Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

“Stop screeching, there are some left. I’ll buy you some more.”

“Yeah, sure, you’ll buy me more. If I see you stealing them again, I’ll stick those pads where the sun don’t shine!”

Sasha slipped on her bathrobe and shuffled into the bathroom. In the mirror, a pale, haggard, but calm and even handsome face looked back at her. Sasha blinked: her pupils unfolded and snapped shut again, like black photo diaphragm, then went back to normal.

She took a shower and washed her hair; only then did she discover that her hair dryer had burned out.

“Who broke my hair dryer?”

“Wasn’t me,” Lisa was ready to leave. “The bell is in ten minutes, and I’m not going to listen to Portnov’s hysterics because of you!”

“You’ll have to deal with it, thanks to whoever broke it! Oksana, let me borrow yours.”

“I lent it to Luba from Room 19, she hasn’t returned it yet. Just wrap your hair in a towel, you’ll be fine!”

Sasha dried her hair with a towel as well as she could. She pulled on a knit cap, scrambled into her jacket, threw some books and notepads into her bag and ran across the yard toward the main building. She burst into Auditorium number 1, plopped into her seat next to Kostya; the same second the bell rang.

A minute had passed. Portnov was not there. First years exchanged glances and began to talk softly.

“Think he might be sick?” someone asked hopefully.

“Yeah, right…”

“Keep dreaming…”

The door flew open. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Portnov walked in, tossed a quick hello, sat behind his desk. He inclined his head and gazed at the students above his glasses. The silence in the auditorium felt sterilized.

“Half of this semester has come and gone,” Portnov stated. “Winter finals are fast approaching. You will have two graded exams: Philosophy and History. And pass-fail exams in all other subjects. Obviously, one of them is Specialty; those who do not pass the first time, will have an unpleasant conversation with your advisors.”

A pencil rolled off Zhenya Toporko’s desk, fell on the floor with a thump, but she did not dare pick it up.

“Today, I must tell you something,” Portnov continued. “I told some of you today during your one-on-one sessions, and now I will tell all of you. The exercises that you are working on, overcoming your tunnel vision and your laziness, change you from the inside. Perhaps you have already noticed. If you have not, you will notice it later.”

He paused. Sasha longed to look at Kostya, but she restrained herself.

“We stand at the very beginning of the road,” Portnov spoke in short, staccato sentences. “Preliminary work is being done. Considering the rate we’re going at, I can swear: in many years, I have never had to teach a more undisciplined, indolent group of students. The only group worse than you is Group B, but they are way below any expectations, and I highly doubt half of those students will be attending the graduation ceremony.”

Silence.

“Samokhina,” Portnov barked.

Sasha got up.

“Come here.”

Sasha faced the auditorium.

“How many exercises have you completed?”

“Twelve.”

Portnov faced the audience.

“Have any of you wunderkinds accomplished twelve exercises by now? Pavlenko, how many have you done?”

“Six,” Lisa whispered.

“Toporko, you?”

“Eight…”

“And you, Kozhennikov?”

“Three,” Kostya said. Despite bright red blotches, his face appeared very pale.

“This girl gets a pass automatically,” Portnov did not look at Sasha. “She knows how to study. She became a leader after the very first class, now she is gone far ahead of all of you and can face the winter finals with confidence. You—the rest of you—remember: there are only two graded Specialty exams, a mid-term in your third year, and a placement exam in your fifth year. However, the pass-fail test at the end of each semester will be a significant life-defining event for all of you, I promise you that much. Samokhina, you may sit down.”

Sasha sat down. Behind her back, Group A was hushed. Everyone will hate me, Sasha thought almost cheerfully. Although, you’d think… what is there to envy?

At that moment she felt as if a low ceiling had spread apart within her. Massive concrete walls drifted apart, hit by a ray of light. All that was hairy and dark, all that frightened her, trampled her, in this light looked comical and pathetic. As if the underside of a low-budget horror movie suddenly opened up: used and worn-out monsters, Death in a shroud bearing a dry-cleaner’s stamp, a diminutive overweight director…

“Hey, what’s with you?”

Sasha willed herself to close her eyes—and then open them again. Her classmates scurried around, noisily moving chairs around, somebody laughed out loud. Something had happened.

Portnov was no longer in the auditorium. The door was wide opened.

“What happened?” Sasha squinted.

“The class is over,” Kostya explained dryly. “Gym’s next. Did you bring your uniform?”

Things were now happening very fast. Left to her own devices, Sasha reached the third floor after the bell; she joined the line still wearing her jeans and a sweater.

“Look who’s here!” the young gym teacher exclaimed. “Alexandra! How come you never come to class? And when you do show up, you’re not wearing your uniform.”

“She has no time, she’s on a special advanced program,” Lisa volunteered. Somebody sniggered.

“You must remember that Physical Education is a major subject, along with Specialty. And that a winter exam awaits all of you, without pity or consideration!”

The line giggled.

“I’ll go change,” Sasha said.

“Go, but hurry up! We’re starting the warm-up! Turn…. Right! And go! Korotkov, hold the tempo!”

Sasha trotted to the locker room. She shook her wrinkled jogging suit and sneakers out of her bag. The narrow, stuffy locker room was overflowing with shoes, foppish boots with fashionable platform soles and stylish stilettos. Jeans and skirts hung on metal hooks like beef carcasses at the butcher’s, a bunch of sweaters lay crumpled on the bench. Somebody’s sweater fell on the floor. Automatically, Sasha bent down to pick it up.

There was no fear. No courage, either. She felt detached, like a fish in slow-motion. One-two-three-four, counted Dima Dimych. Sneakers thump-thumped on the gym floor. Warm-up was in progress.

“She didn’t take it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know! You’re trying to get even with her for something…”

“Shut up, stop yelling…”

First years from Group A surrounded a bench in the yard. Lisa perched on the back of the bench, stiletto heels propped on the dirty seat.

“Samokhina! I had a hundred bucks in my jacket pocket. Give it back, or you’ll be really sorry.”

Sasha stopped.

The forth block was over. During Philosophy and History, lists of sample exam questions were distributed. Sixty questions each, one hundred and twenty altogether; obviously, she wouldn’t have the time to learn it. She owed Portnov Exercises thirteen through seventeen by Saturday, and tomorrow’s Tuesday, that means individual session, paragraphs…

“Samokhina, are you deaf?”

After her experience during the first block, Sasha’s brain indeed moved a bit slowly.

They crowded around the bench: Lisa in the company of guys, her friends and minions. Kostya, his face red and pathetic. Andrey Korotkov, massive and grim. Zhenya… Igor… Denis…

“What did you say?” Sasha asked.

Lisa jumped off the bench, approached Sasha face to face, lipsticked mouth pulled into a thin line.