came from a village in the Vologda Oblast and could not get used to the big city even after four years. She spoke quietly, either because of her strict domestic upbringing, or because she was embarrassed by her country accent and provincial appearance, or maybe because of all of the above.
Once, Valya had asked Dina to work with her on grammar and pronunciation, flushing with embarrassment. Dina had written out a long list of Valya’s mistakes, which she had successfully fixed during the academic year. It was only the characteristic okanye1 that seemed incurable.
“Yes. Everything,” said Dina. “But this is his favorite this term.”
Vera rushed over to the larger pile of cheat sheets and started rustling through it, looking for the right one.
“What did you get?” she asked.
Dina replied calmly:
“That’s what I got.” She added after a pause, “But he gave me five points automatically.”
Both girls stared at Dina in amazement. “Kokon?! Automatically?!”
Dina sat down on her bed and leaned back against the pillow. “Well, not quite, not automatically… semi-automatically.”
Vera and Valya again exclaimed almost at the same time, “Semi-automatically? What does that mean?”
“I took a question sheet, prepared my answer, approached the table and sat down, and then he said to me: ‘I don’t doubt your knowledge and won’t waste time asking you.’ He didn’t even look at my draft.”
Vera tsked. “What a beast! Why couldn’t he say so straight away?”
“That’s Kokon for you!” Added Valya.
“But do you know of any other teacher who loves his subject as much as he does?” asked Dina.
“He loves the ladies, not the subject,” interrupted Vera.
“Well, he’s not such a beast after all…” Valya interjected. “I remember how in the first lecture, he made it sound like I should just pack up and leave the university immediately, and then he ended up helping me on the exam.”
“What about his humor?” Dina suddenly wanted to discuss Konstantin Konstantinovich, for some reason. “Everyone at university quotes his jokes!”
“Oh yes!” Valya agreed. “Yet he never repeats himself… not like that man… who teaches scientific communism… when he makes a joke, you don’t know which way to look…”
Vera rolled her eyes up dreamily. “Yes, Kokon is not a man you’d forget even after university. He’s a ray of light in a dark realm!” Then she remembered where she was, and picked up a book again. “All right, enough chit-chat, I’d like to pass the final exam on first try!”
Dina stretched out on the bed and put her hands behind her head.
“Go ahead, I’ll have a rest. Let me know if you’d like some tea.”
She looked at the color portrait of Muslim Magomaev, whose songs she adored, especially the recording in Italian. She had cut out his picture from a magazine, maybe the Soviet Screen, and it hung opposite Dina on the side of the cupboard, together with a few other portraits, each one with their own story.
There was Jean Marais, smiling from a glossy photographic print, which Dina had begged from her aunt, and who had received in turn from her friend. There was an autograph in the lower corner, done in blue ink. Although Aunt Ira tried to explain to Dina that the signature did not belong to Jean Marais himself, that her friend had added the autograph herself, Dina refused to believe it.
Next to it hung the terrible quality picture of Anna Magnani from a film Dina had never seen, which had been copied from a tiny photograph and enlarged to the size of a magazine page. She had once read a small article about the Italian actress with the beautiful name that was so well-suited to her unusual appearance. The article was illustrated by a few black-and-white shots from the films that she starred in. The image that was hanging on her cupboard now – the actress’ face with contrast lighting – was the one that Dina had liked the most, and she had asked the laboratory technician from the school physics laboratory to copy and enlarge this portrait.
Slightly to the left hung Dina Durbin. An attractive woman, but not in Dina’s taste. It was her mother’s idea: to name her daughter after a famous actress with a surname that was so similar to her own.
“When you become famous,” her mom would say, “people will only remember Dina Durbin because her name is similar to yours!” And she would chuckle.
There was the portrait of Dina’s favorite author. Dina had begged her mother for this portrait for a long time, done photographically on embossed paper that looked like fabric, with a loop attached to the thick cardboard backing – a serious, well-made portrait. It had cost two rubles and ten kopeks, serious money for their budget, especially since Dina’s mother did not consider a writer’s portrait to be an essential item, even if he was a favorite. Nevertheless, when Dina finished nine classes with almost perfect marks, with only one four, her mom remembered the strange request and decided to reward her daughter for her hard work. Besides, it was when her mother had been promoted at work, and she started to earn eighteen rubles and forty kopeks more every month. Dina’s mother was not in fact greedy, just very practical.
And Muslim Magomaev… He does look a little like…
Never mind! It’s not important right now! Dina wanted to remember how the exam for her toughest subject had gone. She mentally rewound the imaginary film, which had recorded the events, and started watching.
Here she is walking to the teacher’s table, catching his eyes, which are staring at her legs, and stopping midway. Konstantin Konstantinovich Kolotozashvili, dressed in a loose red shirt, with a high collar and wide sleeves, gathered at the cuffs, which is open at the chest and tucked into tight black pants, rises from his chair and stands to his full considerable height. He extends his arms towards Dina and says in a rich baritone, “Congratulations on an excellent finish of the semester, Dina Aleksandrovna.”
In the exact moment that Dina, trembling with happiness, realized that her teacher was actually Muslim Magomaev, somehow here, in the exam auditorium, her neighbor Vera stuck her head through the doorway, and unceremoniously interrupted this incredible moment of meeting her favorite singer:
“Dina, why aren’t you getting changed? Some tea would be nice.”
Dina clearly knew that Vera was not present at the exam…
She opened her eyes.
Muslim Magomaev was looking at Dina from the photographic print, with a red shirt open at the chest, extending his arms towards her, with his mouth wide open, as if he was saying “Congra-a-atulations.” Vera was sitting at the table, leaning back on the squeaking chair.
“You’ve got nothing to do anyway,” she added. As if Dina needed to be persuaded or compelled!
Dina stood up, fixed her clothing, and picking up the kettle that stood on the windowsill, stepped out of the room. She headed to the kitchen to boil the water on the gas stove, and so couldn’t hear the conversation of her two neighbors behind her.
Vera: “She’s so lucky, getting out of this exam.”
Valya: “Yes, and with perfect marks too.”
Vera: “Well, she doesn’t get these fives easily.”
Valya: “Yeah… only this one seems to have dropped down from the sky.”
“Yup, you don’t say. And from Kokon, of all people!”
“Maybe she has really caught his eye?”
“Hmmm, maybe. She’s not gorgeous but she can present herself well.”
“That’s