Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

The sky would grow dim like a screen. The street lanterns would light up, and Sasha’s breathing would get labored. She would wait, watching the surrounding roofs. A rare passerby would glance at her curiously.

Quite often the waiting would be futile. At half past one in the morning, gloomy and disappointed, Sasha would slide off the windowsill and go back to bed. And lie there for a long time, listening to the rustling noises of the night, until falling into a deep sleep.

But once in a while—two or three times a week—an enormous shadow would conceal the stars over Torpa for a second, and a dark figure would land on the opposite roof. It usually happened on the border of evening and night, when the sky was still light on the west, but the streets were already dipped in a dense darkness.

Then Sasha, choking with joy, would leap from the windowsill out on the street and unfold her wings—sometimes right above the pavement.

“…Sasha, of course, you can go. But it will be difficult and unnatural for you. It would be best if you went for three days, just let your family know right away—a lot of students do just that; a couple of days at home, and the rest of the time with their friends on some trip. Why should you be stuck inside four walls the entire time? Careful, don’t step on the shingles, they are broken…”

In the summer even the nights above Torpa were hot and humid, steam rose up from the ground, and the air trembled gently over the tiled roofs that retained the heat of the midday sun. During the short periods of rest Sasha would stretch on the tiles, absorbing their warmth, watching the stars, smiling vacantly.

During their nightly flights Sterkh did not so much instruct her, as—she understood it well—allowed her to materialize. He supervised and held her back with a great deal of tact; she slipped up only once—when she rose especially high over Torpa and suddenly saw that the town itself represented a phrase, a long complex sentence, and the comma could be moved easily.

Her right wing pressed to her side and the left one stretched out, gritting her teeth with unexpected pain in hollow bones, Sasha went into a tailspin. The lights of Torpa melted, merging into concentric circles. Then the lights went dark. Sasha plummeted into the world of many dimensions, cold and dry like discarded snake skin. Somebody’s will plucked her out of the darkness, again she saw the ground underneath, so very close, and expanded her wings right above the pavement.

Sterkh did not even reprimand her:

“You skidded. Lost control. Nothing happened, but do you see how important it is for me to remain close?!”

She calmed down incredibly fast. Perceiving herself as a Word made her forget the concept of fear, and even the wretched pink telephone did not cause her the usual despair.

Sterkh insisted on her return home as a well-brought up young lady, on foot and always through the front door.

“You are not going to crawl through the window like a cat into the birdhouse, are you? It’s so esthetically displeasing, don’t you agree?”

Sasha thanked him profusely for each of those night strolls. She did not know how she would have survived that summer without flying over Torpa’s rooftops.

On the train on her way home Sasha recalled in minute detail the tiles and the waterspouts, the sparrow nests and the weathervanes of the old town; she thought of a boy who once saw her out of his window. He was reading a book about The Kid and Karlsson Who Lived on the Roof; Sasha laughed and waved to him.

The train rushed through the forest. Sasha dreamed of coming back to Torpa.

“Here we go, he’s awake!”

A soft hesitant crowing could be heard from the bedroom. Wiping her hands on the way, Mom rushed into the room. At the door she smiled conspiratorially:

“You are not going to recognize him.”

Sasha sat at the table, moving the tip of her knife over the wooden cutting board. She thought malapropos of a lifeless baby lying on that table, and of herself pressing the telephone receiver to her ear, accepting and absorbing the silence, wringing out fragments of somebody else’s information. Thankfully, she did not have the pink cell phone back then. But then she had enough trouble without it.

It so happened that coming home on vacation, Sasha was constantly afraid of something: of appearing insane. Of killing a man. Of turning into a monster in front of everyone. Now when these fears were behind her, or so she hoped, Sasha was afraid of the moment when she would have to tell Mom about her return ticket.

The ticket lay in the pocket of her bag. The day after tomorrow, an evening departure.

“Come, baby Valentin, come, sweetie-pie… Your sister came home… Sasha is here… Let’s go say hello…”

Mom entered the kitchen smiling, a dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy with an intelligent albeit sleepy look on his face nestled in her arms. Sasha put aside her knife and got up.

How he had grown! From a little worm he’d turned into a human being, a child. He looked like Mom and like Sasha—the hair, the lips, the forehead. He had something of Valentin’s as well; sitting in his mother’s arms, he gazed at Sasha with cheerful incredulity, as if asking—and who do we have here?

“This is Sasha, your sister. Sasha came home. Our baby Valentin meet Sasha…”

“Hello,” Sasha said.

The baby looked at her with mistrust—and suddenly smiled.

Sasha understood why Mom called him “a sunny baby.” His round face became even rounder, and the dimples on his cheeks lay in semi-circles. Her brother watched her with sincere joy, as if he’s been waiting for Sasha for a long time.

As if he loved her.

“Shall we crack open the champagne?” Valentin rubbed his hands cheerfully. “In honor of Sasha’s return?”

Mom just put the baby to bed; he fell asleep soundly and without complaint. Sasha had a chance to notice that Mom’s lullaby was different—not the one from six months ago, not the one that she sang to Sasha. It was a new song.

One day of Sasha’s time at home went by. One out of three days. Only two remained, but neither Mom, nor Valentin, not even the baby knew about it yet.

“Sasha, for you, darling. Be healthy, and let all your dreams come true.”

“Mom, it’s not my birthday!”

“But we didn’t get to celebrate you birthday with you! Tell me, how was it?”

“The usual. I bought a cake, a chocolate one, kind of like this one. Brought it back, some kids came over, so we had the cake, made some tea…”

“What, no wine?” Valentin asked suspiciously.

“No, we’re not allowed to consume alcohol.”

The moment Sasha said it, she bit her tongue. Valentin and Mom exchanged meaningful glances.

“What’s so strange about it? It’s the usual practice in many schools these days,” Sasha lied.

“In our dorm we drank up to delirium tremens,” Valentin said.

“You see—and was that normal?”

Valentin again looked at Mom, but she did not respond—she watched Sasha, propping her cheek on her fist.

“Since I moved into the loft,” Sasha said to end the uncomfortable pause, “everything is really good. I get enough sleep. It’s such a pretty loft, I have a flowerbox, even a small fireplace, not a decorative one, a real working one, and in the winter I can make a fire.”

This time she bit her tongue extremely painfully.

“What do you mean—in the winter?” Mom asked. “You won’t be there in the winter, you’re going to transfer from Torpa, right?”

“Well, yes,” Sasha said quickly. “I mean… It’s still under consideration, right? They may not allow me to enroll as a transfer student, or something else may happen…”