Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

Sasha began to read.

She stumbled on the very first line. Word after word, paragraph after paragraph, the book consisted of complete gibberish.

Her first thought was “printing error.” She threw a quick glance at Kostya’s textbook, and at the same time he peeked at hers.

“Is yours the same garbage?”

“No talking,” Portnov said quietly. “Continue reading. Pay attention. I warned you: you will have to work hard.”

‘It’s not in Russian,” Anya Bochkova squealed softly.

“I did not say it was going to be in Russian. Read silently to yourself. You do not have a lot of time left in this class.”

Sasha lowered her head.

Somebody laughed. Giggles spread over the class, like epidemics, but Portnov ignored it. The laughter died down on its own. Sasha forged through the long, senseless combinations of letters, and her hair stood on end. She imagined that somebody was repeating those sounds after her in a dark room with mirrors instead of walls, and each word, after reflecting over and over in the mirrors, finally gained meaning, but by then Sasha had moved two sections ahead, and the meaning flies away from her, like smoke from a fast-moving locomotive…

When the relatively short section ended, she was dripping with sweat. She labored to catch her breath. Five paragraphs at the very end were underlined with a red pen.

The bell rang outside.

“Homework,” Portnov said. “Read Section 1 three times, from beginning to end. The underlined paragraphs are to be memorized. By heart. Tomorrow we have one-on-one practice during the third block. Kozhennikov will compile the list.”

“Why me?” Kostya jumped up.

“Because you are now the prefect,” stated Portnov matter-of-factly. “Class is dismissed. You next class is physical education.”

Group A, unusually silent, stopped in the hall, at the foot of the massive staircase. Group B was walking down, chatting happily; the gym class seemed to have put them in a good mood. Oksana walked down the stairs, her cheeks burning bright red in the semi-darkness, like two slices of watermelon.

Upon seeing the other group, Oksana slowed down, “Any reason you look so miserable?”

“You’ll find out,” Lisa promised darkly.

“We should get to the gym,” Kostya hesitated. “No point in standing here until midnight…”

“Prefect,” said Lisa with an unidentifiable modulation. “Is your last name Kozhennikov?”

“Yeah, why?”

“And who is Farit… Sorry, I don’t know his full name?”

Kostya clenched his fists.

“He’s my father. So? So what?”

“Leave him alone, it’s not his fault,” Sasha said softly. “He’s in the same situation as the rest of us. He was forced into it as well.”

Lisa turned sharply and started walking up the stairs. The mini-skirt clung to her butt, long tanned legs flashed in the semi-darkness.

“Hmm,” pondered Andrey Korotkov, a tall, square-shouldered guy older than most of them—he probably ended up in Torpa after his military service.

Sasha, trying not to look at anyone, followed Lisa up to the third floor, to the door with a modest sign: “Sports Center.”

The gym teacher was a gorgeous dark-haired creature around twenty-five years of age. A thin yellow shirt clung to his powerful chest and back muscles; bare shoulders and arms demonstrated impressive physique. In front of the line-up, Dmitry Dmitrievich (that was his name) shared his entire life story with the group: he used to be a professional wrestler, enjoyed considerable success, got hurt during a match, was forced to leave professional sports and become a trainer, but since he had no teaching experience, he was happy to be employed by a regional college. While telling them all the minute details, the gym teacher smiled shyly; Sasha understood why Group B seemed so happy, especially the girls. Dima Dimych—because how else but informally, like a good buddy, could one address him?— resembled a powerful but naïve tiger cub, and the thought that their schedule included four gym classes a week now made them deliriously happy, instead of depressed as it should have. Dima reminded them to wear athletic uniforms and sneakers to each class and promised to teach special classes, wrestling for boys and table tennis for girls. Yulia Goldman, feisty and lively, immediately claimed discrimination—Why, she asked, did he think wrestling was only for boys? Why couldn’t girls wrestle? To the vast amusement of the audience, Dima blushed and promised “to think of something.” By way of warm-up, he suggested they take off their shoes, split into three teams and play a game of basketball.

A very recent thick layer of paint covered the gym floor. Bright green and bright yellow fields, thick white lines, thuds of the orange basketball, the smell of rubber and sweat; Sasha ran between the baskets, imitating action rather than really playing. What was happening then was a perfectly normal, joyful, juicy slice of life, and she had trouble believing that half an hour ago she was reading Section 1, bending under the will of a sadistic professor in elongated glasses on the tip of his nose.

Here they were being bullied. Forced to read absolute gibberish and commit it to memory. The same senseless process as having to scrub a cobblestone plaza with a toothbrush. Or sort out grains, that would later be all mixed together again, and again, and again, and the work is difficult, and the grains are tiny… And again, senseless labor. Punishment. Humiliation.

But what is the point? Who needs this Institute of Special Technologies with its entire staff, dining hall, Dean’s Office, dormitories? What it is, a nest of sadism?

Kostya passed her the ball over Yulia’s head. Sasha caught it, dribbled a few feet, threw it into the hoop, but at the last moment Lisa aimed a heavy blow at her arm. The ball bounced off the hoop, landed in the hands of someone on the other team and—thump-thump-thump—ended up at the opposite end of the gym; Lisa followed, tugging on her mini-skirt, which, frankly speaking, was not the best attire for a basketball game…

Sasha’s team lost.

“I can’t memorize it! I just can’t!”

The textbook flew into the corner, hit the dresser door, landed on the floor and stayed there, its yellow pages splayed open. Oksana hit the desk with both fists, making the table lamp hop.

“I can’t! I am not going to study this! They are making fun of us!”

“That’s what I am thinking,” Lisa sat on the windowsill, smoking, a glass jar in front of her full of lipsticked cigarette butts.

“What will happen if we don’t learn it?” Sasha asked.

All three girls fell silent. The question that tortured all of them all day was now out in the open.

It was evening. The sun was setting outside their window. Somewhere someone was strumming his guitar. Behind them was the first day of classes, Specialty, Physical Education, Philosophy and World History. Neither the third, nor the fourth block brought any surprises. Sasha wrote down the definition of the principal point of philosophy and how Materialism differs from Idealism, took notes on the dwellings of primitive peoples and their customs, and received two perfectly ordinary textbooks. An excellent dinner was consumed in dead silence. First years returned to the dorm, began to study, and soon found out that the homework assigned by Portnov was an impossible task to accomplish.

One could read this nonsense, forcing one’s self every step of the way. But memorizing the underlined passages—that was unfeasible. The brain refused to function, and spots swam before their exhausted eyes. Oksana was the first one to crack, and her textbook flew across the room.