Sergey Dyachenko - Vita Nostra

“I thought it was decided,” Valentin said.

“Yes, but there could be all sorts of circumstances. Who knows what could happen,” disconcerted, Sasha squished a piece of the cake on her plate. “What if some official wants to transfer his relative to the third year group. For example. And then there is no vacancy left for me. It’s not all that easy, is it?”

Mom was silent.

“Don’t you want to leave Torpa?” Valentin asked silkily.

“Well,” Sasha swallowed a piece of cake with effort. This was not the right time, not a good time at all for this conversation; she so desperately wanted to relax peacefully and not think of sad things, so desperately wanted to push this discussion to a later time…

“Well, I guess… I think it’s better for me at Torpa. I have friends there… and I formed connections with the professors, informal ones. I have an enhanced stipend. And I’m not even talking about the apartment… I mean, in Torpa I’m a star, and here I’d be just a dog’s tail.”

Mom was silent. Sasha did not dare look up.

“Aren’t you exaggerating?” Valentin asked.

“No,” Sasha glided her finger along the edge of her teacup. “I miss you, of course, and I would like to live with you. But I got used to it in two years… and it’s school, you know. I’m nineteen years old. It would be a pity to have to start all over again.”

“Do you have a boyfriend there?” Valentin smiled encouragingly.

Sasha hesitated. This was a perfect opportunity to lie. They would believe in love.

“Well… what can I tell you… sort of, yes.”

“And what did you say your specialty is called?” Valentin threw a sideways glance at Mom.

“Professor of Philosophy,” Sasha made up this lie in advance. “And theory of culture. On a college level. Secondary academic institutions…”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Why not? It’s a good profession. And I might be asked to do some graduate work,” Sasha tried to speak effortlessly and at the same time self-confidently.

Silence descended upon the kitchen. It was so quiet that she could hear the rustling of the bubbles rising in the glasses of unfinished champagne.

“I see,” Mom’s voice was hollow. “Good night, I’m going to bed.”

She rose and left the kitchen. Sasha stared at the uneaten cake.

She opened her eyes. Mom stood at the door of her room, silent and still.

“Mom?!”

“Shhhh… Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Sasha said automatically. “What happened?”

Mom took one step. And one more tiny step. As if she did not dare getting closer.

“Nothing happened. I got up… I didn’t want to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

She turned to leave. Then stopped again in the doorway.

“I had a dream… Remember how we went for a boat ride?”

“What boat ride?” Sasha propped herself up on one elbow.

“The boat ride around the lake… Don’t you remember? We had these oars, bright yellow, plastic ones…”

“No. What time is it?”

“Half past twelve. You wouldn’t remember, you were only three years old. I’m going, go back to sleep.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Sasha lay on her back. A boat ride… She had clear memories of herself at three years old, remembered the cubbies in her day care center, remembered the merry-go-round in the park…

But not the boat ride.

Mom must have dreamt it.

At half past two, still unable to sleep, Sasha tiptoed to the balcony. She struggled through the drying coverlets and swaddling blankets and stood in the fresh wind. She leaned over the railing.

She had two days left at home, and Mom had yet to find out.

Sasha desperately longed to walk into Mom’s bedroom, hold Mom in her arms and cry. She wanted it so much that she even took one step.

Then she stopped.

She looked down. She swung her legs over the balcony railing and perched on top, kicking her feet in mid-air. The pink phone stayed in her room, on the rug next to her bed, and Sasha knew that she was not going to leap, was not going to soar, not going to rise above the city… Even though the evening was warm, and ascending streams rose up from the earth, and there, up above, the air was infinitely fresher and cleaner than here on this balcony.

She felt sorry for Mom. In the grand scheme of things she could care less about Valentin; chances are he wouldn’t be all that upset about Sasha’s decision… but she felt so sorry for Mom that her pity made it hard to breathe. Her ribs hurt.

She closed her eyes. No, she’s not going to fly, not going to allow for the temptation. But is she forbidden from sending up a tiny projection of herself? A reflection of Sasha Samokhina in the mirror of the August sky?

She did not have a chance to decide whether her actions were out-of-bounds. Everything happened by itself. She sat clutching the balcony railing, and she rose higher still above the linden trees; the street stretched into a yellow ruler, and only every other streetlight burned along the road. Advertising boards opened up like windows, brightly, even harshly lit. Sasha’s shadow drifted, drawing slow circles in the sky.

“I’m sitting on the balcony, I’m not flying. I don’t manifest anything, and I don’t read forbidden books. I don’t listen to extra tracks. I am not doing anything wrong…”

The dark spot of the park lay underneath her feet. Sasha inhaled its scent of grass and freshness through her widening nostrils. She slowed down, wanting to linger in that fresh stream: the stink of hot asphalt and old exhaust gas made her suffocate, especially after the clean air of Torpa.

August. A sea of stars. A dull, dusty city below. One of the many shadows of the Eternal City that perishes and is reborn every second. Sasha’s shadow circled and circled, and she herself sat on the balcony, as if hypnotized by the light of the distant flames.

She is Word; she’s a verb in the imperative mood… not yet… she’s still human… but how can she fly?!

Baby Valentin’s smile.

He’s also a word. Mom says gently: “Sunny baby.”

And somebody says: “Moron, creep, idiot!”

And that is what will happen.

And somebody says: “Get up! It’s already half past seven!”

And somebody says: “Go away.”

There are words that are simply trash, refuse, they turn into nothing immediately after they are spoken. Others throw shadows, hideous and pathetic, and sometimes gorgeous and powerful, capable of saving a dying soul. But only a few of these words become human beings and pronounce other words. And everyone in the world has a chance of encountering someone whom he himself spoke out loud…

The sun was rising.

Sasha sat on the balcony railing like a parrot on its perch, and stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

“When are you planning to return to Torpa?”

“I have a ticket for tomorrow night.”

The answer burst out of her with suspicious ease. Perhaps Sasha’s shadow still soared over the city and park, while Sasha herself sat in the kitchen, smearing a pat of butter on the slice of white bread.

“What do you mean—tomorrow night?!”

Mom’s face looked exactly the way Sasha feared it would look last night.

“You got tickets for tomorrow—in advance?!”

Sasha pressed the butter onto the smooth wheat fabric, flattened it out, and then pressed it again.

“I have extra classes, the summer sessions. Even during vacation.”

“You are lying,” Mom said sharply.

Sasha looked up in surprise.

“I’m not lying. I know it sounds strange. But it is true.”

“Or at least partially true,” she added to herself.