Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

“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.”

Sasha did not respond. The brunette shrugged—you’re the boss.

“My name is Lisa,” the blonde told Sasha. “And this is Oksana.”