I’m all set. D’you want to go?”
The post office smelled of sealing wax; a young mother with a stroller was mailing a large package tied up with string. There was only one postal worker on duty, so Sasha waited while she helped the young mother, and then she asked the middle-aged purple-haired woman to connect her with a long-distance phone number. She entered an echoing phone booth, and, stifling her heartbeat, listened to the long beeps, then jumped with joy when Mom picked up the phone.
“Hello!”
Mom was yelling into the receiver, probably having trouble hearing. Sasha yelled too:
“Mom! It’s me! Everything is fine! I’m all settled in! They feed us here! Tomorrow is the first day of school! How are you?”
She screamed it out, like a team’s fight song, and listened to Mom’s reply: Everything is good, Valentin called from Moscow, everyone is healthy …
“I’ll call you again soon. Bye!”
Sasha browsed through the postcards and chose one: “For you, from ancient Torpa.” The postcard pictured the fountain square, swans swimming in the water. Sasha bought the postcard, wrote her mother’s address, and tossed it into the huge blue box with a mail symbol on top. The envelope hit the tin bottom with a dull thud.
The post office was located about fifteen minutes’ walking distance from the dorm. On the way back, the weather got worse and it started to drizzle. Sasha pulled her head into her shoulders and ran up the concrete porch, yanking the squeaky door open.
An unfamiliar boy was walking along the first-floor corridor. He took a couple of steps, and then froze in the middle of his move, like a captured video frame. He stood still for a few seconds, then, with visible effort, forced himself to move and continued walking. Then he turned and walked into the wall near the door. He stepped back. On the second try he grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open …
Sasha flung herself up the stairs.
Lisa and Oksana were smoking, sitting on their beds. The window was open wide, but the smoke refused to leave; instead, cold wind burst into the room, adorned with shiny beads of rain.
“Could you possibly smoke in the bathroom?” Sasha asked hesitantly.
All she got in response was ice-cold silence.
“Good morning, first years.”
The assembly hall was a large dusty room. Only the last three or four rows of chairs were occupied. Dark curtains covered the windows, letting in half of the necessary light. A screen glowed white behind the stage. Looks like a community center, thought Sasha.
“The coolest people sit in the back of the bus, like in middle school?” A man stepped up onto the low platform and glanced around the room. “That’s not going to fly.” He added in the same low voice: “Lights, please.”
The chandelier was lit immediately, and now the room was filled with bright lights, like an opera theater during intermission.
“Everyone move to the front of the room,” the man on the stage commanded. “Hurry up.”
The first years began to move, exchanging glances, slowly creeping up closer to the stage. Sasha and Kostya found a spot at the end of the second row, and everyone trying to get to the center seats kept stumbling over their feet. She didn’t care—it seemed incredibly important to be able to leave as quickly as possible if necessary.
The man on the stage waited. He looked nothing like Sasha’s image of a college professor: instead of a suit, he wore jeans and a striped sweater. His straight blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and he wore glasses, long and narrow like razor blades, that seemed specially designed to allow him to look over the lenses.
“My name is Oleg Borisovich. Oleg Borisovich Portnov. Young man in the fifth row, yes, you. Don’t be shy, come closer. There are not that many of us, we have plenty of space. I would like to extend my congratulations to you, ladies and gentlemen, on this significant event in your lives: your admission to the first year of Torpa’s Institute of Special Technologies. You are to expect an interesting life and plenty of hard work. Miss”—his finger pointed at Lisa, who leaned over to whisper something to Oksana—“when I speak, everyone else is silent. Please remember that in the future.”
Lisa choked. The room was very quiet. Portnov took a few steps along the platform, his eyes traveling from face to face, slowly, like the ray of a flashlight.
“Congratulations, you are now students. In honor of your initiation, the student hymn will be performed. If you know the words, please sing along.”
A triumphant chord burst out of the sound system. Portnov motioned for everyone to rise. An invisible chorus sang with an appropriate solemnity:
Gaudeamus igitur,
Juvenes dum sumus!
Post jucundam juventutem,
Post molestam senectutem
Nos habebit humus!
Sasha quickly observed the audience. Only a few people were singing along. Lisa stood with her lips tightly shut. Oksana strained to hear the words—her Latin did not seem very strong. Sasha herself knew the text, she’d learned it a while ago in her prep course. The translation of this seemingly joyful song never struck her as happy:
After a pleasant youth
After a troubling old age
The earth will have us.
Such a lovely beginning. But then:
Vita nostra brevis est,
Brevi finietur;
Venit mors velociter,
Rarit nos atrociter,
Nemini parcetur!
This part she particularly disliked: in this verse, all men were promised an imminent death that spares no one. Vita nostra … “Our life is brief, / It will shortly end; / Death comes quickly.” Maybe the medieval students didn’t give a hoot, Sasha thought darkly. Maybe if I were listening to “Gaudeamus” at home, at our university, I wouldn’t give a hoot either, and I wouldn’t have any of these thoughts. But I am in Torpa.
Vivat Academia,
Vivant professores!
Vivat membrum quodlibet,
Vivat membra quaelibet
Semper sint in flore!
The song ended. The students sat down, as if ending a moment of silence. Portnov stood at the very edge of the platform, hanging over the first rows, studying their faces. Sasha caught his gaze and lowered her own.
“And now we’re going to watch a short film—our school’s official presentation. I would like to ask you to pay attention and refrain from talking and interrupting your neighbors’ viewing. Enjoy the film.”
The lights went out. The dark curtains on the windows twitched and moved closer together. Behind the stage, a light rectangle appeared on the screen, reminding Sasha of newsreels of her early childhood: something very archaic was in the black-and-white image displayed on the screen.
“Welcome to the ancient town of Torpa,” announced the deep voice of the narrator. “The Institute of Special Technologies salutes you!”
A bright logo swam out of the darkness, a rounded symbol, the same as on the front of the gold coins Sasha had collected. Sasha stopped breathing.
Last night she’d analyzed everything. She’d whispered: “I want it to be a dream,” squeezing her eyes