Vita Nostra (34 page)

Sasha rose with difficulty. The floor did not shake under her feet, but her head felt enormous. Sasha was afraid to touch her head with her new white mechanical hands. What if she broke something?

She couldn’t bend her knees. Her feet seemed made out of wood. Sasha hobbled over to the desk and found a mirror. She screamed—croaked—again.

Her eyes no longer had pupils or irises. Only the whites with red streaks. Sasha threw aside the mirror but continued seeing herself; now she realized that she saw with something other than her eyes. She saw with the skin of her face, her elbows, neck; shaking, she pulled off her tee-shirt and saw the room through the skin of her back. She took off the sweatpants she forgot to take off last night, and with the sweatpants she pulled off her underwear. Now each spot on her body saw the entire picture, and combined, all these pictures constituted the world-without-Sasha. Her body—white, skinny, shaking in the middle of a messy dorm room—was the only entity outside this world.

Sparks ran along her skin. Shy little fires like rolling drops. Tiny flashes of lighting. Underneath the skin membrane, in nearly transparent places, she could see her veins, blood vessels and tendons—a mysterious forest. Her back itched like crazy—something was going on with her spine—it crackled, was nimble, alive, full of its own existence.

She heard steps in the corridor and realized it was really late. The two first blocks had ended, and lunch was almost over.

Two blocks and lunch of the new day! She broke out of the loop, she did something… and something was done to her.

Someone was approaching her door from the outside. She grabbed a broom with her white hands and stuck its handle into the door. At the same moment came a knock on the door—it was Yegor’s knock, quick, confident: knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

“Sasha?” Yegor’s voice barely contained his anxiety and concern. “Are you at home?”

The broom lock twitched: he tried to open the door.

“Sasha? Hello?”

“I…”

Her voice sounded eerie. Sasha cleared her throat.

“Are you sick?”

“Yes,” Sasha said. “I am sick. And I’m sleeping.”

“Listen,” said Yegor, and it sounded as if he put his lips right next to the keyhole. “We need to talk.”

“I can’t… I don’t look well.”

“Who cares,” Yegor said impatiently. “I’ll survive. Open up.”

“I can’t. Later.”

Pause. Yegor was probably looking around, feeling like a complete idiot—standing there in the middle of the corridor, in front of a locked door.

“Let me in. Why am I standing here like a moron?”

“I can’t…” Sasha croaked. “I’m sleeping.”

“With whom?” Yegor asked after a minute pause.

She backed away from the door. She knew that right at this moment she should say something funny, make a joke in response. But she felt completely lost and couldn’t come up with anything appropriate.

“I see,” Yegor said softly.

She heard his steps moving away from the door.

***

She wore gloves to hide her hands. She put on her most opaque pair of black tights and her thickest pair of jeans. Two sweaters, one over another. Now she saw the world only through the skin of her face, and the picture was familiar, albeit incomplete.

Her dark glasses were not dark enough to conceal the whiteness of her eyes. She used markers to draw eyes on her eyelids. Walking around with her eyes closed was difficult and uncomfortable, but she could not come up with a better idea.

Hiding this way—primarily from herself, since no one else was in the room—Sasha sat at the desk and opened the textual module. It was simply a force of habit, because she wouldn’t be able to read anyway.

Things were no longer at an impasse. The silence, or whatever it was on that disk, entered and acceded to the throne. Sasha’s body continued to change; she felt her skin tauten up and then go limp, a gelatinous lump in her chest pulsate, and her spine twitch like a pipe pushing along masses of hot water.

Nothing will ever be the same again. Mom… Yegor… Kostya… Petrified at her desk, Sasha thought that perhaps
yesterday
was better, and maybe she should have left things as they were
yesterday
?

Outside it was snowing. Warm spell, wet snow, wind! Everything they promised came true… and tomorrow came.

And Kostya went to class—and
did not see
Sasha!

She got up. Threw on her jacket. Sat back down. Kostya now remembered everything she said… And everything that happened yesterday had already been entered into the history of their lives. The windowsill. And these batteries. They rolled all over the room, cheap Chinese batteries, but there were so many of these things, she could not have gone through all of them in one night. Or maybe the night repeated itself as well—another loop, and one more, and one more?

Sasha darted from one corner to another. She opened the window. Closed it again. She should have gone to the first block! But how could she let herself be seen this way? How was she going to show herself to anyone?

She sat behind the desk and thought of Yegor. Was it love that led her to his bed, or the kind advice of the hunchback? “Your sensual experience makes a difference, your hormonal status…” She could lie to herself as much as she wanted, say that love snuck up on her and it was so timely, such a perfect coincidence…

Yesterday Yegor said: “Let’s get married.” No, no! Sasha held her head: yesterday, exactly yesterday she cut him short in a bout of irritation: “Just don’t tell me we should get married!” She never thought that this day, this angry reply would remain in her life… and in his life. She’d lost control of her emotions. Then she did not go see him, even though she promised, and then this whole scandal with Zhenya, that was now written in history. Good for Kostya—he never apologized. But Yegor…

What was she thinking about while turning into a monster, perhaps dying?

Yegor is a first year student. He has no idea what it’s like—to take winter exams, had no clue what really connected Sasha and Kostya. It was not a vulgar story about a boy who loved a girl, and the girl wouldn’t put out, so he found himself another one, one who was willing. They were connected by Kostya’s makeup exam last year, those slaps on the face that hurt Sasha’s hands—she beat him so that he would study, would pass, would survive.

They were connected by last night, when Kostya could not get up enough courage to hit her… but still paid her back what he owed. Because he wanted Sasha to survive. And god damn those anchovies in tomato sauce, vodka and Pepsi, grimy sheets and the door locked with a broom. Everything could have been different for them. Everything.

Yegor was possessive; his girlfriend had to open the door always and under any circumstances. She should have opened it! Should have opened the door and taken off her clothes! So that he would understand…

Maybe Kostya would come. Ask her what happened. Or did Zhenya’s actions last night make him weary of coming up to the second floor without a legitimate reason?

Sasha was alone. Absolutely alone in the cosmic sense of the word. And the reason happened to be not this terrifying metamorphosis, but someone’s jealousy and someone’s pride. The common things. One could even say ordinary.

The day outside was getting darker. It was time for her session with Portnov. Sasha got up with effort. Forgetting the open book on her desk, she put on the jacket. Coins jingled in her pockets.

She pulled down the hood, fixed the dark glasses on her nose. She left the room. The world swayed; Sasha watched it through the skin of her cheeks, it made her feel as if she were a few inches shorter.

Two first years were chatting at the end of the corridor. When they noticed Sasha, they stopped talking at once, their eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. She passed them with a clumsy nod, as if her head twitched. The first years stared in horror.

Let them tell Yegor, Sasha thought apathetically.

The snow outside was stamped with footsteps. Homeless dogs decorated the corners with yellow hieroglyphs. Sasha saw the eye of a raven perching on a naked linden tree. She saw each cigarette butt stomped into the mud in front of the Institute. Turning her face, she saw air currents of different temperature: warm streams rose out of the windows, moist haze trembled above the roof. A warm spell.

Answering somebody’s hellos, registering quizzical glances, she entered the Institute. About to pull the door handle, she realized that she never even read the paragraph for Portnov.

She had no way out. She walked in.

Zhenya Toporko was finishing her session. She was the very last person Sasha wanted to see at that moment.

Sasha’s black scarecrow image, complete with the hood and the dark glasses, made an impression on Zhenya. Shocked, she forgot to close her lipsticked mouth.

Portnov turned around, about to say something—and fell silent. For the first time in her life, Sasha saw his expression change.

“Toporko, you may go. Hurry up, you’re taking up someone else’s time.”

Zhenya closed the book deliberately slowly, placed it into her bag, jerked the zipper—the zipper did not work. Zhenya glanced at Sasha and then back at her bag. She made a concerned face—how could she close that bag?

“Toporko! Out!”

Portnov’s voice had a magical effect. Zhenya flew out of the auditorium like a crumpled piece of paper caught in the wind.

Sasha stood motionless.

“Come here.”

“I did not read the paragraph.”

“I see. Sit down.”

Portnov took out a cell phone and barked:

“She’s here.”

He stuck the phone back into his pocket.

“Is there coverage in Torpa?” Sasha asked quietly.

“There is now,” Portnov said shuffling his papers. “Progress is irrepressible. How do you feel?”

Sasha swallowed. Underneath two sweaters and a t-shirt tiny crackling sparkles rolled over her skin like drops of sweat.

“Take off the glasses. And get rid of this entire masquerade, Nikolay Valerievich should be here any minute.”

Using her teeth, Sasha pulled off the woolen gloves. Her hands had evolved even further: her skin was now almost transparent, the white metal of the gears that replaced her joints shined brightly, and golden, viscous-looking liquid flowed in the pipes of her veins. Portnov leaned forward, looking almost as stunned as Zhenya. Sasha took off her glasses. Opened her eyes. Then closed them again, demonstrating the drawn pictures on her eyelids.

“Very funny,” Portnov said in a hollow voice.

The door opened without a knock. Sterkh walked in and immediately locked the door. He was very pale, his ash-colored hair was tangled as if Nikolay Valerievich had taken a long stroll in windy weather. The hump on his back was more pronounced that usual.

Sasha unbuttoned her jacket and dropped it on the floor. Pulled off her sweater over her head, then pulled off another one, leaving only a dark blue t-shirt. She glanced at her forearms and shoulders; her skin had a bluish tint, was uneven and in some placed covered with purple feathers.

Portnov whistled and took off his glasses. His face had a different expression. If Sasha did not know Portnov as well, she would have thought it was fear.

“Are you pleased?” Sasha asked Sterkh. “Did I do a good job?”

“Yes, I am pleased.”

Sterkh looked nothing like himself. Where was the delicate, slightly absent-minded Nikolay Valerievich? The hunchback stood in a predatory stance, watching Sasha the same way a whale hunter watches his trophy prey. And Sasha had no eyes to respond to this stare with dignity.

“Thank you,” Sasha said. “You have achieved your goal. You turned me into
this
.”

The auditorium swam. Sasha watched it through her itchy skin, saw the wall behind her back, a key in the keyhole, a round tag with the number “38,” a nick on the door handle. The Institute of Special Technologies reprocessed her, digested her as it desired.

“That’s it,” Sasha whispered. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

The hunchback caught her mid-fall. He held her close. It was so unexpected and so bizarre that she froze, afraid to struggle.

“I was right, Oleg. You see, I even underestimated her. You are a gift, Sasha. A talent. You broke out of your shell, you hatched… Have you ever seen baby chicks? They need time to get comfortable, to get acquainted with the new world and their place in that world… Stop, my dear. Everything is fine. You have broken through to the main road, now you will walk along it, step by step, you will study and you will learn. And you will understand everything. But what a gift!”

And Sasha, who was watching the hunchback through the skin of her cheeks, saw tears in his eyes.

***

He escorted her down the corridor, and students parted to let them through. Sasha, in her jacket with the hood pulled down low, in dark sunglasses and woolen gloves, walked under escort, cringing, eyes low to the ground. Sterkh held her elbow—to prevent her from falling, or from escaping. Quite possibly from both.

They reached the first steps of the staircase that led to the administration wing, when Kostya ran out from underneath the bronze hooves of the equestrian statue.

Sasha struggled to get free. Sterkh caught her by the hood.

“Kostya!” Sasha shouted. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t come to English!”

Kostya stopped, looking from Sasha to the hunchback and back.

“What have you done to her?”

“Tomorrow,” Sterkh suggested smiling. “You will meet tomorrow and discuss everything you want. I apologize, Kostya, we are very pressed for time.”

And he led, almost pulled Sasha downstairs, into his office. She wanted to tell Kostya “Thanks.”

But she couldn’t say it.

***

By eleven thirty that night she was back at the dorm, barely alive, but at least she once again looked human. Sharp flashes still ran along her skin, and her spine was still sore, but her eyes once again had pupils and irises, and her arms, while still oddly white, ceased to resemble prosthetic devices.

Sterkh spent a long time with her; she thought it would never end. She sat at the table wearing headphones, a ream of paper in front of her, and a pencil in her gnarled hand. Sterkh drew symbols, one after another, complex and unfamiliar signs that at first sight appeared to be completely random, and Sasha was supposed to insert missing lines, and the silence pressed on her eardrums, and Sasha, giving into the unavoidable, somehow knew what was missing, and pushed her pencil over the paper, and the stack of pages covered by her writing grew in front of her. Sterkh himself would replace the CDs in the player and change the tracks.