Vita Nostra

by Dyachenko, Marina

  “Sit down, Alexandra. Or were you planning on staying in the doorway?”

  Sasha sat down. Between her and Kostya was an aisle—and Zhenya Toporko. Waiting for the bell, Sasha pushed her pen idly over the empty sheet of paper; against her will, she kept producing three white circles on a shaded area. The circles watched Sasha like blurry motionless eyes.

  The bell rang. The white sheet in front of Sasha was covered with patterns of thickly shaded triangles; she shut her notepad with distaste.

  “Zhenya. I need to speak to your husband. Please give me permission. We are going to discuss only school-related matters, and nothing else.” She made her voice loud and determined, making sure the entire class heard her.

  Zhenya pursed her lips, threw her bag over her shoulder and left the auditorium, head held high. The others—Yulia, Anya, Igor—did not seem to be in a rush, pretending to gather their textbooks.

  “Let’s go,” Sasha said to Kostya.

  Watched by several sets of eyes, they went out into the corridor, up to the fourth floor and higher, to the staircase that led to the attic. They stopped by the small round window.

  “You saved me. But now I’m not sure; it may have been better to remain trapped in the loop…”

  “What happened?”

  The fourth floor corridor was drafty, dust twirled in the column of sunshine that fell from the round window, and above them, at the end of the staircase that led to the attic; a door stared at them through a round padlock.

  “You know… this morning for the first time ever I thought that perhaps they are telling us the truth. We will finish our education and will comprehend something… incomprehensible. And then we’ll tell them ‘thank you.’”

  “‘Thank you,’” Kostya repeated with a strange intonation. “And what are you thinking now?”

  Sasha sighed.

  “I don’t know. Then I was thinking: maybe they are training us to become fighting beasts. And this exam—maybe it’s like a gladiators’ arena. Someone we don’t know will watch us and make bets. And we will fight and die in combat… But that’s ridiculous. This level of sophistication is not necessary to raise a fighting beast.”

  Kostya was silent.

  “Look at them. At Portnov. Or look at Sterkh. When I showed up without eyes, without arms… he was crying with joy. Can you imagine that?!”

  “Think of what you told me,” Kostya said.

  “What?”

  “‘If we get to the end of the course… we shall become just like them. And we shall speak their language. Then we’ll take revenge.’”

  Sasha shook her head.

  “If we get to the end of this course, we won’t want to take revenge anymore. We’ll become just like them.”

  Kostya bit his lip.

  “Not me. I’ll never forget any of this.”

  The bell rang.

  ***

  Yegor was sitting on the bench cleared of snow. He smoked, looking up at the sky. Sasha came over.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Yegor replied still looking up.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Sasha swiped her palm over the wet planks of the bench, thick with several layers of paint. She perched on the very edge.

  “Did you get the bindings onto the skis?”

  “What skis?” Yegor seemed surprised.

  Sasha was at a loss.

  “Well, I heard at the sporting goods store they have these cross-country skis, the old style ones, they are selling them at a ridiculous price. All you need to do is to attach the bindings…”

  Yegor was silent.

  This morning, getting ready for class, she found his green shirt among her own things. The scent of his cologne lingered. She wanted to put it on as a sign of reconciliation, but she did not have time to iron it, and the shirt was hopelessly wrinkled.

  Obeying an impulse, she touched his sleeve.

  It became a part of her skin—this thick fabric of his winter jacket with a layer of synthetic filling, the slippery lining made of rayon. Smooth and warm.

  Warm.

  Sasha reached for him. Embraced him. Not with her arms.

  Yegor became a part of her. She took him, perhaps even stole. On the bench in the middle of the yard in front of the dorm. In front of everyone.

  For a short moment she felt what it was like to be Yegor. She knew how prickly were his unshaven cheeks. How frozen were his feet in their thin shoes. How loudly his heart was beating—just when he was trying to appear indifferent. How insulted he felt, how he suffered… But why?

  And right then, still being Yegor, having made Yegor a part of herself, she realized how deeply offended he was. Someone told him about Sterkh’s stipulation. He was made to believe that Sasha started seeing him because of purely physiological reasons—Sterkh told her to get rid of her virginity, and she did…

  Sasha perceived this insult as her own.

  “But how could you ever believe this! You are such an idiot!”

  She took the bench (cold, apathetic) and the linden tree (sleepy, unmoving blood), and the ground covered with dirty snow piles (melting snow tickled and itched like crust on a healing scratch). For a second she became a small country, and Yegor was her capital.

  “It’s a lie! What kind of a man are you, if you can be so easily fooled with sordid lies!”

  He jerked and slipped away from her. Rather, she let him go, sensing his fear and feeling frightened herself. He fell off the bench, as she pushed him off, and immediately got up; his knees trembled.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Who told you? Pavlenko? You believed that bitch?”

  He took a few steps back, staring at Sasha with terror that made her cringe.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He whispered something. Sasha thought she heard the word “witch.”

  And then Yegor turned and almost ran down to the alley that led to Sacco and Vanzetti Street.

  ***

  In the morning Sasha’s skin grew a chitin layer, and both her arms now had three elbows each instead of one. She waited until her roommates left to take a shower, took the player out of her bag and played the disk she was now supposed to listen to every morning upon waking.

  Three minutes of silence. Sasha swam within it like a fish.

  Vika and Lena spent the previous day desperately looking for a way to move out of the twenty-first room and into another one. Sasha sincerely wished them luck, but suspected that until after the winter exams neither one of them would have any other choices in the overcrowded dorm. “You may have to deal with it, girls,” she told them last night. “You should take notes—you got the same thing coming next year.”

  The track was over. The silence departed, Sasha snapped back to reality. She bent and straightened her arm. Touched her face: her cheek, cold and rough, was covered by human skin.

  Sasha took a deep breath.

  Strangely enough, she felt very well. A lot better than in the last few months. She wanted to get up, stretch, go for a run, jump into a hot shower, and then turn on the cold water and shout, making her scream echo between the walls of the shower room. And then go to Sterkh’s lesson. Yes, astounded, Sasha suddenly realized that she wanted to study with Sterkh.

  ***

  “All things are reflected in each other. Remember? Wind changes direction getting around a stone, the stone crumbles reflecting the wind. The chameleon changes color reflecting leaves. An ordinary hare turns white reflecting winter. I am reflected in you when you listen to me. You are reflected in many people more or less deeply. The Sasha Samokhina whom you know is just a reflection of Sasha’s true essence. And now this essence is changing—and its reflection is also trying to change, but this reflection is material, established, and that makes it difficult. Keep in mind that I’m speaking conditionally. The communication system that you and I are currently using allows only approximate explanations. That is why we do not bother
explaining anything to the students—it would not clarify anything and would be a simple waste of time. Right now you and I are just chatting, enjoying a pleasant moment together.”

  “Nokolay Valerievich, I keep thinking… that I’m disintegrating. Or growing.”

  “You are growing, Sasha, you are growing. You are overgrowing your own borders, or, rather, those limits that you consider the boundary of your identity.”

  “Does this happen to everyone? I mean, to all students?”

  “It does happen to everyone, but in different ways. You have an obvious inclination towards metamorphosis, Sasha, plus a very rich imagination. Did you paint when you were little? No? You could have… Imagine a chameleon that was placed, say, under a glass. Or, better, onto a stock market ticker tape.”

  “How?”

  “Just like this. The chameleon is used to changing color according to the conditions, but what if his new surroundings just don’t have such a characteristic as ‘color?’ No color at all? Or consider this. Imagine a newborn baby who suddenly, over the course of one minute, became a grown man with the appropriate constitution and physiological characteristics. His essence has been changed. Don’t you think that his old shape would be an obstacle? A small body, swaddling, diapers… All that stuff would crack, letting out the new mature specimen. The same thing is happening to you, Sasha. Your essence is changing, and your shape is lagging behind and is not reacting adequately. That’s the source of this minor annoyance, such as scales, feathers and extra arms.”

  “Is it going to take a long time?”

  “I don’t think so. I would say a few days. Although regression is possible. Just don’t be afraid, Sasha. Girls get scared of their first menstrual period, but to us, grown people, their fears seem ridiculous.”

  Sasha felt self-conscious.

  “You will understand. Just a little bit of time, and things will get easier. You will realize that you are not being punished, but rather rewarded, and that you have a fascinating, exciting life and enormous possibilities… Believe me, Sasha, you are going to be very happy very soon.”

  “I am scared of failing the exam…”

  “But that is a perfectly normal fear! Every conscientious student gets nervous when facing an exam, even if the student knows everything. You must study as hard as you can, and then nothing in the exam will be insurmountable for you.”

  “And then what? I mean… after everything else? After the exam? After graduation? What will happen to me?”

  The hunchback smiled:

  “It shall be magnificent. Believe me. But at this stage I simply cannot explain it.”

  ***

  A few more days had passed.

  In those rare hours when Sasha managed to fall asleep, she dreamed of the monster from the black city. In her sleep she knew she had to fight, but felt no power, only terror and helplessness, and she would scream and wake up. Lena and Vika, who never managed to move, covered their heads with pillows.

  Yegor was avoiding her. Sasha was very sorry that the most unpleasant day in their relationship was now written into her “life history”—the day of her exasperation, Zhenya’s scandal, and that gossip that someone was eager to share with Yegor.

  But despite all her losses and fears, despite the mind-boggling load of those days, Sasha now felt herself happier every day.

  Her studies with Sterkh, the nightmare of her entire semester, now fascinated her. She did not exactly enjoy them, but was enthralled by the step-by-step progress of how a tiny success led to a bigger one. For the first time she realized the connection between her efforts and her growing internal power. She no longer doubted her supreme powers. Sasha used to ignore Sterkh’s words regarding her “rare gift,” but now she knew he was right, understood that she did indeed possess an exceptional talent in a still mysterious but infinitely compelling area, and now she, who always loved to learn, had these mesmerizing, not entirely clear, but alluring prospects open invitingly ahead of her.

  She longed to speak with Kostya. Tell him everything, ask in secret—how was it for him? What does he feel when he follows the hunchback’s instructions?

  But Zhenya, ruddy-faced and menacing, always followed her husband like a shadow. Sasha did not dare to intrude.

  ***

  “According to the tradition of our Institute, second-year students are responsible for organizing the New Year’s Eve party. Considering that our test is scheduled for January third, I’d prefer Samokhina to take care of the annual holiday roast. I will give you an automatic passing grade. And you too, Pavlenko, as long as you turn in all your work today. A bit of clemency on my part—to make sure Samokhina has some help.”

  “I can’t do the roast,” Sasha said.

  Portnov put his hands behind his back.

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m very busy.”

  “You are busy.” Portnov took off his glasses. “So you propose I interfere with the work of your classmates who at this point have equal chances of passing this exam and having a make-up date? Do you realize how many of your colleagues are hanging by a thread and at this last possible moment trying to accomplish a semester’s worth of work?”

  The silence in the auditorium was as absolute as in Sterkh’s headphones.

  “Don’t look for trouble, Samokhina. Nikolay Valerievich is prepared to pass you right now and free up some of your precious time for the annual roast. Engage Group B, bring in the first years.”

  “I don’t know how!” Sasha got up. “I’ve never in my life had anything to do with amateur performances! I am not going to do it, I don’t want to!”

  “Samokhina,” Portnov said icily. “Your responsibility as a student is to study diligently and to meet your obligations regarding socially useful labor. And you will meet these obligations, otherwise you will have an unpleasant conversation with your advisor. Pavlenko, do you have any problems? Do you also have something against amateur performances?”

  “No,” Lisa put down her hand. “I will work on the roast… sure. But Nikolay Valerievich’s test…”

  “I will talk to him,” Portnov promised magnanimously. “As far as I know, he is quite satisfied with your work this semester.”

  ***

  “I did not tell him anything, if you care to know. I wasn’t the one who blabbed.”

  Lisa sat on the windowsill in her habitual pose, a cigarette smoking lightly in her hand.

  It’d been many months since she lived in, or even visited, the dorm. The sight of her old room caused her revulsion rather than nostalgia—she took a long time looking around, sneered, and even sniffed the air. Then she settled on the windowsill and clicked her lighter:

  “Alexandra, do you mind if I smoke?’

  “Go ahead,” Sasha pretended to ignore the sarcasm.

  Her roommates Lena and Vika retreated to the kitchen. Sasha sat behind the desk and opened the textual module.

  “Anyway, I did not say anything to Yegor. But I know for sure who did.”

  “I am not interested,” Sasha said.

  “At all?” Lisa took a drag.

  “At all. Because it’s a lie.”

  “Aren’t you a cool customer,” Lisa waved her hand to disperse the smoke. “Fine. Do you have any ideas about this party?”

  “Toporko should perform a striptease.”

  “Great idea.”

  “All we need to do is convince Toporko.”

  “All we need to do is to convince our guys to watch this massacre. Do you know any magic tricks?”

  “Sure—as long as you agree to get into a box. And I can ask the superintendent for a saw.”

  “A chain saw?”

  “A circular saw!”

  “And we can put Kozhennikov into the box,” Lisa said.

  The room became very quiet.

  “Farit Kozhennikov,” Lisa clarified, avoiding Sasha’s eyes. “But yeah, you’re right. It was a stupid joke. So what are we going to do?”

  ***

&nb
sp; A huge movie projector, a half-century-old technical wonder, stood in the projectionist’s booth. There was also a primitive audio mixing console, and now Sasha, looking at the stage through a blurry window and listening to the actors’ lines, cued different melodies through the speakers.

  Lisa proved to be indispensable in preparing the traditional roast. Sasha was amazed—and kept mentally thanking Portnov for giving Pavlenko an automatic passing grade. Somehow Lisa managed to involve about ten first years, a couple of ladies from the dean’s office, and Oksana from Group B (Oksana did not get to pass automatically, but she was a good student and was pretty sure of herself). In only a few days they planned, designed and directed a half-hour show. Sasha’s participation boiled down to sitting in the projectionist’s booth and turning on the music.

  The rehearsal went very smoothly, but when the hall filled with excited, noisy students, when the professorial staff walked in and settled in the third row, Sasha found herself to be exceptionally nervous. To add to her discomfort, the words spoken on the stage were not as audible as they were in the empty hall—Sasha was afraid to miss a cue and strained her ears by the booth’s window.

  The actors must have been nervous as well. The beginning was not particularly successful, one of the first years forgot a line, and the punch line of the joke was lost. Panicking, Sasha turned on the music way too loud, and Lisa was forced to shout over the music, she threw violent glances at the projectionist’s booth, but Sasha, instead of lowering the volume, made it even louder. To Lisa’s credit, she did not lose control; after the first few awkward minutes, the actors found their footing, the holiday roast started going smoothly, and the audience, anemic at first, was now laughing harder with each skit.

  Listening intently to the actors’ lines, Sasha heard the door open and close behind her back. She cued “The Dance of the Little Swans,” and only then turned around.

  “Sorry, do you mind if I sit here for a while?” Zakhar whispered.

  Sasha was taken aback. They exchanged friendly hellos in the hallway, but were not exactly close friends.