Vita Nostra (8 page)

“Miss! Are you awake? I’m telling you, Torpa is close.”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

They reached the border between night and morning. It was around four o’clock, maybe four thirty. After so many months, Sasha was used to getting up this early. She knew that morning would bring relief. Now, gathering her things, lacing up her shoes, dragging the suitcase off the shelf (carefully, trying not to wake up the other passengers, and still accidentally touching people’s arms hanging off the berths), she almost forgot last night’s sorrow. The winds of exotic travels, unexpected discoveries—one had to take that into account, this was all part of the journey; she was an adult, an independent person, traveling by herself, without supervision. We’ll see what this Torpa is all about.

She dragged her suitcase into the hallway. The train attendant snoozed on the cot covered by a thin blanket.

“How long is the stop?” Sasha asked.

“In Torpa? One minute. Do you have a lot of luggage?”

The train slowed down. The carriages clanked. In the darkness of the August morning Sasha saw nothing, only a blue streetlight barely visible in the sky.

The train jerked, clanked and stopped. The attendant, yawning, started fiddling with the key.

“I’m not going to make it!” Sasha was terrified. “Please hurry up!”

The attendant swore under her breath.

The train jerked again. The attendant finally unlocked the door. The train started moving slowly; Sasha threw her bag over her shoulder, dragged the suitcase behind her and tumbled down the iron steps. She landed on the low platform and saw the train attendant yawn and lock the door behind her.

This is it.

The train was gathering speed. Sasha hauled her suitcase farther away from the edge of the platform. The last car rambled by, and two lights on its tail end quickly melted away in the dark.

The green light of the semaphore turned red. Sasha stood alone at the empty platform...

But she was not alone. Out of the darkness appeared a scrawny shadow with a large suitcase. The shadow stopped in front of her. A boy Sasha’s age, pale, sleepy, bewildered.

“Hey,” he said after a moment’s silence. “Is this Torpa?”

“Hey,” said Sasha. “So they say.”

“I’ve never been here before,” said the boy.

“Me neither.”

The boy paused, and then asked tentatively:

“The Institute?”

Sasha, who was fervently hoping for this very question, nodded enthusiastically:

“Uh-huh. You too? Special Technologies?”

Visibly relieved, the kid smiled:

“Is there another one in this dump?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha admitted. “Do you see any kind of town around here?”

The kid looked around and put his hands over her eyes, imitating binoculars.

“A kick-ass megalopolis. An impressive train station. And there, look, a shed with a huge potential!”

Sasha laughed.

The situation was immediately reversed. Hauling their suitcases and trying to overdo each other in wittiness, the new students walked over to the “shed with a huge potential,” which turned out to be the actual train station. In a spark of inspiration, Sasha called it a “chicken coop refurbished to the highest European standards.” Sasha’s new acquaintance appreciated the joke and laughed uproariously.

The station was completely empty. All the cashier windows were locked. Elongated blinking ceiling fixtures lit up the empty cafeteria table, wooden chairs with graffiti scratched here and there, a self-service storage unit with six compartments, all open. The floor, relatively clean, was covered with white and black tiles.

“Looks apocalyptic,” said Sasha, glancing around her.

A cloud of August flies flew off of one of the lighting fixtures and filled the small room with optimistic humming.

“Hello!” the boy called out. “Is there anyone here?”

The only reply he got was the droning of the flies.

‘I don’t like it here,” Sasha said.

They stepped outside on the platform. It was getting a little lighter. Under the lone streetlight they found a “Train Station – Center” bus schedule, blurry from the rainwater. If the schedule was to be trusted, the first bus would depart for the mysterious “Center” in one hour.

“We’ll wait,” the boy said decisively. ‘And if we get lucky, we may grab a cab. I have money.”

His name was Kostya. Perhaps in Sasha’s presence he felt especially manly, or maybe it was just his personality, but he kept trying to take charge. Sasha did not protest. Kostya’s energy, and even his amateur vigor gave her an illusion of safety.

They left their suitcases in storage (the compartments did not require tokens, just a code) and found a comfortable bench on the platform, then unwrapped their provisions. Sasha’s sandwiches, which had made her so sad the night before, disappeared within minutes. She shared with Kostya, he shared with her; a bottle of mineral water was opened, Kostya brought out a thermos almost full of coffee. Sasha’s nostrils quivered; breakfast put her in a very good mood. A freight train rolled by the station, the rumble died down in the distance. Silence reigned, disturbed only by the birds.

“The bus is coming in half an hour,” Kostya said with certainty. “The address of this place is twelve Sacco and Vanzetti Street.”

“Do you know who they are, Sacco and Vanzetti?”

Kostya shrugged:

“Italians, I think.”

Another freight train rolled by in the other direction.

“Can you please tell me,” Sasha began carefully, “what made you decide to apply to this… Special Technologies thing?” Who gave you this… this idea?”

Kostya’s face darkened. He looked at her suspiciously, folded dirty napkins and oily paper, and dropped it into an empty trash barrel next to the bench.

“I’m just asking,” Sasha added quickly. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t, and accept my apology.”

“I was forced,” Kostya admitted reluctantly.

“You too?!”

For a minute they stared at each other, both waiting for the other one to speak.

‘That’s strange,” Kostya said finally. “You’re a girl. You don’t’ have military duty.”

“What does it have to do with military duty?”

“Everything,” Kostya said harshly. “Do you think every man should serve in the army?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha said. ‘I guess so.” And, just in case, she added: “But if someone doesn’t want to serve, then he shouldn’t have to.”

Kostya sighed and shook his head.

“My own father gave me an ultimatum. I didn’t get accepted to law school, for the second time already. I was supposed to get drafted this fall. But my father…” Kostya fell silent. He gave Sasha a side glance, as if wondering why he was sharing intimate details of his life with a chance fellow traveler, whom he’d known for about an hour.

“So you didn’t want to go to this Institute?”

Kostya shrugged.

“Whether I wanted or not… it doesn’t matter anymore.”

They fell silent. The platform was still deserted; not a single person showed up, not an equipment inspector, not a street cleaner, no one. The reddish August sun was rising from the bushes. Birds were chirping. The high blades of grass along the railroad were covered by morning dew, each drop a colorful gem.

“And you don’t even have to serve in the army…” Kostya said pensively.

Sasha did not reply. She really did not feel like telling Kostya the story of her meeting with Farit Kozhennikov. She had hoped that Kostya himself had a similar situation, but it turned out much more banal: failed exams, military summons in the fall, a stern father….

“Is it time to go?” she asked nervously.

Kostya glanced at his watch:

“I guess… There is another bench near the bus stop.”

Despite Sasha’s concerns, the metal doors of the storage unit opened easily. Kostya grabbed both suitcases. A crumpled piece of paper was stuck to the bottom of Sasha’s suitcase.

“Trash,” Kostya murmured and held the paper gingerly with two fingers.

It was a note—large penciled letters could be easily read even now, when the note got wet and dirty:

“Leave now.”

There was no signature.

***

Half an hour later they sat in a small bus that Kostya called “a hearse.” The stupid piece of paper spoiled their mood, even though they both tried to pretend it meant absolutely nothing.

Sasha knew she could not leave. Tomorrow was September first; she had to be there. She had to do what Farit Kozhennikov requested, and after that she would have to figure it out.

Kostya was quiet. His zeal disappeared without a trace. The bus came at five of seven, its driver a perfectly average, solid middle-aged man, a worn denim jacket thrown over a black t-shirt. Sasha and Kostya bought their tickets and settled in the back seat. The driver started the engine, and then suddenly they were joined by an old lady with a basket, a woman carrying a shovel wrapped in sackcloth, and two young empty-handed men. It seemed to Sasha that the young men took notice of her and Kostya. Again, she felt lonely and helpless.

First, the bus drove among the fields, dotted here and there with tiny human figures. Then they drove into Torpa. It was not exactly a village as Sasha imagined: brick five-story buildings mixed with single-family homes. It was very much a town, very old and not at all modernized: heavy buildings made out of stone, with occasional columns and molding on the facades. Curved streets, in some places paved, but more often covered with black cobblestones. Windows hidden behind the green shutters. Sloping timbered roofs. Steps touched by erosion.

“Would you look at this,” Kostya said softly. “You could film a movie here. Not too shabby, is it?”

Sasha did not reply.

The bus stopped at a small square, the bus stop under a simple awning.

“Torpa,” said the driver. “We’re here.”

Sasha waited until the two suspicious guys left, and only then did she follow Kostya out. The driver passed them their suitcases, settled back in his chair, pressed on the gas, and the bus disappeared from view before Sasha and Kostya had a chance to look around.

Again, they were left alone. The old lady, the woman with a shovel, even the suspicious guys were gone.

“And whom are we supposed to ask for directions?” Kostya inquired sarcastically.

“There is a sign,” Sasha said, looking around. “Here—’Sacco and Vanzetti, 1.5 km.’“

***

It took them almost half an hour to walk a kilometer and a half; panting, Kostya dragged both suitcases. Surprisingly long, Sacco and Vanzetti Street began at building number 114, then the numbers descended. The sidewalk in turn widened and disappeared entirely. The street expanded like an overflowing river, turning into a boulevard, then narrowed down again, turning into a gorge.

“Elegance galore,” Kostya murmured.

Stone and peeling plaster. Ivy and grape vines stretched over the water spouts. Geraniums in hanging pots. Sasha kept turning her head in all directions: here was a three-story brownstone stylized as a castle, with cozy-looking alabaster chimeras. Over there was an uninspiring concrete building with old-style commercial air-conditioning units. And over there a tumbling-down wooden shack, a young birch tree growing on its roof.

Each awning housed a swallow’s nest. The birds streaked through the air, covering the street with a moving black net, drawing large complicated circles, diving occasionally into the broken attic windows.

Sparrows shrieked above the chestnut and linden trees.

“Seems like a decent kind of place,” Sasha rubbed her aching neck.

The stores were beginning to open.

In front of a bakery stood a dignified little queue—three old ladies with shopping bags. Three men in overalls were smoking in front of a liquor store. On the other side of the street a team of workers were fixing a roof, a pulley strained, an enormous vat filled with resin passed above the heads of passersby, and faded, quivering warning flags strewn on a wire protected the danger zone into which one could not, under any circumstances, take even a tiny step...

Building number 12 emerged as a large house, clearly re-designed several times: two stories boasted colorful bricks—a la gingerbread house—the third story was built out of simple white limestone brick, and the fourth floor was of plain wood. A stone porch, its steps slightly sloping and worn out, led to the main entrance. A black door of impressive height looked haughty and stern. A small plaque shined dully to the left of the entrance: “Ministry of Education. Institute of Special Technologies.”

“We’re here,” said Kostya, lowering the suitcases onto the pavement.

Sasha stared at the door. A black rectangle with a shiny brass handle. Four steps leading up.

Kostya was out of breath. He had hauled two huge suitcases along the entire Sacco and Vanzetti Street and now had a good reason to be sweaty and clearly short-winded. It was more complicated for Sasha. Trying to control her breathing, she could have sworn that both she and Kostya were thinking the same thing: it was not too late to get out of here. They had one more chance to escape before stepping over the threshold. The moment this door closed behind them, there would be no way back.

Kostya was silent, not wanting to seem cowardly in Sasha’s presence. What am I doing here? thought Sasha in sheer panic. Why am I not home? Why do I go where I have no desire of going, like a passive sheep, an obedient dog on a leash?

Kostya looked around.

“I wonder if there is a café or something like that,” he said seemingly to himself. “Would be nice to get a cup of coffee, I’m really thirsty. Look, there is a place!”

And in fact, right across from the Institute, they saw the entrance to a ground-level cellar with a wooden sign: “Pastry, Coffee, Tea.” A single table with an open striped sun umbrella stood on the sidewalk.

Sasha sighed and glanced back to the Institute’s building. The windows—small on the first two floors, large on the third, dull on the fourth—watched them with faceted eyes.

“Let’s go,” Sasha croaked. “We can’t sit here with our suitcases all day anyway.”

***

The vast half-lit entrance hall seemed deserted. The glass reception booth was empty. Staircases stretched left and right, and in the center of the hall, under a ray of light coming from above, rose an equestrian statue of stunning proportions.