right now someone’s child may be dying, or there could be a heart attack somewhere, and here we are, messing with these drug addicts… Bloody students…”

  The doctor spat on the ground.

  “Where do you see… What drug addicts?” Sasha cried.

  Indignation enveloped her, like a wave covering a sand castle. Strangers, alien indifferent faces, Yegor saved someone’s life, and no one expressed even a word of thanks!

  An icy-cold hand grabbed her elbow; Yegor stopped her and pulled half a step back.

  “He drowned,” he looked into the doctor’s eyes. “He had water in his lungs, and there is sand and mud…”

  “Any other learned advice?” scowled the doctor. “Is that all? Let’s go.”

  The ambulance tore off and disappeared, leaving behind a cloud of malodorous exhaust fumes. Yegor and Sasha watched it for a few seconds. Then Yegor let go of Sasha’s hand; he was beginning to tremble.

  “Thank you,” Sasha said.

  “What for?”

  “I can’t get angry. When I get mad…” Sasha hesitated. “You know what—you need to have some vodka.”

  “Let’s run,” Yegor said, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

  He jogged up the street away from the river, Sasha following him.

  Her body still remembered the once-regular daily jogging sessions; she ran steadily, keeping up with Yegor. He stomped his feet, dripping water, and the cadenced squelching of his wet sneakers in turn merged with Sasha’s steps, and then formed a dissonance. Neither of them spoke; as always, running helped Sasha think.

  First years. Hysterical fits, depression. Bouts of drinking. What was this kid’s name? What if he really did drown? No, that couldn’t happen: it was too ineffective, too ostentatious… He knew Yegor was nearby. Perhaps, he didn’t stop to think, but was simply really drunk to the point of delirium tremens, weak in the head from Portnov’s exercises?

  She fell behind somewhere along Sacco and Vanzetti. Yegor did not turn around, and when Sasha ran up the dorm steps, breathing heavily, he was nowhere in sight.

  She came up to her room. Both roommates were out. The room was an unholy mess: clothes piled up on the beds, shoes lying underneath in disarray, crumbs covering the papers on the table, a dirty jam jar and used plastic dishes all over the place. Sasha felt nauseous: she was certainly not a clean freak, but the excessive disorder of the room created by her roommates aggravated her more and more.

  She opened the window and tossed someone’s right-foot shoe, right-foot sneaker and a stiletto sandal down on the lawn. Perhaps that would make them think twice next time.

  She changed into sweats and pulled on a pair of warm socks. She did not want to eat lunch, had absolutely no appetite. Individual sessions with Portnov were scheduled for the third and fourth blocks, but Sasha’s time slot was for four fifteen, so she had plenty of time.

  She sat down at her desk. Opened the textbook drawer and saw the CD player; immediately, the memories flooded her brain. The conversation with Kozhennikov: Steal a wallet… I am very sorry about the way things worked out between you and Kostya…

  She buried the player in the depths of the drawer and picked up Textual Module 4. Paragraph thirty-six: she read the text three times from the beginning to the end, when she heard a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Sasha said without turning around.

  The door creaked.

  “I’m sorry… Are you studying?”

  Yegor stood in the doorway. He’d changed into a thick warm sweater and a pair of dark blue sweatpants. In his hands were a right-foot stiletto sandal and a right-foot shoe.

  “Sorry… this was lying under your window. Was it supposed to be there?”

  “Yes,” Sasha said. She got up, took the shoes from Yegor and tossed them back out the window. She wiped her hands.

  “I am working on some pedagogical character building with your classmates,” she explained to the surprised Yegor. “See what they have done to my room?”

  She pointed to the mess in the room with a wide sweep of her arm. Yegor’s embarrassment over a display of women’s panties on the beds was obvious.

  “Don’t be angry with them. You see, the first years…”

  “You don’t think I was a first year once?” Sasha narrowed her eyes.

  “Was it the same thing with you?”

  “Of course. And as you can see, we’re still alive.”

  Yegor sighed.

  “I wanted to talk to you… Sasha.”

  “Sure,” Sasha smiled. “Do you want me to make some tea? Let’s go to the kitchen, at least there is no loose underwear kicking about…”

  She followed Yegor out of the room, locked the door and put the key into her pocket. Let the silly goats scamper around looking for the key.

  “I gathered some linden blossoms on Sacco and Vanzetti this summer. Have you ever seen linden trees in bloom? Bees go crazy for it… they get so loud. And the smell of it… All over the street, and your room smells of linden blossoms when you leave the windows open…”

  “Didn’t you go home for the summer vacatio
n?”

  “I did for two weeks. And the rest of the time we had summer internships. Nothing really special, we harvested cherries.” Sasha spoke easily; at this moment it seemed to her that last summer, with its linden blossoms and the cherries, was simple and carefree, a true summer vacation of a college student. “I couldn’t even look at cherries afterwards. And I have an entire tin of dried linden leaves. It’s just what you need after the cold water.”

  She put the tea kettle on.

  “What were you doing by the river?” Yegor asked, wiping the oilcloth-covered table with a dish rug.

  “Just walking,” Sasha said curtly. She lifted the top of a large tin can and inhaled the scent of linden leaves. “I saw you two flopping about in the water… How did that blind drunk goofball manage to get up on the bridge, anyway?”

  “He wasn’t all that drunk,” Yegor said. “It’s just… Well, you understand.”

  “Shame,” Sasha said sharply and thought that only a few minutes before the incident on the river she was considering that bridge herself. Hot water bubbled in the teacups, the linden blossoms began to expand, and a lovely smell drifted over the kitchen.

  “That’s awesome.” Yegor sniffed, his nostrils twitching. “Sasha… Why did you take off your sneakers? There, by the river?”

  Sasha put the teakettle back on the stove and took a sugar bowl with a broken handle off the shelf.

  “To tell you the truth… What else was I supposed to do? I think I was going to dive in after you… to rescue you.” She twisted her face into a smile, avoiding Yegor’s eyes.

  “Thanks,” Yegor said after a pause.

  “What for?”

  Yegor moved the teacup closer and held its warmth between his palms.

  “It’s Stepan. He is killing me with his hysterics. Every day he packs his suitcase and says he’s going home. And then every morning he unpacks it again. He sent a telegram once to his mother… She must have been nervous, thinking about him, probably got distracted crossing the street, got run over by a car, and now she’s at the hospital with a concussion. Stepan has an older brother—I spoke with him on the phone. He says, Stepan has been throwing fits since childhood, scaring his mother. When he was at a summer camp, he sent a letter telling her they get rat meat for dinner… He’s like that. His brother thinks that Stepan is playing games again, making things up, that he just does not want to be independent, wants to crawl back under Mommy’s skirts. And I… you see, Sasha, I was listening to Stepan’s brother… and I was playing along! I told him, yeah, we have this great Institute, terrific living conditions… Obviously, living in a dorm is not the same as living at home... And then I said to Stepan, ‘What are you doing, you idiot. Don’t you at least feel sorry for your mother?’ And he… see what he did then?”