fastening and the pin she’d added for safety.
“Hurry up,” said the fat woman. “Young man, if you are ready, you can go first.”
Kostya stepped up to the barrier. The woman glanced at his diploma, then opened his passport and checked it against the long list on her desk.
“Congratulations, you have been accepted,” she stated lifelessly. “Sign here. This is your dormitory assignment, and here are the tickets for the dining hall. Textbooks will be distributed by your professors. Please wait in the hall while I register the girl.”
The skinny woman said nothing. She glanced at the list over her colleague’s shoulder, then stared up at Kostya with a great deal of attention, squinting slightly. Under her watchful eye, Kostya left the room, gripping a gray stamped envelope.
Sasha approached the barrier. It was old and worn; time had made its surface grainy and three-dimensional. Sasha couldn’t resist caressing the wood with her palm.
“Your name?” asked Ms. Corpulent, not in a rush to open Sasha’s passport.
“Samokhina, Alexandra.”
“Samokhina.” A long-nailed finger slid down the list. “Samokhina …”
“Farit’s girl,” Ms. Skinny mumbled to herself. Sasha flinched; her sudden move caused the opening of the partition to snap closed.
“Is Kozhennikov your advisor?” Ms. Corpulent asked, not looking at Sasha.
“I guess …”
“Be careful,” said Ms. Corpulent. “He’s a good man, but he can be harsh. Here’s your dormitory assignment, your dining hall tickets. Do you have your coins? You’re supposed to have four hundred and seventy-two.”
Sasha reached into her bag. The combination of this perfectly ordinary office space and this perfectly ordinary bureaucratic procedure with gold coins of obscure denomination, obtained during bouts of vomiting, made her lose her sense of reality. Even the sun outside the windows now appeared illusory.
The woman took the heavy plastic bag out of her hands. She placed it somewhere under her desk; the gold jingled.
“All set,” said the fat woman. “Go, move in. Tomorrow morning all the first years are expected to meet at nine in the morning in the assembly hall, straight in front of the main entrance, by the statue, there is a small staircase—you’ll see. Hello, who’s next? Come in!”
“Where is the dorm?” Sasha asked, regaining her senses. But they were already done with her.
She eventually found the dormitory—it was buried inside a courtyard, accessible only from the institute itself, or from a narrow, dark, and smelly alley off Sacco and Vanzetti. Peeking at the alley from a distance, Sasha vowed to avoid it entirely after dark.
From the outside, the dorm appeared to be a long, peeling, rundown, two-story barrack. The main door was locked. Kostya knocked with a bent finger, then banged on it with his fist, then kicked it (rather gingerly).
“That’s strange,” Sasha said. “Are they asleep? What time is it?”
Kostya turned to answer her, but at that moment the door squeaked and opened. Kostya stepped back, nearly falling off the steps.
In the doorway stood a tall, basketball player–sized guy with a black eye patch on his right eye. He was painfully thin and sort of lopsided, as if an entire half of his body was crippled by a permanent seizure. His blue eye looked at Kostya and immediately switched to Sasha. Sasha shrank back.
“First years?” the guy asked in a hoarse strained voice. “Moving in? Got the assignments? Come in …”
He disappeared in the dark, leaving the door ajar. Sasha and Kostya exchanged glances.
“Are we going to be like him?” Kostya inquired with an exaggerated meekness. Sasha did not respond; she found the joke uncalled for.
She also wasn’t so sure it was a joke—and was afraid he might be prescient.
They entered the barrack, which from the inside was not much more exhilarating than from the outside: brown linoleum, walls painted blue on the bottom and white above eye level, a staircase with metal railings. Steam rose from somewhere, accompanied by the hum of water in a shower.
“Here.” The one-eyed guy appeared at the reception desk, over which hung a plywood board with several sets of keys. “The girl is going to room 21, second floor. The boy, room 7, it’s down the corridor, to the right. Here’s the key for room 21. There are two second-year students in room 7—they have already arrived.”
“I’m not ‘the boy,’” Kostya muttered.
“Do you work here?” Sasha inquired tentatively, ignoring Kostya.
“I’m subbing for someone. I’m a third year, actually. Name’s Victor.”
The guy winked with his only eye and laughed. Half of his face remained immobile, while the corner of his mouth slid way down. His laughter looked so frightening that Sasha nearly burst into tears.
She yanked her heavy bag up the stairs, along a similar corridor, floor covered by the same dull linoleum, with room numbers barely visible on the doors painted white. Sasha reached number 21, fumbled with the key due to her trembling hands, and, after a short struggle, managed to open the door.
Three wire bed frames with striped mattresses. Three desks, three bedside tables. Built-in wardrobe. A large window, small, hinged pane slightly ajar, with a dusty windowsill. Sasha hauled her suitcase inside, sat down on the nearest bed, and wept.
She had about five minutes to lament over her life and her troubles before she heard steps in the corridor. Sasha barely managed to wipe her tears; there was a short knock on the door, but almost immediately the door opened and two girls walked in. Sasha had seen them briefly in the hallway, on her way from the dean’s office to the dorm. Both were about seventeen, a blonde in a blue denim outfit and a brunette, plump and round, in a knee-length skirt and a jersey top.
“Hello.” The brunette had a low basso voice.
“Hello,” said the blonde; with one quick glance at Sasha’s red eyes, she inquired,”What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Sasha looked away. “Homesick.”
“Right.” The blonde threw a disinterested look around the room. “Got it.”
“I kind of like it here,” the brunette said, pulling her luggage closer to the window. “No one hanging over your shoulder. Do whatever you want. Freedom.”
Farit had said something similar to her when she’d been told about her acceptance to Torpa. But Sasha couldn’t see where the “freedom” part came in. All she could think was that she would not be able to do what she wanted for the rest of her life. In fact, the chances were she would have to do what she desperately did not want to do. Stare into Kozhennikov’s eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses, and execute all of his whims under the pain of cruel punishment …
Out loud she said nothing. Her voice wasn’t really cooperating anyway.
The blonde briefly looked in her direction before saying, “Actually, I am not going to live here myself. I think I’m better off renting an apartment somewhere nearby. It’s better for you, too—you’ll have more space.”
Sasha did not respond. The brunette shrugged, her meaning clear:
You’re the boss.
“My name is Lisa,” the blonde told Sasha. “And this is Oksana.”
“Alexandra,” croaked Sasha. “Samokhina, Sasha.”
“Looks like we’re classmates.” Lisa kept her blue appraising eyes on Sasha.
“Looks like it.”
“All this dust,”