Vita Nostra by Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko

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