***
They kissed in the foyers. The town of Torpa had plenty of dim, echoing, empty foyers. The foyers of some buildings smelled of cats, some of perfume or wet plaster. Some smelled of nothing. Old mailboxes, ficus trees in planters painted so many times that they looked monumental, a child’s sled, perambulators, a disassembled kid’s bike—the annals of the town were opening up to them, lobby after lobby, and Sasha learned to kiss properly on the brink of her eighteenth birthday.
Before, she’d considered kissing a useless ceremony. Now with Kostya, she finally understood the hidden meaning of this ritual; Sasha longed for one of these locked apartments to be theirs. She wanted to enter now—and remain inside for a long time. To live like that, forever holding hands.
It was snowing outside, and they ran in the snow, from one building to another. They drank coffee to warm up, and looked for another secluded nook. Once somebody, probably a street cleaner, caught them off-guard and yelled into their faces: “What do you think you’re doing here?” And they threw themselves out of the foyer like frightened children, into the snow. They ran and laughed, and knocked the snowflakes off the faces.
It must have been the happiest night of Sasha’s life.
***
November flew by like a commuter train. It was now December; the dormitory was cold once again. The radiators were barely warm, wind howled in the cracks.
“Verification: using empirical data or experiment to confirm the truth of theoretical scientific hypothesis by ‘returning’ to the visual level of knowledge, when the ideal nature of abstract entities is ignored, and they are ‘identified’ with the objects observed. For example, the ideal geometric objects—points, lines—are identified with their empirical images…”
Sasha thought of the lengthy definitions as baby dragons curled into a ball. All she had to do was to find its tail, and then carefully unwind the entire thing: the question led her, like a thread, along the creature’s spine. From tail to the heads, and there may be several of those… Sometimes Sasha enjoyed simply understanding the text. Sometimes she’d feel disillusioned, and think of the philosophy textbook as a brick of pre-masticated food; she learned definitions that were the result of somebody else’s inner life, but could not imagine the process that led to that result. She went to the library and requested books no one had wanted for the past few decades; she studied.
During those chilly days, the joy of learning, this heightened experience, had to compete with another newly found pleasure: kissing in dark hallways, behind the curtains in the assembly hall, in the empty classrooms. The closer the winter finals were, the more insistent Kostya became. His roommates, the second years, spent very little time in the dorm, and all they needed to do was to skip a block and lock the door from the inside, but Sasha stalled, trying to buy herself some time; her memory of their first try was still too awkward. And also—she liked that tightly stretched thread that now connected the two of them. She wanted her “kissing affair” to last forever.
New Year’s Eve was coming; the second years were preparing a celebratory roast, the town of Torpa draped itself with snow and now resembled a half-developed photograph. Black trees under the white sky, gray buildings in white muzzles of balconies, diffused contours, everything rippled and very clean. Sasha completed the book of exercises given to her by Portnov, while Kostya had barely made it to number thirty-five.
The schedule of winter finals had been posted. The amount of noise and late night parties decreased to a minimum. Sasha continued to run in the snow that fell overnight, beat her new footsteps into her own, and call home every Sunday. Mom asked when she was coming home for the winter break. Sasha did not know what to tell her.
English was their first pass-fail exam. Sasha passed easily. The gym teacher Dima Dimych gave everyone a passing grade, and for the rest of the block they played volleyball. Math required a serious effort. The Math professor had a long intricate signature: Sasha studied her report card like a work of art.
Their last exam was Specialty, scheduled for January second. “They did it on purpose,” Oksana stated gloomily. An excellent homemaker, she managed to dig up some pine branches, put them into a glass jar wrapped in aluminum foil, and decorated with tinsel. Now, in Oksana’s opinion, the room looked properly adorned.
Kostya either pranced around with sparklers and fireworks, or turned catatonic over a textbook:
“I don’t understand it, and I never will. The human brain is just not cut out for this! It cannot be imagined!”
Sasha made many attempts to help him, but every time she realized that her experience wasn’t worth a dime to Kostya. She failed to demonstrate how to move from number thirty-five to thirty-six. “Verification” proved to be of no use: Sasha gesticulated, drew pictures, talked about a bicycle chain, a spider’s web, Escher’s drawings of bees, fish and lizards. Desperate in his failure, Kostya concentrated on kissing.
“Will you just do him already,” Lisa suggested one winter evening, when Oksana lay in bed with a book, and Sasha sipped tea, about to start her new book of Exercises. “It’s painful to watch how you string him along.”
Sasha took hold of Lisa’s blond mane and gave it a sharp pull. Lisa howled. Oksana, who tended to stay neutral, hid deeper under her blanket and watched Sasha and Lisa trying to gouge each other’s eyes out.
Finally, Lisa withdrew and disappeared for the rest of the night.
***
On the twenty-ninth of December, a Christmas tree was erected in the assembly hall. On the thirtieth, the school filled with holiday hustle and bustle. Second years ran last-minute rehearsals; the dining hall staff moved tables, getting ready for the evening buffet. By six o’clock the assembly hall was packed; Sasha was surprised to see some of the teachers in the first rows—some she had seen before, some she’d never met. Hunchback Nikolay Valerievich was there as well—he sat next to Portnov, telling him what must have been a very amusing story. Strangely enough, Portnov was not wearing his usual glasses.
The dusty velvet curtain opened; Zakhar, Kostya’s roommate, came out wearing narrow glasses nearly identical to Portnov’s. His coordination was a little off, and he got a little tangled up in the curtain, but once establishing himself in the proscenium, he stared adamantly at the audience and, looking above his glasses in a very recognizable manner, informed them that everyone who did not pass the New Year’s Eve’s celebration on the first try would have an unpleasant conversation with their advisors. Sasha was stunned; the joke seemed way too audacious to her, but the second-year managed such a sharp and precise caricature of Portnov that only a minute later she laughed, and her laughter merged with the delight of the entire room.
Only when Zakhar was stepping off the stage, throwing ferocious looks and gestures at the audience (here he was going overboard, but the compliant crowd forgave him easily), Sasha realized that the glasses on Zakhar’s nose were real, actually belonging to and borrowed from Portnov. Shocked, she was about to mention it to Kostya, but at this moment second-year girls in very short skirts burst onto the stage accompanied by a deafening phonogram.
Never in her entire life would Sasha have imagined someone like Portnov lending his glasses to an impersonator for a better effect. But it was much harder to imagine that somewhere in this school was a person capable of actually submitting such a request to Portnov.
Sasha has never been to a real holiday roast, and this one was really well done: with a great sense of humor, reasonably loud and very colorful. The audience squealed with laughter; music roared and colored lights danced everywhere. Sasha laughed alongside Kostya, holding his hand.
“Do you think Zakhar will have to pay for this one?” she asked during a short and somewhat disorganized change of sets on stage.
Kostya shrugged.
“I don’t know. Honestly. But I wouldn’t risk that much, if I were in Zakhar’s place.”
The concert was over.
The cheerful crowd pushed their way out into the cor
ridor. Kostya dragged Sasha behind the curtains and kissed her, pressing his entire weight onto her body.
A sharp corner of the windowsill cut into Sasha’s back.
“Wait,” she said with a note of irritation. “You are so… clingy.”
She could not see his face in the dark.
They emerged from behind the curtain, holding hands. Downstairs in the dining hall the celebration continued in full swing. A hired band played songs from children’s cartoons as a warm up. At some point Sasha and Kostya had separated—she went to the bathroom, he pushed through the crowd to congratulate the courageous Zakhar. In all her almost eighteen years, Sasha has never encountered such a celebration, some much noise, delight and commotion; she felt intoxicated without drinking wine.
Alcohol was distributed quietly in both boys and girls’ bathrooms. Sasha took a swig of champagne from a plastic cup, stunned by her own courage. The band took requests, music never stopped, and cheese and salami sandwiches, bread, cookies and orange slices disappeared quickly from the dining hall tables.
Sasha looked for Kostya in the crowd, taking bites out of her sandwich and smiling.
In the middle of the room a dance floor was set up. It looked as if Dima Dimych danced with three partners at the same time. The gym teacher wore a form-fitting sweater; watching him dance, Sasha realized how much she wanted to touch those bulging muscles. A while back Dima hoisted Sasha onto the beam; she still remembered the sensation.
Thankfully, none of the other teachers were present—Sasha could not imagine anyone having any fun in Portnov’s presence. However, there was also no sign of Kostya either. Zakhar was reaping the fruits of his glory amidst a large group of people. Cameras flashed here and there. Sasha swiveled her head—in this crowd, it was very easy to miss a person, especially if he were sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, like those kids in the corner…
By then the gym teacher requested swing music, and commenced to perform different stunts with all the eager girls. Some girls shrieked, with fear or delight; Dima threw his partners from arm to arm like a coat, easily tossed them behind his back and pulled out again, and they glided on the hardwood floor between his wide open feet. The girls somersaulted, mouths opened in surprise, Dima tossed them up and caught them again; the crowd cheered. A line of potential partners waited for Dima. Those who tried to take another turn were angrily pushed aside.
Sasha fought with herself for one long minute. She really wanted to dance with Dima, but was too timid.
The swing number had no end—one variation merged with another, like the exercises from her textbook. Sasha stepped out of the room that was getting too stuffy and saw the burning ends of cigarettes in the dimly lit corridor. Somebody was speaking softly in the dark. When she came out, the conversation stopped.
“Looking for someone?” Lisa asked.
Sasha was unpleasantly surprised. In the last few days they had demonstratively ignored each other.
“Not for you.”
Lisa did not respond, but the cheerful mood flew off Sasha like the last leaf off an already naked tree.
No idea where to go, she moved down the corridor. In every window, behind every curtain somebody was making out, breathing heavily and giggling. It seemed to Sasha that she was strolling along a dimly lit museum, where all the statues went mad and started necking.
She went down to the coat room to get her jacket. Of course, she probably could have gotten back to the dorm without it….
They were sitting under the counter. Zhenya Toporko, with her school-girl braids, her blouse unbuttoned, and completely drunk, red-faced Kostya. He was kissing Zhenya who giggled hysterically, and his shaking hand slid over her chest.
Sasha walked out, leaving her jacket on the hanger.
***
She spent the remaining New Year’s Eve walking around the town of Torpa. The dorm shook and bellowed, every room blasted its own stereo system, and every kitchen’s table groaned under smorgasbord of cheap fare. Sasha talked the concierge into unlocking the coat check room where amidst empty hooks Sasha’s jacket was still on its hanger.
She gave the concierge a chocolate bar to thank her.
The town of Torpa was celebrating, the festivities muffled by the snow. Colorful lights blinked in the windows of buildings and shops. Cabs lingered on intersections. Sasha strolled toward downtown, walked back along Sacco and Vanzetti, then continued toward the river.
The river froze, and ice was covered by the snow. Somewhere clocks chimed and happy people shouted; Sasha stared in front of her and involuntary—almost automatically—ran through the exercises from Portnov’s book.
The exercises flowed, one after another. Smoothly. Sasha did not go blind after the twenty-fifth, and her arm did not grow numb after the forty-third, as it had initially. She remembered them all, from number one to number one hundred twenty-five, the last one in the book. She sat down on a fallen tree trunk, smiled, closed her eyes…
And opened them on a bright sunny morning.
Snow piled on her head, her shoulders, in her lap; it sparkled like Portnov’s ring. Even brighter. Sasha squinted. A total silence spread over the frozen river and the cattails, over the entire town.
Sasha swallowed, then jumped up. A huge pile of snow fell off her lap. Did she stay here the whole night?! She must have frozen… perhaps she’s frozen to death… something was most certainly frost-bitten!
She raised her gloveless hands to her face. Her fingers felt warm and moved easily. She touched her nose: it was almost hot. Her feet in thin boots were warm. Her ears were definitely not frost-bitten. Sasha looked around: she stood in the middle of a field, covered by fresh snow. Snow hid her last-night’s footsteps, and it was easy to believe that Sasha flew down from the sky.
She found it difficult to disturb such magnificence. But she discovered that she was very hungry.
***
She showed up at the Specialty exam, along with the entire class, on January second, at ten in the morning. Portnov required everyone to be present in the classroom for the duration of the test.
“Good morning, Group A.”
Portnov slid his glasses to the tip of his nose and glanced at the rows of students.
“Samokhina, hand me your grade book.”
She approached his desk and watched him write “A” in the row marked “Specialty.”
‘This is a graded test, does everyone remember that? Prefect, please collect the grade books and place them on my desk.”
Head hanging low, Kostya started down the aisle. Sasha stepped from one foot to the other.
“Samokhina, you are dismissed, free to go. Thank you, Kozhennikov. Who’s going first, do we have any volunteers? Samokhina, did you hear me?”
Avoiding eye contact, Sasha collected her bag and left the classroom, shutting the door behind her.
***
“You are dismissed, free to go.” Go where? She has not been free for many months now, as a man at gunpoint is never free. Crossing the yard on her way to the dorm, she asked herself whether she would ever, perhaps in her old age, be able to escape Farit Kozhennikov’s power.
In a trance, Oksana hunched over her books. Group B had the exam scheduled for twelve noon; knowing that she could not make up for the lost time, Oksana still tried desperately to squeeze in numbers one hundred and six to number one hundred and fifteen. Sasha knew it was impossible, but hoped that Oksana’s honest efforts on one hundred and five exercises would earn her at least a C.
She lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Two exams remained, History and Philosophy, on January eighth and twelfth. That means she could get a ticket for the evening of the twelfth and go home for winter vacation.
She’d never thought of this before. She hadn’t allowed herself—she was scared to entertain this idea. And now she had no more classes. No Specialty. She could go home. Home.
Oksana froze over the book, staring into space. Perhaps, she was beginning to understand the exer
cises. Sasha counted the leftover money and left the dorm without looking back.
***
She returned by lunchtime, a train ticket in her side pocket. The train stopped at the Torpa station for two minutes, from zero twenty-three to zero twenty-five in the morning. On her way home from the station, Sasha stopped at the post office, got hold of Mom and told her she would arrive on the thirteenth, just in time for the old New Year’s Eve. The burst of joy on the other end of the line served as her reward for the long queue.
Oksana sat under the improvised tree engrossed in her knitting; her permanent smile told Sasha that at least in this case she had nothing to worry about.
“What did you get?”
“A B!” Oksana could not stifle a giggle. “It was my hangover, Sasha, I swear, it caused enlightenment. There are no As in our group at all, half got Bs, half Cs. And three people failed.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. And three people failed in your group, too. That moron Lisa is one.” Oksana sighed. “I’m worried about her. Plus Denis Myaskovsky and Kozhennikov… Zhenya got a C. I am telling you, Kozhennikov’s hanky-panky cost him… Are you feeling sorry for him? You?!”
“What’s going to happen now?” Sasha asked after a pause.
“All six people have a makeup test on the thirteenth.”
“And…”
Sasha faltered.
“And where is Pavlenko?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know. She came back after the test, looked like hell, and then she left right away. You know, she should have studied more, instead of running around with all those guys. She asked for it.”
***
Sasha woke up in the middle of the night in complete silence. It was never that quiet in the dorm.
She got up, put on her bathrobe. Oksana was asleep, Lisa’s bed remained empty. Sasha went out into the corridor; the clock showed half past two. Under the ceiling lights the linoleum floor had a morbid sheen.
Without any reason, Sasha went downstairs to the first floor. Someone was there, in the kitchen at the end of the hall.