Vita Nostra. Julia Meitov Hersey
it meant absolutely nothing.
In a way, it didn’t mean anything to Sasha—she knew she could not leave. Tomorrow was September 1; she had to be there. She had to do what Farit Kozhennikov requested, and only 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, wearing a worn denim jacket thrown over a black T-shirt. Sasha and Kostya bought their tickets and settled in the backseat. 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 particular 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 “proper.” It was not exactly a village as Sasha had imagined: five-story brick buildings mixed with single-family homes. Rather, it was very much a town, albeit one that was very old and not at all modernized: heavy buildings made out of stone, with occasional columns and molding on the facades. These abutted curved streets, in some places paved, but more often covered with black cobblestones. Windows were hidden behind 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 seat, stepped 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 all 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, one point five kilometers.’”
They started walking.
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 again, turning into a gorge.
“Elegance galore,” Kostya murmured.
Stone and peeling plaster. Ivy and grapevines stretched over the gutters. Geraniums hung in 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.
Kostya snorted as 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 redesigned several times: two stories boasted colorful bricks—almost like a 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, dumping 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, not realizing she was worried about seeming scared in front of him.
What am I doing here? thought Sasha in sheer panic. Why am I not home? Why did I go where I have no desire to go, like a passive sheep, an obedient dog on a leash?
Why is this my life?
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 in,” 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.
“That’s a stallion.” Kostya stifled a giggle.
Mesmerized, Sasha came closer. It certainly was a stallion: the horse’s belly and legs were carved with a great degree of anatomical precision, as were … other things. Colossal bronze hooves trampled upon the granite pedestal. Immense boots hung from the stirrups. The face of the horseman was impossible to see—it was lost far above, and no matter what angle Sasha tried, she could see only a huge upturned chin and a prominent Adam’s apple.
“First years?”
The voice echoed in the deserted hall. Sasha and Kostya spun around. A short concierge in a printed dress stood by the entrance, her fat finger with a candy-pink nail motioning for them to approach.
“You need the dean’s office. Behind the staircase, to the right, you can’t miss it, just look for the sign. You can leave your suitcases, no one will take them.”
The long corridor smelled of dust and fresh whitewash. On both sides stretched doors, just like in a high school, but taller and somehow more important looking. The DEAN’S OFFICE sign left them no chance of getting lost.
Sasha entered and immediately had to squint.
The office was full of light—sunshine burst through the windows. Right in front of Sasha was a wooden partition with an opening. Two women sat on the other side of the partition, one skinny, one corpulent, both wearing