Ivan Sarmatov, a final-year student of the translation department of Moscow State Pedagogical Institute, paced the square close to the institute's main building and pondered his immediate future. And on this sunny day in May 1950, it did not seem at all as cloudless as the dazzling blue spring sky.

      The night before, after the last couple of classes, Lenochka, the secretary from the dean's office, jumped up to him, holding him by the button of his new suede jacket, which his father had brought to the prodigal son from the last symposium of anthropologists in Vienna, and chirped rapidly:

      “Yakov Naumovich is expecting you tomorrow by 11 o'clock. Please don’t be late!”

      And the dragonfly was about to flutter away, but Ivan grabbed her sharp elbow and held it.

      “Wait a minute Lenochka, my little dear! Where are you going so soon? Don’t leave the most faithful admirer of your charm in the dark. Take pity! Tell me, why did our respected dean need me? I won't sleep now, dear!”

      Helena hid coyly behind her fist. Why, perhaps the most eligible bachelor of the faculty, the son of the professor and academician Sarmatov himself, had just attested his admiration to her! But then, unable to contain the fresh news, she let it slip.

      “Yakov Naumovich, the day before, asked for your personal file with the entire year’s ratings and your attendance history. He studied it the whole evening! So, Comrade Sarmatov, prepare to have your head washed.”

      And she flew away, constantly looking back and smiling slyly.

      Ivan winced. He knew perfectly well how many passes he had accumulated this year. Even the numerous donor certificates which he had received from the nearest blood transfusion station did not help. He had already been driven away from there at the end of a broom. The nurses angrily declared that as much blood as he donated simply does not physically fit in one person. They also claimed such a practice is not only harmful to his youthful body but also essentially vicious, since it allows the future teacher or translator, as will be the case, to skip out of class.

      He remembered how his friend, Lyoshka Astafiev from Angren, had left the university in disgrace last year for much lesser transgressions. True, he did not have an academic dad, and they kept him last year solely for his merits on the sports path. He was an indispensable point guard in the institute's volleyball team. Yet, the time had come, and there was nothing to cover the many 'nb' marks in the register. Now, the time has come for Sarmatov to be held responsible for his walks with Tanyusha through the gardens and parks of the capital during classes and attending movie shows in the club on Pechatnikov at inopportune hours.

      And now Ivan paced the square's path and concentrated on building a 'line of defense' before meeting with the dean, who was irreconcilable to truants. So far, everything came out weak. Somehow, nothing sounded convincing to his ears.

      He turned up the sleeve of his suede jacket and, glancing at his watch, Sarmatov saw the time for reflection had passed. It was time to be put on Yakov Naumovich's carpet. Smirking, Ivan shrugged his shoulders against the chill and moved to the yellow section of the main building.

      Ivan crossed the creaky parquet of the corridors, filled with the light of the May sun, and went up to the second floor. He stopped in front of a door with the inscription 'Dean of the Faculty of Translation'. He looked around. The corridors were empty, everyone was in some class somewhere. There were still ten minutes left until the end of the second pair of classes. All his acquaintances were in lectures or seminars, so there was no one to even ask for support. Exhaling sharply, Ivan pulled up his jacket and pushed open the door, which had darkened with time. He remembered, for no reason, that the former owner of this building, Moscow governor Pyotr Yeropkin, had arranged balls here, which even little Pushkin visited.

      In the waiting room, Lenochka gave him a sympathetic glance. Contrary to her habit of chatting with other visitors, she jumped up from her table and disappeared behind the oak door of the dean's sanctuary. She jumped back out in a couple of seconds and, leaving the door ajar, squeaked:

      “Yakov Naumovich is waiting for you, Comrade Sarmatov. Come in.”

      Ivan shook his head in surprise and stepped into the bowels of the familiar study. His wait for an audience with the dean had never been so short. Helena whispered after him: “Give ‘em hell, Vanya!” The door slammed shut behind him like the lid of a coffin.

      The dean was sitting at the table, fingering the papers laid out in front of him. At the sound of the slamming door, he raised his head, took off his glasses, and glanced at the newcomer with a little squint.

      “Sarmatov?” He glanced at the characteristic student's folder lying on top of the other papers, opened the first page, then slammed it again. “Why are you standing? Come in, sit down.”

      “Hello, Yakov Naumovich,” the young man said as he plodded across the worn carpet, traversed by thousands of students, and sat down on a high-backed chair facing the all-powerful dean.

      For some time, he looked at him in expectation, perhaps even with some kind of regret. Then, remembering someone, shook his massive head, grunted, and got up, calling to someone over his shoulder.

      “He's yours, comrade. I pass him on to you, as they say, safe and sound.”

      And the dean, grinning at some of his thoughts, exited. He left. His own. Office!

      Dumbfounded, Ivan glanced in the direction where the dean nodded. Only now he noticed a stranger sitting to the side in a deep guest chair.