Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

She was afraid of falling asleep over the book, but the exercises kept her awake, like bright lights or loud music. Swollen eyelids itched, and every now and then she had to stretch her aching back. Tomorrow (actually, today already) was Tuesday—Portnov was going to check her knowledge of the paragraphs; at four in the morning, Sasha put aside “Exercises” and opened Textual Module 2. In this one, the paragraphs were longer that in Module One, and each one of them ended in almost a full page underlined in red.

I can’t read this, Sasha thought, staring at the yellowing page scattered with the discordant nonsensical words. I cannot commit this to memory. Let Farit do what he must.

Many hours of studying did something to her head. She felt like a crystal, transparent, fragile, and perfectly calm, like an icicle. Like an apathetic chunk of glass. She tried to cry, as a child tries riding a scooter after a long winter break. She managed. Large tears rolled down her cheeks, but Sasha felt neither sadness, not despair, no emotions whatsoever—as if her tears came out of an open faucet.

She stopped crying—again, simply by willing herself to stop. Wiped her cheeks. She harnessed herself into the text and pulled it; she felt as if she were untangling a knot of barbed wire with her eyes.

“…fear of death and did not find it… There was no fear because there was no death….”

She kept going. That first time, in the library, the erupted meaning was bright blue. This time, it was gray, with a dull shine, steely. Very disconnected. Sasha understood almost nothing aside from “fear of death.” She continued reading, hoping for another eruption, but the lines stretched like rusty centipedes, leaving footprints in her brain, and their meaning eluded her.

At seven in the morning an alarm clock went off under Oksana’s bed.

In the bathroom mirror, a monster with a wrinkled pale countenance and red inflamed eyes stared back at Sasha. Her pupils contracted oddly and seemed very small; she blinked several times trying to figure out what was so wrong with her own reflection. Her pupils went back to normal about ten minutes later.

She skipped Math and English. Put some makeup on to look a bit more normal. She walked the school corridors, head low to the ground, avoiding her classmates. Today’s schedule of individual sessions was posted on the bulletin board: Sasha had the three thirty slot. She hid in a far corner, hopped onto the windowsill and stretched her tired legs.

Seventy two hours without sleep. She’d never thought she was capable of that. But she did not even feel sleepy. Forty-five minutes remained until her time with Portnov; she leaned on the wall to run through the underlined text one more time and lowered her lids for just a moment.

When she opened her eyes, the window was dark. And the hallway was dark. Around the corner only a day lamp was on.

Sasha jumped, covered in cold sweat. She looked at her watch—ten minutes before six; the individual sessions had ended an hour ago.

She ran. Her steps resonated in the empty corridor. The door numbered 38 was locked; Sasha tugged it a few times, hoping for a miracle. She looked around. Alexandra Samokhina was the only human being in the entire long dimly lit corridor. Silence prevailed within the Institute, and only somewhere above her, laughter and screaming could be heard: table tennis players congregated at the door of the gym.

Sasha adjusted the bag on her shoulder and went down the hall. She did not know why. She probably should be going to the dorm. She probably could not change anything at this point. Perhaps as early as tomorrow she would have to explain to Portnov… At the very thought of explaining anything to Portnov, Sasha started crying, this time for real, out of pity for herself.

“Where have you been?”

Kostya leapt at her out of the shadows, from underneath the bronze belly of the horse.

“Where the hell have you been? I tried… I went everywhere, chased everyone down, changed the schedule, made sure somebody took your slot, and then more people… more changes… I kept thinking you’d show up… I waited until the last possible moment! Where were you?”

“I fell asleep,” Sasha said, letting her tears flow. “I memorized everything. Last night. I fell asleep.”

“Shoot,” Kostya said after a pause. “You should have seen… He totally lost it. He yelled at me, at everyone else… because you did not show up.”

Sasha sat down on the granite pedestal and wrapped her arms around herself. Kostya sat next to her. The way he was sitting there, silently, his side touching her side, the way he was sniffling and staring directly in front of them made Sasha catch her breath and momentarily hate herself. She hated herself for staying away from him. For the anchovies in tomato sauce. For avoiding eye contact and missing classes. For everything.

“I wanted to go twice,” Kostya said. “For myself and then for you.”

She broke down sobbing. Going to the individual session with Portnov twice was equivalent to dying twice; Kostya was ready to do it for her, and she ran out of his bed, threw up all over his room and thumbed her nose at him for nearly a week!

“Is he gone yet?” she asked through her tears.

Kostya shrugged.

“He’s still at school. I’ve been here for a while, since the one-on-ones finished up. He hasn’t left yet. Listen, what if I go tell him that I found you, and you are sick? Passed out… Why not?”

Sasha shook her head. Lying to Portnov equaled suicide. Kostya’s volunteering to be the messenger equaled self-sacrifice.

“I’ll go see him myself.” She was conscious of her tears causing her mascara cover her face in black streaks; but it was all that damn snot that made her nose swell up and redden. “Before he leaves. Let him do what he wants.”

“He’s livid! Don’t go now—let him cool down a little bit.”

“Cool down? Portnov?”

Sasha got up. The concierge in the glass booth gaped at her with bewilderment and sympathy.

“Just wait for me,” Sasha said feebly. “It’ll be easier for me if I know you’re waiting.”

Kostya nodded.

Sasha went downstairs, toward the dining hall door, closed by now. Across from the entrance was a full-size mirror. Sasha did not pay much attention to her overall reflection, but she cleaned up the black streaks around her eyes as well as she could. She took a deep breath and went further down, to the corridor with brown imitation leather doors. The first one, wide, double-paned, bore a sign: “Teachers’ Lounge.”

Sasha knocked softly, and the sound drowned in the leathery thickness. She knocked on the door knob.

“What’s the matter?”

The voice was harsh. It was Portnov’s voice.

Sasha tugged on the door handle.

She saw a long, softly lit room, furnished with several couches along the walls, a coat hanger with a few raincoats, and a completely naked plastic mannequin. Further away from the door Portnov sat behind an old writing desk. He stared at Sasha over his glasses, his eyes ice-cold and immobile.

Kostya is waiting for me, she reminded herself and swallowed.

“What do you need, Samokhina?”

“I learned it,” Sasha said, trying not to show her fear. “I learned everything. I’m ready for the one-on-one.”

“What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“What time was your individual session scheduled for?”

“For three thirty… But I am ready! You can check…”

“Why do I need to spend my own personal time on you?”

Sasha was taken aback.

“You missed your session, Samokhina. The ship has sailed.”

“But I had a legitimate reason!”

“No, you did not. No reason is legitimate when missing an individual session. I’m writing a report to Kozhennikov, let him take disciplinary action.”