Free Vita Nostra by Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko Page B

in the army?”
    “I don’t know,” Sasha said. ‘I guess so.” And, just in case, she added: “But if someone doesn’t want to serve, then he shouldn’t have to.”
    Kostya sighed and shook his head.
    “My own father gave me an ultimatum. I didn’t get accepted to law school, for the second time already. I was supposed to get drafted this fall. But my father…” Kostya fell silent. He gave Sasha a side glance, as if wondering why he was sharing intimate details of his life with a chance fellow traveler, whom he’d known for about an hour.
    “So you didn’t want to go to this Institute?”
    Kostya shrugged.
    “Whether I wanted or not… it doesn’t matter anymore.”
    They fell silent. The platform was still deserted; not a single person showed up, not an equipment inspector, not a street cleaner, no one. The reddish August sun was rising from the bushes. Birds were chirping. The high blades of grass along the railroad were covered by morning dew, each drop a colorful gem.
    “And you don’t even have to serve in the army…” Kostya said pensively.
    Sasha did not reply. She really did not feel like telling Kostya the story of her meeting with Farit Kozhennikov. She had hoped that Kostya himself had a similar situation, but it turned out much more banal: failed exams, military summons in the fall, a stern father….
    “Is it time to go?” she asked nervously.
    Kostya glanced at his watch:
    “I guess… There is another bench near the bus stop.”
    Despite Sasha’s concerns, the metal doors of the storage unit opened easily. Kostya grabbed both suitcases. A crumpled piece of paper was stuck to the bottom of Sasha’s suitcase.
    “Trash,” Kostya murmured and held the paper gingerly with two fingers.
    It was a note—large penciled letters could be easily read even now, when the note got wet and dirty:
    “Leave now.”
    There was no signature.
    ***
    Half an hour later they sat in a small bus that Kostya called “a hearse.” The stupid piece of paper spoiled their mood, even though they both tried to pretend it meant absolutely nothing.
    Sasha knew she could not leave. Tomorrow was September first; she had to be there. She had to do what Farit Kozhennikov requested, and after that she would have to figure it out.
    Kostya was quiet. His zeal disappeared without a trace. The bus came at five of seven, its driver a perfectly average, solid middle-aged man, a worn denim jacket thrown over a black t-shirt. Sasha and Kostya bought their tickets and settled in the back seat. The driver started the engine, and then suddenly they were joined by an old lady with a basket, a woman carrying a shovel wrapped in sackcloth, and two young empty-handed men. It seemed to Sasha that the young men took notice of her and Kostya. Again, she felt lonely and helpless.
    First, the bus drove among the fields, dotted here and there with tiny human figures. Then they drove into Torpa. It was not exactly a village as Sasha imagined: brick five-story buildings mixed with single-family homes. It was very much a town, very old and not at all modernized: heavy buildings made out of stone, with occasional columns and molding on the facades. Curved streets, in some places paved, but more often covered with black cobblestones. Windows hidden behind the green shutters. Sloping timbered roofs. Steps touched by erosion.
    “Would you look at this,” Kostya said softly. “You could film a movie here. Not too shabby, is it?”
    Sasha did not reply.
    The bus stopped at a small square, the bus stop under a simple awning.
    “Torpa,” said the driver. “We’re here.”
    Sasha waited until the two suspicious guys left, and only then did she follow Kostya out. The driver passed them their suitcases, settled back in his chair, pressed on the gas, and the bus disappeared from view before Sasha and Kostya had a chance to look around.
    Again, they were left alone. The old lady, the woman with a shovel, even the suspicious guys were gone.
    “And