Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

She sat behind the writing bureau. She did not fall on the floor unconscious, as could be expected. She sat moving her pencil over the sheet of paper, and the entire paper was covered with scribbles, strokes, and spirals.

“What is going to happen to her?” Kostya asked again.

Again she missed the reply. The sound of water stopped. Farit Kozhennikov stepped into the room, and Sasha shut her eyes for a second. Only for a second: Farit wore light-grey glasses, almost transparent—but still opaque.

“Should I go?” Kostya’s voice sounded hollow.

Kozhennikov placed two washed cups on the shelf. Sasha recalled drinking kefir yesterday morning, and not having a chance to do the dishes before classes.

“If you are not busy, son, you can run down to the corner store and get some tea, biscuits and instant coffee. That is something Sasha Samokhina truly needs right now. Can you do that?”

“I will,” Kostya said after a short pause.

“Here is some money,” Farit put his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“I don’t need any, I have my own money.”

Kostya left without looking at Sasha.

She glanced at the sheet in front of her. In its center, almost hidden by her scribbles, an unfinished symbol twitched slightly. While she watched, the symbol lost its volume, flattened, until it finally froze. Farit carefully pulled the paper from underneath Sasha’s clenched fingers and brought over his lighter. The paper went up in flames. Kozhennikov opened the screen of the tiny fireplace and put the wisp of flame onto the sooty bricks.

He opened the window a little wider:

“Omnipotent, are you?”

Sasha rubbed her eyes; they burned as if from a long look at the sun. Cloudy tears poured down her face, finally washing off the meticulously applied mascara.

‘They worry about you,” Kozhennikov murmured. “But they don’t know everything about you. If they did—they would kill you to avoid a universal catastrophe…”

He may have been speaking with irony. He employed a bit of sarcasm. Or maybe he didn’t.

Sasha stared at her pencil. Kozennikov picked up a stool and sat in front of her—very close. She could have touched him if she wanted to.

“Do you feel like a genie fresh out of the bottle? Ready to build castles and destroy them? You can do anything, anything at all?”

Now he seemed serious. Or, perhaps, he was making fun of her.

“I can’t stop,” Sasha whispered. “I cannot—not be.”

“You can,” Kozhennikov said, and the sound of his voice made Sasha flinch. “Because I demand that you remain within the academic limits of this program. That you don’t draw live pictures without your professors present. That you don’t fly like Peter Pan, and don’t try to enter all the visible openings. This is my condition, and I never—remember, never!—ask for the impossible.”

He placed a cellular phone in a soft pink case in front of Sasha:

“This is for you. Call your mother right now and tell her your new number.”

Sasha swallowed.

“Do what I said,” Kozhennikov put a plastic card with a long number on the table. “Dial eight first.”

The phone worked. The keys sang gently when pressed.

Beep. Beep.

“Hello… Mom?”

“Sasha? Sasha, hello! Where are you? I can hear you so well!”

“Mom, I have a cell phone now. Write down the number.”

“Seriously? Isn’t that’s something! Listen, isn’t too expensive?”

“No… not really. Write it down.”

Kozhennikov sat, one leg thrown over the other, and watched Sasha through a pair of smoky glasses.

“So can I call you on this number?”

“Well, yes. At least if you urgently need to talk to me.”

“That’s great.”

“Mom… sorry, I can’t talk for a long time…”

“Bye! Good luck! We’re fine, the baby is doing well…”

“Say hello to… Valentin. Good bye.”

She pressed the Off button. A picture lit up on the display: a globe, or perhaps a stylized clock. Sasha took a deep breath.

“Good,” Kozhennikov nodded. “Now look me in the eyes and listen carefully.”

He took off his glasses. Sasha blinked; Kozhennikov’s brown eyes, ordinary, with normal pupils, stared her in the face:

“Always carry this phone with you. Don’t you dare turn it off. Make sure the battery has been charged. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“If you commit any offense, this phone will bring you bad news. You, genie fresh out of the bottle, remember: for each attempt to build yet another castle, you will get some very, very sad news. And you will find out immediately. Carry your telephone with you at all times.”

Sasha looked down at the phone.

It was small and delicate. In a pink fuzzy case with—as Sasha now saw—little pig ears. The case was shaped like a pig, with a drawn piggy snout; it was cute, almost childish.

Everything had just changed.

As if a genie flying up to heaven had suddenly been jerked by his beard and his face smashed into the concrete wall. And then locked in a cell, three meters by three meters. Without windows or doors.

Only a few minutes ago she felt omnipotent. Only a few minutes ago she felt how the new reality grew around her—it was slightly uncomfortable and a little terrifying, but the process was preeminently fascinating!

And now she was withering. Shriveling into a tiny blob. It happens when synthetic fabric is put on fire: a full-size elegant dress shrinks into a miniscule globule of black tar, and it happens in only a couple of seconds. Sasha, omnipotent just a minute ago, Sasha who could fly, who could transform the world—was now turning into a dot on a flat surface.

The doorbell rang. Kostya came back, carrying a pack of tea, a jar of coffee, biscuits and a chocolate bar; out of the corner of her eye Sasha saw him place the groceries on the shelf, but did not turn her head.

Kozhennikov said something to his son, who replied in a low voice, then in turn asked something. Sasha did not discern any words.

The door closed. Kostya left. Sasha remained immobile.

“I don’t see anything tragic,” Kozhennikov said softly. “You are going to continue all your previous activities, but only under the supervision of your professors. I think they might schedule additional sessions.”

“I won’t be able to study,” Sasha whispered.

“You will be able to. On the contrary, you will make a bigger effort. But… discipline, Sasha, discipline and self-control are very important things, sometimes crucial. Tell me, am I wrong?”

Sasha was silent.

“It is in your power to make sure it never rings,” Kozhennikov said gently. “All depends on you. As usual.”

“I saw you,” Sasha said. “When you entered the room. I went blind almost immediately. Farit, it’s impossible to live in the world where you exist.”

“It is impossible to live in the world where I do not exist,” he said after a short pause. “Although it’s hard to resign oneself to my existence, I understand that.”

“Don’t bend your knee, Sasha! Stretch, like this… just a little bit more, and you’ll make it!”

Lisa Pavlenko stretched into a split, bearing her hands down onto the floor, but maintaining an absent-minded facial expression. Sasha groaned and got up:

“I can’t. My muscles hurt too much.”

“Because you must stretch every day!” To strengthen his argument, the gym teacher pressed his hand to his chest. “Lisa stretched—and she did it, see?”

“I’m delighted for her,” Sasha said.

Dima Dimych sighed. Yulia Goldman has been standing in a bridge position for the last five minutes, curved like a triumphal arch, and the tips of her hair brushed the wooden floor.