You Have Unlocked the Memory

      "We don't have any money. We will not be able to afford your studies at the university, so you should only go to places where there are many budget places," the mother's voice thundered in a commanding tone in my head, "Try it here, in our city. In teaching, in English, that's the only thing you're good at."       Yes. Only. The brochure, which told about the publishing business, remained in the bag.       "Mom, what do you think about publishing? I like to write."       "There is no budget, daughter. Let's look closely at the teaching specialty."

***

      We walked like a long slender snake to the school №9, where the English language exam was taking place, which for the first time this year included not only the written part, but also the oral part. I was very worried, because I didn't even know how strictly they plan to evaluate our knowledge.       The weather was cloudy and cool, as it often happened in early June. Starting tomorrow, forecasters promised a whole series of rains. Next to me was my best friend Sasha, a tall and slender girl with long wavy hair. She was an excellent student, from a good family and seemed to be successful in everything.       "Have you already chosen the college which you will enter?" I asked.       Sasha looked ahead thoughtfully. "Law department, also in our city. There are only five budget places for the entire stream but I will try to be one of them. Mom said anywhere, as long as it wasn't the pedagogical college." Offended, I didn't answer. Sasha knew where I was going to enter, but I was sure she just said it out of carelessness. After all, these are her mom's words, not her own, right?       Sitting in the classroom and thinking about the assignment, I immersed myself in thoughts. Did I love English because it was the only thing I was good at, or did I love English and that's why I was good at it? If it wasn't for English, what would I be doing?       Would I play the piano? Or would I write books?       Writing.       This activity sounded like a fabulous dream in my head. A profession accessible only to the elite and geniuses. To become a writer, you had to be born with this special heavenly gift. Obviously, I didn't have one. I was just a teenager from a provincial town, an unremarkable girl who didn't even know what career to build in the future and chose a university that would allow me to simply get a higher education and not be worse than others.       I remember how in May the class teacher passed a piece of paper through the rows, where each of us had to enter the name of the college where each student planned to enroll, and I sat at the first desk of the second row. When the sheet reached me and I saw all the previous entries, I felt a strong stab in my chest. The list consisted of prestigious universities in the capital, some were even going abroad. I was ashamed to include the local pedagogical university there. The humiliation I felt passing the sheet on was beyond words. It seemed to me that all the students were discussing and laughing behind my back.       Seventy eight. I thought I could do better. But this result was suitable for the university I chose.       "How much does Vadim have?" the tutor asked when I called to inform her about the result.       Vadim was my classmate, with whom we went to the same tutor's courses together. He, like everyone else, was aiming to go to Moscow.       "Seventy-six," I answered the phone.       "It's strange," Tatyana Nikolaevna became worried, "he wrote all the samples so well. I thought he'd have about ninety. Well, well done, thanks for letting me know."       "Thank you for preparing me," I replied mentally. "You didn't have high hopes for me and didn't say anything about my result, but I'm still grateful that you studied with me. Since childhood."       A tall and lanky sophomore was sitting in a chair opposite me and accepting documents. I thought he was cute and very charismatic. His cropped curly hair covered his forehead slightly. It was a hot summer, and we both fanned ourselves with sheets, creating a slight breeze.       "Where do you want to go?" he asked, scratching his chin.       "To the English department." I answered uncertainly.       "English? Let's go to German one, I'm studying there for the second year myself, it's very cool here. Look, you've already learned English at school, you know it normally. Why would you choose it as first language? At the German department, you will begin to learn it as the first, you will start to speak already, and then you will catch up English from the second year. After graduation, you will know two languages perfectly."       His speech, flowing without pauses, was so convincing that I immediately changed my mind. But for sure, he spoke very logically. Knowing two languages, what could be better? I went out to my mom in high spirits. She was waiting for me, sitting on one of the chairs in the hall. Twenty years ago, she graduated from this university herself, only from the Faculty of Primary Education.       "Well? What is it?" she asked.       "I changed the department, chose German," I replied happily.       Mom didn't share my joy.       "God, are you sure? Well, why German? Why don't you come back and change it?"       I shook my head negatively.       "Well, never mind, I'll go to the dean's office later and ask you to enroll in the English department."

***

      After the solemn part on September 1st, the student dean took us to the building of the Faculty of Foreign Languages. It was an ancient century-old building, which was both a private estate and a military hospital, in what basements there used to even be a morgue. The building of the department was decorated with beautiful dilapidated bas-reliefs and stucco, and inside there was an amazing combination of interiors of the early twentieth century and modern technologies. Colorful square tiles were laid on the floor of the huge hall, and a huge crystal Soviet chandelier hung from the ceiling. Turnstiles were located at the entrance, and computers and projectors were in the classrooms.       The building was two-storied, was under UNESCO protection, therefore it was impossible to carry out major repairs. Therefore, the ceilings in many classrooms were covered with huge yellow spots that smelled of mold.       The iron staircase to the basement, where the toilets and wardrobe were located, turned out to be so steep and slippery that it was just right to fall off and break all the bones. The corridors were long and intertwined, and the classrooms were scattered randomly. Their location could not be predicted, only memorized, and it also turned out that the auditorium at number nineteen simply does not exist. For an unknown reason. The building was so unusual and mysterious, gloomy and confusing, that I even believed in all the ghost stories. It was said that if you stayed in the building late, then footsteps could be heard from the remote corridor where classrooms five and seven were located.       Our entire freshman year was in the auditorium forty-sixth, where a huge portrait of Lenin hung on the wall. I've already met my new group. Fourteen girls and one boy turned out to be very friendly and simple, cheerful and cheerful. The difference between my new group and my former class was incomparable. It was the first time I felt at ease. They all didn't have the money to afford studying at a prestigious university, and learning English was also the only thing they were good at. Despite the different characters and history, we all turned out to be similar in spirit.       "Welcome to our big family!" the student dean said happily, "Our pedagogical university is one of the oldest in the district, and we are all very proud to study here. Our Faculty of Foreign Languages has long established itself in the country, we exchange students with higher educational institutions in Germany and France. Our students also travel to the USA on a J-1 visa for the summer. And most importantly, our department prepares the coolest performances for the Student Falls and Springs. I can see by your eyes that you are all very charged. My senior year groupmates and I are very glad and happy that you have enrolled with us."       I stared at the student dean in surprise and looked around. Something inside me was agitated and rumbled. The unexpected joy that I entered the pedagogical university suddenly filled my heart. Maybe I actually made the right choice?