Vita Nostra by Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko Page A

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. 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 only see 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 the doors, just like in 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 white blouses, both with equally impenetrable impressions on very different faces.
    “First years?” asked the fat one. “Documents.”
    Sasha fumbled with the inside pocket’s 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, 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 free meals at 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 and caressed 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.
    “Yeah…”
    “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 a bout 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