Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 13)

Trying to calm down, the guy started drawing blue circles in the margins of his notebook. His drawing reminded me of a cluster of tangled time loops. Perhaps in one of these – at the tip of his ballpoint pen – we were all currently trapped.

"And the main thing is, no one can help me. Everyone just mocks me, like Charm. Or they say: 'Well, what did you expect, you have as many as nine spirals!'…"

"Gill!!!"

"Ah, fine!" Brittlegill sighed dejectedly, tossing aside his pen. It rolled across the desk with a loud clatter, but stopped at the very edge and seemed to rewind back. "Let's just start already."

The bell rang. The second hand moved from its position with a visible effort.

"So, let's begin," the professor came to his senses and rose from his chair for the umpteenth time. Chalk screeched across the board. "In my classes, we will learn to control time…"

Everything in the rector's reception area was typical. A typical brown cabinet, a typical gray chair, a typical beige desk – and even the secretary sitting behind it seemed utterly typical. Not a single distinguishing detail or facial feature. If a second later I was asked to describe her, I would not remember anything – not even the color of her hair.

"Is Mr. Doe in?" for a first-year student, I was showing remarkable determination. I was nervous, of course, but the break between classes was only ten minutes, and there was no time to waste. "May I see him? It's an urgent matter."

"Mr. Doe, someone's here to see you!" the middle-aged woman raised her gray eyes to me. Or were they green? Or bluish? Though they might have been brown, actually. Through the cathedral's transparent "ceiling", bright sunbeams fell on her face, and the light washed away all the colors.

"Susan, look how the weather has cleared up today!" this was the rector, good-naturedly peeking out of his office. "What a blue sky!"

"Yes, Mr. Doe, it's hard to believe we're in St. Petersburg!" the secretary laughed. "Well, it's not surprising, Mr. Black has arrived. He brought good weather with him, as always…"

"A great man!" Mr. Doe exclaimed, smoothing the large copper key on his chest, worn over his jacket. Then, finally, he looked at me. "And you, young lady, what brings you here?"

"I…" I stumbled.

"Well, let's not stand in the doorway. Come in, my dear, come in!.. Here, please, have a seat," closing the door behind us, he seated me in a deep leather armchair opposite his desk. "Now then, tell me. What brings you to me?"

My eyes aimlessly scanned the office. Letters of appreciation, diplomas, certificates – everything around was so densely hung with silver frames gleaming in the sunlight that it wasn't even clear what color the walls were painted. Or maybe there was wallpaper hidden behind all those laudatory papers?.. Shaking my head, I bleated uncertainly:

"I actually wanted to talk to you about Mr. Black. Something is deeply troubling me…"

"Oh, I understand your concern, young lady, I understand it very well! Yesterday you had your introductory lesson in Art History. I assume Mr. Black made quite an impression…"

"That's putting it mildly," I blurted out.

"Unfortunately, his subject is an elective…"

'Fortunately,' I corrected mentally.

"Therefore, alas, not everyone will be able to attend his excellent seminars, but don't worry. Your name is Nicole, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, but I don't…"

"Don't worry, Nicole. Last evening, Mr. Black gave me a list of those students who will be automatically enrolled in his group first. These are the best of the best, whose special talent didn't go unnoticed, and you – yes, you – have the honor of being among these lucky ones!"

"Wait!.."

"A wonderful teacher," the rector went on. "Magnificent! Young, handsome, and most importantly – devilishly gifted! You're incredibly lucky to study under him, Nicole! And what a virtuoso violinist he is! Has he played the violin for you yet?"

"You could say that. He has."

Not the violin, though, but on my nerves, but that's almost the same thing. Now I see the rector and Mr. Black are thick as thieves – possibly it was Mr. Doe who dragged the "virtuoso violinist" here to work, and even made up the title of professor in the schedule. It's useless to tell him about the brutal murder. At best, he simply won't believe me; at worst, he'll snitch to Mr. Black, and once he realizes I've opened my mouth, he'll deal with me immediately. I need to seek help elsewhere.

"Mr. Doe, do you know why I don't have… this… what's it called… a benefactor?"

"That can't be! Every immortal has a benefactor. Your benefactor is…" taking the key from his chest, Mr. Doe unlocked one of his desk drawers. He took out my file, opened it, and rustled through the rough pages. "Let's see… Aha, here it is. Your benefactor is Bella Ionfield. But she's on maternity leave right now. As, however, she has been for the last thirteen years."

"Aunt Bella?!"

I immediately remembered myself at the age of three, and our trip with my parents to St. Petersburg to visit a "relative" from whom we hadn't received any news since that distant day. Her belly was noticeably rounded then. I think she gave birth to her firstborn a couple of months after our meeting.

"So Aunt Bella is my benefactor?!" I repeated, still not believing my guesses.

"If it's more comfortable for you, call her that, but still remember her surname – in case you need to communicate in person. For a mother of five children, the youngest of whom is only a year old, she's very kind, but as a mentor she is extremely strict…"

"Can you give me her phone number?"

"I can," Mr. Doe thoughtfully rubbed his finger on the golden statuette of a bird with spread wings above his desk. Either an eagle or an owl, I couldn't tell. "I can, but… I won't. Don't be offended, girl, she is on leave after all, even if it's maternity leave, and who of us likes to be disturbed while on leave? Wait a couple of years, her youngest son will go to kindergarten, and then she'll take care of you. You're not in a hurry, are you? Unlike Ms. Ionfield, you have an eternity to spare…"

The bell rang, announcing the start of the second class. I gulped air like a fish, mumbled "yes, thank you" and, smiling crookedly, slipped out of the rector's office.

Chapter 8: Clean Slate

As I ran down the corridor, my head started to ache. Maybe it was the aftermath of chaotic time travel, or maybe it was just stress. To make matters worse, the second lesson was Philosophy. What if this professor also shoots students for being late?

Fortunately, the old sniper's classroom was on the third floor, right next to the rector's office. Ready to apologize profusely, I flung open the door but couldn't utter a word.

The teacher's chair was empty. Only gray-white books were stacked in several piles on the desk, and above the old wooden podium hung a huge board with an obscene organ drawn in chalk across its entire width. Apparently, a message to the freshmen from their senior comrades.

The white-haired "dandelion" calmly walked along the rows, handing out textbooks to students. Look at that, he didn't ask anyone for help – doing it all himself. When the stack of ten books in his hands ran out, he returned to the desk and took a new one just like it. He noticed neither me nor the drawing that was causing stifled laughs and barbed comments here and there.

Oh right, he's blind.

I felt so sorry for him again that I almost forgave him for the gun incident. Instead of quietly taking a seat in the classroom, I took an eraser and started wiping the artwork off the board.

"Nicole, don't worry," the old man suddenly said in a creaky voice, without turning around. "Tomorrow, the second-year students will have to study the meaning of phallic symbolism in ancient Eastern mystical traditions. Let's consider this illustration an outstanding manifestation of their intuition. Please, sit down. I don't punish for being late."

A textbook landed on the desk in front of me – a shabby library book, probably printed back in the Soviet Union. The ribbed cover was once white but had darkened with time. No pictures, not even a publisher's logo. Only worn gilding on top spelled out: "Philosophy. 1st year". No author was listed.

"This textbook," the professor spoke up after returning to the podium, "was first compiled by my great-great-grandfather in tsarist Russia. Later it was republished by my great-grandfather, then grandfather, then father, and now you are holding in your hands the fifth edition, revised and supplemented personally by me. This book, like an immortal being wandering through eternity, will answer many of your questions. It will literally open your eyes! It will shed light on what you'll be learning here!"

The giggles in the classroom were replaced by the noise of pages being frantically flipped.

"Excuse me!" Jake was the first to speak up. "My book is defective. There's nothing here. All the pages are blank. Can I…"

Glancing into my textbook, he fell silent.

"Mine is also defective," came a surprised voice from the back rows.

"Mine too!.."

"The book is empty!"