22. Expelled
On Thursday morning, I returned to Valentina’s office and apologized to her for my behavior on Tuesday morning. She responded as well in a professional manner. I thought for a moment that maybe I had misread everything and began to be hopeful again that things could normalize.
“Mr. Turner, I understand your reaction although I cannot approve of it. You are a serious student and everybody at the school appreciates your hard, academic work and we understand you are not happy to give up your research and your months of work, but, this is still Russia and you must respect that you do not understand the different elements in our society as a foreigner,” she lectured.
“Yes, I have thought about it for the last few days and I recognize that I have been reckless and should think more about my fellow students instead of my hope for glory in print,” I offered my contrition. “Perhaps I can still use the base of my research at the end of next term to write a paper that the Dean will still publish.”
Valentina Petrovna gloated silently in a smug, superior manner and couldn’t have been more pleased to hear this admission of guilt and contrition. “I’m sure that you will check with me in the future to avoid these problems and circumstances,” she said in a self-righteous tone that made me want to jump over the desk and strangle her.
I wondered who had gotten to her to force her to quash my project. Was she directly linked to Mr. P., or was somebody else putting pressure on her to be able to stay in the shadows? I looked through her with daggers in my eyes.
I rode the trolley bus from Gagarin Street down to Senaya Square and walked the rest of the way to the Linguistics school for my one lecture that morning. I had decided that I would keep my usual schedule and on Thursday that meant that I would spend some time on the database in the American library not deviate from my usual activities. As I approached the building I was forced to step off the pavements and walk in the street as there were several cars parked on the sidewalk just before the entrance stairs to the schooclass="underline" two black Volga sedans with a burgundy Mercedes sandwiched between them. I gave them no thought, as there were no designated parking areas anywhere in the city, and the drivers would just jump the curbs and park where they wished. Train stations and airports seemed also to have no parking policy nor enforcement. I skirted the delinquent parkers by walking into oncoming traffic. Horns blared. I was in no mood for it and gave the driver a gesture that warranted another from him back. That conflict quickly settled, I bounded up the stairs and into the school.
Following the lecture, as planned, I settled into my usual corner in the computer lab and set up my usual stack of notebooks and logged into my computer. My user name had not been changed on that terminal by any other researchers for almost four months. Everybody knew it was my spot. On occasion, I would recognize a few faces but for the most part, the students used the resources casually, for a rare reference in a research paper, but there had not been anybody up this point that made research and exploration a discipline as I had. Hence, my complete astonishment when my password was not accepted by the system, blocking me out of my account. I retyped my user name and password three times out of disbelief. There had never been any problems before!
I stood up from my work station and approached the librarian’s desk.
“Pardon me please, Olya Sergeyevna, but I am not able to access the computers. Has the system been reset? Do I need a renewed password to log on?” I politely inquired.
“I am sorry, youngman, may I please see your student credentials?” The librarian asked me in a very formal manner.
“Olya, you know who I am and you very well that I am a student here. What’s all this about?” I protested.
“May I please see your student card, young man?” she repeated without acknowledging me.
I walked back to my workstation and rummaged about in my book bag and returned to the service desk. I ceremoniously handed the student pass to this suddenly cold and formal librarian with whom I had spent hours upon hours with over the last four months behind these barred windows under the buzzing fluorescent lights. This had become my home away from home. How could she need to see my student card?
“Mr. Tournaire, I am afraid that you are not entitled to use these computers at this location,” Olya replied after inspecting my credentials.
“I’m sorry, what do you say, ma’am?” I replied not believing my ears.
“You do not have a right to use these computers in this facility,” she repeated without looking me in the eyes.
“Can you explain to me why this has changed since last week?” I pleaded.
“I can only tell you that only those studying economics can use these computers, as they are part of the economics department. Your student card says that you are studying linguistics and literature, not economics,” she stated coldly with no emotion and went back to making notations in a notebook.
“Olya Sergeyevna, please explain to me what has happened here. I have been here for four months now using these computers and the database with the permission of Dean Karamzin, who signed the permission for me to research here. I gave that paper to you in January and you created the account for me!” I was getting rather worked up at this point. “And further, I am the only regular student that uses these resources. Can you seriously tell me that you see any students, let alone students from the economics faculty here searching for information? I am the only person in this school with English good enough to utilize what is stored on these disks.” I angrily roared as I motioned toward the wall of CDROMs in their racks covering a full wall of the library.
The librarian did not look up from her writing. She was trying very hard not to speak back to me or let any emotion show, but just before she did look up and bid me a good day she slid a paper toward me and turned it right side up for me to read.
“I wish you a good day, Mr. Tournaire! Now leave!” she said in an angrily to me, but her eyes motioned to the paper she held in her hands.
The scrap of paper read, ‘THEY ARE STILL HERE WATCHING. GO!’ Reading this warning from Olya, I stomped back to my workstation and continued to spout off angry words at her while I walked away.
“I will go to the Dean and to Valentina Petrovna and I will be back today to get my access back. I can’t believe that this has happened!” I was now acting to be angry at my friend.
Just as I stepped to the door and opened it to exit the library I stopped and looked back quickly and gave the librarian an acknowledging nod of appreciative thanks. She replied with her eyes to hurry away. I darted out into the street to catch a departing trolley-bus.
As I burst through the front doors of the school on to Minin Street and directly into the closing doors of the back of the bus, I saw in the corner of my eyes a startled fellow in bright white trainers smoking around the corner of the building to the right as I exited. He didn’t have the time to jump on the bus with me as I barely made it through with the doors closing on my book bag, and I was away. I hadn’t seen him earlier in the morning on Gagarin street, but as this Thursday lecture was part of my weekly routine it was no surprise to see him here again. I continued to watch him out of the back of the bus and noticed that he stepped into one of the black Volga sedans that were parked on the sidewalk that I had to walk around earlier this morning.
As I watched my tag jump into the passenger seat of the lead car, I suddenly recognized the cavalcade of black Volgas, the burgundy Mercedes with blackened, bulletproof windows. It was the same group of cars that had delivered Mr. P. to the Yarmarka for the city auction. Those same cars had nearly run me down there in front of the exhibition hall. This was undoubtedly who Olya Sergeyevna was warning me about.