Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

All night the dormitory had been awake: people yelled, sang songs accompanied by guitar chords, a boom box thundered somewhere. Every now and then somebody stamped down the corridor, this way and then the other. Somebody called for his friends out of the window. Somebody laughed uncontrollably. Going mad with insomnia, Sasha finally plunged into unconsciousness and dreamed strange dreams. At half past six Oksana started rustling her plastic bags, filling the room with the smell of pickles, and that rustling and the smell forced Sasha wide awake.

And now she watched the screen. The film was ancient, older than Sasha herself; the narrator’s voice in the old sound system made her ears pop, but no matter how hard she tried, Sasha heard nothing new or at least informative. Torpa is a beautiful ancient city. Tradition of higher education. Youth stepping into the adult life. Et cetera, et cetera. Black and white frames replaced each other: the streets of Torpa, really quite picturesque. Swans in the fountain. Institute’s façade, the dormitory’s façade, the glass dome over the equestrian statue. The voice pontificated on the importance of a properly chosen higher education facility, and how this affects one’s employment and career, talked about young specialists who graduate from the school annually, about life in the dormitory, about glorious traditions—the words were familiar and amorphous, they could be placed in any desired combination without losing any meaning. Sasha was caught off-guard when the film ended suddenly, the screen darkened, and the lights came back on.

First years squinted, exchanged glances, and shrugged. Portnov took a long stride across the stage, stopped at its edge and laced his hands behind his back.

“This concludes the official part of the proceedings. Let’s start our work. This year, thirty-nine first year students have been accepted, which makes two groups. Let’s call them Group A and Group B. Just like high school. Understood?

First years were silent.

“Students, whose mentors are Liliya Popova and Farit Kozhennikov, please come up.”

Sasha swallowed and remained seated. Lisa walked up the squeaky stairs, nervously smoothed out her very short skirt and stood to the side. A tall guy whom Sasha saw at the dining hall stood next to her. A student elbowed his way out of the center seat and stumbled over Sasha’s feet.

“Should we go?” Kostya asked quietly.

Sasha got up.

The stage was wide; nineteen people could have spread out from curtain to curtain, holding hands. But everyone huddled together, as if trying to hide behind each other’s back.

“Allow me to introduce first years, Group A,” Portnov motioned towards the stage. “Please welcome Group A.”

Someone in the audience clapped a few times.

“Your schedule will be posted right after the first block. Group B that is now sitting in the audience will be going to Physical Education, the gym is on the third floor, class starts in five minutes. Your second block is Specialty; we’ll meet then and have a chance to chat. Group A has Specialty during the first block in Auditorium number 1. Everyone, please proceed to your assigned blocks. You have four minutes, tardiness is not appreciated.

Portnov stepped down the squeaky steps and left the hall through the side entrance. Lisa moved back and smoothed out her mini-skirt again. Sasha was shocked by the length of Lisa’s legs.

“Sasha!”

Sasha looked back. Oksana, still wearing the same jersey sweater, was waving to her from the audience.

“We’re going to be in different groups, that’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“Off to the gym…” somebody mumbled.

“I don’t even have any sneakers, just regular shoes…”

Group B slowly pulled out of the hall. Sasha turned to Kostya.

“Who’s this Liliya Popova?” she whispered.

Kostya shook his head.

“I have no clue.”

“What do you mean?” Sasha was surprised. “But you are… how did you get here, anyway? You said your father… “

“My father.” Kostya nodded. “Farit Kozhennikov is my father. Why?”

Auditorium number 1 was located on the first floor; off the hall with the equestrian statue. The sun was beating from the outside, the glass dome shined like a projector’s lens. The light was washing over the stallion and equestrian’s sides and rolled off of them like water off a seal’s back. Precise shadows of enormous feet in stirrups lay on the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was your father?”

“How was I supposed to know you knew him too? I thought…”

“If he… if you are his son, how could he stick you into this hole?!”

“How do I know? I hadn’t seen him for many years. He divorced my mother when… that’s not important. He showed up and gave me an ultimatum, and… “

“But is he really your father?”

“Well, I suppose so, considering that my full name is Kozhennikov, Konstantin Faritovich!”

“Holy cow,” said Sasha, utterly astonished.

Group A flowed into the small auditorium, similar to a middle-school classroom. A black board with a dusty rag and a piece of chalk made the similarity all the more obvious. They barely had time to choose their seats and place their bags on the floor, when the bell rang dismally in the hall, and immediately—that very second—Portnov entered: a long blond ponytail down his back, glasses perched on his nose, and an intense stare over the narrow lenses.

He pushed his chair away from the massive teacher’s desk. Sat down. Laced his fingers together in front of him.

“All right… Good morning again, students.”

He was answered by dead silence; only a spaced out fly kept throwing itself against the window pane. Portnov opened a thin paper log book and glanced over the list.

“Goldman, Yulia.”

“Here,” a voice said from the back row.

“Bochkova, Anna.”

“Here,” said a plump girl with a pale, sickly face.

“Biryukov, Dmitry.”

“Here.”

“Kovtun, Igor.”

“Here.”

“Kozhennikov, Kostya.”

A chill moved over the auditorium. Many heads turned. Kostya visibly tensed up.

“Here,” he croaked.

“Korotkov, Andrey,” Portnov continued as if nothing had happened.

“Here.”

“Myaskovsky, Denis.”

“Here!”

Sasha listened to the roll call, doodling on the side of the page. Nineteen people. Her high school class had almost forty students…

“Pavlenko, Lisa.”

“That’s me,” said Lisa.

“Samokhina, Aleksandra.”

“That’s me,” Sasha breathed out.

“Toporko, Zhenya.”

“Here,” murmured a small, very young-looking girl with two long braids.

“Everyone is present,” Portnov admitted with satisfaction. “Take out your notepads. On top of the first page, write down ‘Portnov, Oleg Borisovich.’ In case somebody missed it, my subject is Specialty.”

First years fumbled around. Kostya did not have a notepad. Prudent Sasha supplied him with a sheet from her own notepad.

“In the future you must bring your textbooks and notepads to every class. Regarding textbooks…” Portnov unlocked a wooden cabinet and took out a stack of books. “Samokhina, give these to your classmates.”

Sasha, an eternal straight-A student, got up before she had time to be surprised. Even the most intelligent teacher usually required a few days to memorize first and last names of his students. Portnov memorized everyone from the first try; or did he pay special attention to Sasha?

She accepted a heavy stack of books that smelled like an old library. The books looked identical and not very new. Sasha walked through the auditorium, placing two books on each desk.