HIS WIFE fell asleep the minute she lay down on the couch in the nursery: nothing wears you out as much as a sick child. Good, let her sleep there. Ignatiev covered her with a light blanket, stood around, looked at her open mouth, exhausted face, the black roots of her hair—she had stopped pretending to be a blonde a long time ago—felt sorry for her, for the wan, white, and sweaty Valerik, for himself, left, went to bed, and lay without sleep, staring at the ceiling.
Depression came to Ignatiev every night. Heavy, confusing, with lowered head, it sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand—a sad sitter for a hopeless patient. And they spent hours in silence, holding hands.
The house rustled at night, shuddered, lived. There were peaks in the vague din—a dog’s bark, a snatch of music, the thud of the elevator going up and down on a thread—the night boat. Hand in hand with depression Ignatiev said nothing: locked in his heart, gardens, seas, and cities tumbled; Ignatiev was their master, they were born with him, and with him they were doomed to dissolve into nonbeing. My poor world, your master has been conquered by depression. Inhabitants, color the sky in twilight, sit on the stone thresholds of abandoned houses, drop your hands, lower your heads: your good king is ill. Lepers, walk the deserted streets, ring your brass bells, carry the bad tidings: brothers, depression is coming to the cities. The hearths are abandoned and the ashes are cold and grass is growing between the slabs where the bazaar once was boisterous. Soon the low red moon will rise in the inky sky, and the first wolf will come out of the ruins, raise its head, and howl, sending a lone call on high, into the icy expanses, to the distant blue wolves sitting on branches in the black groves of alien universes.
Ignatiev did not know how to cry, and so he smoked. The light glowed in tiny toy flashes of summer lightning. Ignatiev lay there, depressed, tasting tobacco bitterness and knowing that in it was truth. Bitterness, smoke, a tiny oasis of light in the dark—that was the world. On the other side of the wall the plumbing rumbled. His earthy, tired, dear wife slept under a torn blanket. White Valerik was restless—thin, sickly shoot, pathetic to the point of spasms—rash, glands, dark circles under his eyes. And somewhere in the city, in one of the brightly lit windows, unfaithful, unsteady, evasive Anastasia was drinking wine with someone else. Look at me . . . but she just laughs and looks away.
Ignatiev turned on his side. Depression moved closer to him and flung up her ghostly sleeve—a line of ships floated up. The sailors were drinking with the locals in taverns, the captain stayed late on the governor’s veranda (cigars, liqueurs, pet parrot), the watch man left his post for a cockfight and to see the bearded woman at the motley sideshow; the painters quietly untied themselves, a night breeze came up, and the old sailing ships, creaking, left the harbor for points unknown. Sick children, small, trusting boys, sleep soundly in their berths; they snuffle, holding a toy tight in their fists; the blankets slip off, the empty decks sway, the flock of ships sails with a soft splash into the impenetrable dark, and the pointed wake smooths out on the warm black surface.
Depression waves a sleeve and spreads out a boundless stony desert—hoarfrost shining on the cold rocky plain, stars frozen indifferently, the white moon indifferently drawing circles, the steadily stepping camel’s bridle jangling sadly, a rider drawing near, wrapped in chilled striped cloth of Bukhara. Who are you, rider? Why have you dropped your reins? Why have you wrapped up your face? Let me loosen your stiff fingers. What is this, rider, are you dead? . . . The rider’s mouth gapes, a bottomless pit; his hair is tangled, and deep sorrowful gutters have been etched in his cheeks by tears flowing for millennia.
A flutter of the sleeve. Anastasia, floating lights over a swamp. What was that slurp in the thicket? Don’t look back. A hot flower beckons you to step on the springy brown hummocks. A thin, impatient fog moves about, sometimes lying down, sometimes hanging over the kindly beckoning moss: the red flower floats, winking through the white clumps: come here, come here. One step—that’s not scary, is it? One more step—you’re not afraid, are you? Shaggy heads stand in the moss, smiling, winking. A noisy dawn. Don’t be afraid, the sun won’t rise. Don’t be afraid, we still have the fog. Step. Step. Step. Floating, laughing, the flower flashes. Don’t look back! I think I’ll get it. I do think I’ll get it. I will. Step.
“Oo-oo-oo,” came a groan from the next room. Ignatiev pushed through the door in a bound and rushed to the crib—what’s the matter, what is it? His tangled wife jumped up and they began jerking at Valerik’s sheets and blanket, getting in each other’s way. Just to do something, to act! The little white head tossed and turned in its sleep, muttered, ba-da-da, ba-da-da. Rapidly muttering, pushing them away with his hands; then he calmed down, turned, settled down. . . . He went off into his dreams alone, without his mother, without me, down the narrow path under the pines.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Another fever. I’ll sleep here.”
“I’ve already brought you a blanket. I’ll get you a pillow.”
“He’ll be like that till morning. Shut the door. If you want to eat, there are some cheese pastries.”
“I’m not hungry. Get some sleep.”
Depression was waiting, lying in the wide bed; moved over, made room for Ignatiev, embraced him, put her head on his chest, on the razed gardens, the dried-up seas, the ashen cities.
But not everything was killed: toward morning, when Ignatiev slept, Life came out of the dugouts; it pulled apart the burned logs and planted small seedlings: plastic primroses, cardboard oaks; hauled building blocks to erect temporary shelter, filled the seas with a watering can, cut pink bug-eyed crabs out of oilcloth, and with an ordinary pencil drew the dark, convoluted line of the surf.
•
After work, Ignatiev did not go straight home, but drank beer with a friend in a little cellar bar. He always hurried to get the best spot, in the corner, but rarely succeeded. And while he hurried, avoiding puddles, speeding up, patiently waiting for the roaring rivers of cars to pass, behind him, shuffled into the crowd of people, depression hurried; here and there, her flat, dull head appeared. There was no way he could get away from her, the doorman let her into the cellar bar, too, and Ignatiev was happy if his friend also came early. Old friend, schoolmate: he waved to him from afar, nodding, smiling gaptoothed; his thinning hair curled over his old, worn jacket. His children were grown. His wife had left him a long time ago and he didn’t want to remarry. Everything was just the opposite with Ignatiev. They met joyously and parted irritated, unhappy with each other, but the next time they started all over again. And when his friend, panting, made his way through the arguing tables, and nodded to Ignatiev, then deep in Ignatiev’s chest, in his solar plexus, Life raised its head and also nodded and waved.
They ordered beer and pretzels.
“I’m in despair,” Ignatiev said. “I’m desperate. I’m confused. It’s all so complicated. My wife is a saint. She quit her job, she spends all her time with Valerik. He’s sick, he’s sick all the time. His legs don’t work well. He’s just this tiny little candle stump. Barely burning. The doctors give him shots, he’s afraid. He screams. I can’t stand hearing him scream. The most important thing for him is home care and she kills herself. She’s killing herself. But I can’t go home. Depression. My wife won’t even look me in the eye. And what’s the point? Even if I read The Old Man and the Turnip to Valerik at bedtime, it’s still depressing. And it’s a lie; if a turnip is stuck in the ground, you can’t get it out. I know. Anastasia. . . . I call and call, she’s never home. And if she is home, what can we talk about? Valerik? Work? . . . It’s bad, you know, it gets me down. Every day I promise myself: tomorrow I’ll wake up a new man, I’ll perk up, I’ll forget Anastasia, make a pile of money, take Valerik down south. . . . Redo the apartment, start jogging in the morning . . . But at night, I’m depressed.”
“I don’t understand,” his friend would say. “What are you making this into such a big deal for? We all live pretty much the same way, what’s the problem? We all manage to live somehow.”
“You don’t understand. Right here”—Ignatiev pointed to his chest—“it’s alive, and it hurts.”
“You’re such a fool,” his friend said and picked his teeth with a wooden match. “It hurts because it’s alive. What did you expect?”
“I expected it not to hurt. It’s too hard for me. Believe it or not, I’m suffering. And my wife is suffering, and so is Valerik, and Anastasia must be suffering and that’s why she unplugs the phone. And we all torment one another.”
“You’re a fool. Just don’t suffer.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re a fool. Big deal, the world-class sufferer! You just don’t want to be hale and hearty, you don’t want to be master of your life.”
“I’m at the end of my tether,” Ignatiev said, clutching his hair and staring at his foam-flecked mug.
“You’re an old woman. You’re wallowing in your self-invented suffering.”
“No, I’m not an old woman. And I’m not wallowing. I’m sick and I want to be well.”
“If that’s the case, you should know: the diseased organ has to be amputated. Like an appendix.”
Ignatiev looked up, shocked.
“What do you mean?”
“I just told you.”
“Amputated in what sense?”
“Medically. They do that now.”
His friend looked around, lowered his voice, and explained: there’s an institute near Novoslobodskaya, and they operate on it; of course, it’s still semiofficial for now, it’s done privately, but it’s possible. Of course, you have to make it worth the surgeon’s while. People come out completely renewed. Hadn’t Ignatiev heard about it? It’s very widespread in the West, but it’s still underground here. Has to be done on the sly. Bureaucracy.
Ignatiev listened, stunned.
“But have they at least . . . experimented on dogs?”
His friend made circles near his ear.
“You’re really nuts. Dogs don’t have it. They have reflexes. Remember Pavlov?”
“Oh, yes.”
Ignatiev thought a bit. “But it’s horrible!”
“There’s nothing horrible about it. The results are excellent: the mental processes become much sharper. Will power increases. All those idiotic, fruitless doubts end forever. Harmony of body and, uh, brain. The intellect beams like a projector. You set your goal, strike without missing, and grab first prize. But I’m not forcing you, you know. If you don’t want treatment, stay sick. With your glum nose. And let your women unplug the phone.”
Ignatiev did not take offense, he shook his head: those women . . .
“Ignatiev, for your information, what you tell a woman, even if she’s Sophia Loren, is: shoo! Then they’ll respect you. Otherwise, you don’t count.”
“But how can I say that to her? I worship her, I tremble . . .”
“Right. Tremble. You tremble, I’m going home.”
“Wait! Stay a bit. Let’s have another beer. Listen, have you seen any of these . . . operated people?”
“You bet.”
“How do they look?”
“How? Like you and me. Better. Everything’s just dandy with them, they’re successful, they laugh at fools like us. I have a pal, we were at college together. He’s become a big shot.”
“Could I have a look at him?”
“A look? Well, all right, I’ll ask. I don’t know if he’d mind. I’ll ask. Although, what’s it to him? I don’t think he’ll refuse. Big deal!”
“What’s his name?”
“N.”
•
It was pouring. Ignatiev walked through the city in the evening; red and green lights replaced each other, bubbling on the streets. Ignatiev had two kopeks in his hand, to call Anastasia. A Zhiguli drove right through a puddle on purpose, splashing Ignatiev with murky water, splattering his trousers. Things like that happened frequently to Ignatiev. “Don’t worry, I’ll get that operation,” thought Ignatiev, “buy a car, and I’ll splash others. Revenge on the indifferent for humiliation.” He was ashamed of his base thoughts and shook his head. I’m really sick.
He had a long wait at the phone booth. First a young man whispered smiling into the phone. Somebody whispered back a long time, too. The man ahead of Ignatiev, a short, dark man, banged his coin against the glass: have a heart. Then he called. Apparently he had his own Anastasia, but her name was Raisa. The short man wanted to marry her, insisted, shouted, pressed his forehead against the cold telephone.
“What’s the problem?” He couldn’t understand. “Can you please explain what the problem is? What more could you want? Tell me! Just tell me! You’ll be rolling . . .”—he switched the receiver to his other ear—“You’ll be rolling in clover! Go on. Go on.” He listened a long time, tapping his foot. “Why my whole apartment is covered with rugs. Yeah. Yeah.” He listened a long time, grew bewildered, stared at the phone with its dial tone, left with an angry face, with tears in his eyes, walked into the rain. He didn’t need Ignatiev’s sympathetic smile. Ignatiev crawled into the warm inside of the booth, dialed the magical number, but crawled out with nothing: his long rings found no response, dissolved in the cold rain, in the cold city, beneath the low, cold clouds. And Life whimpered in his chest until morning.
•
N. received him the next week. A respectable establishment with lots of name plates. Solid, spacious corridors, carpets. A weeping woman came out of his office. Ignatiev and his friend pushed the heavy door. N. was an important man: desk, jacket, the works. Just look, look! A gold pen in his pocket, and look at the pens in the granite slab on his desk. Look at the desk calendars. And a fine cognac behind the square panes of his cupboard—well, well!
His friend explained their visit. He was visibly nervous: even though they had been at college together, all those pens . . . N. was clear and precise. Get all possible analyses. Chest X rays—profile and frontal. Get transferred to the institute by your local hospital, without making a fuss, put the reason: for tests. And at the institute, go to Dr. Ivanov. Yes, Ivanov. Have one hundred fifty rubles ready in an envelope. That’s basically it. That’s what I did. There may be other ways, I don’t know.
Yes, quick and painless. I’m satisfied.
“So, they cut it out?”
“I’d say, tear it out. Extract it. Clean, hygienic.”
“And afterward . . . did you see it? After the extraction?”
“What for?”
N. was insulted. Ignatiev’s friend kicked him: indecent questions!
“Well, to know what it was like,” Ignatiev said embarrassedly. “You know, just . . .”
“Who could possibly be interested in that? Excuse me . . .” N. lifted the edge of his cuff: a massive gold timepiece was revealed. With an expensive strap. Did you see, did you notice? The audience was over.
“Well, what did you think?” His friend peered into his face as they walked along the embankment. “Are you convinced? What do you think?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s scary.”
Headlights splashed in the black river waves. Depression, his evening girlfriend, was creeping up on him. Peeking out from behind the rain gutter pipe, running across the wet pavement, blending into the crowd, watching constantly, waiting for Ignatiev to be alone. Windows were lighting up, one after another.
“You’re in bad shape, Ignatiev. Decide. It’s worth it.”
“I’m scared. This way I feel bad, the other way I’m scared. I keep thinking, what happens later? What comes after? Death?”
“Life, Ignatiev! Life! A healthy, superior life, not just chicken scratching. A career. Success. Sport. Women. Get rid of complexes and neuroses! Just look at yourself: what are you? A wimp. Coward! Be a man, Ignatiev! A man! That’s what women want. Otherwise, what are you? Just a rag!”
Yes, women. Ignatiev drew Anastasia and grew lonely. He remembered her last summer, leaning toward a mirror, radiant, plump, her reddish hair tossed back, putting on carrot-colored lipstick, her lips in a convenient cosmetic position, talking in spurts, with pauses.
“I doubt. That you’re. A man. Ignatiev. Because men. Are. Decisive. And-by-the-way-change-that-shirt-if-you-have-any-hopes-at-all.” And her red dress burned like a flower.
And Ignatiev was ashamed of his tea-colored short-sleeved silk shirt, which used to belong to his father. It was a good shirt, long-wearing; he had gotten married in it and had welcomed Valerik home from the hospital in it. But if a shirt stands between us and the woman we love, we’ll burn the shirt—even if it’s made of diamonds. And he burned it. And it helped for a short while. And Anastasia loved him. But now she was drinking red wine with others and laughing in one of the lit windows of this enormous city, he didn’t know which one, but he looked for her silhouette in each one. And—not to him, but to others, shifting her shoulders under the lace shawl, on the second, seventh, sixteenth floor—she was saying her shameless words: “Am I really very pretty?”
Ignatiev burned his father’s tea-colored shirt; its ashes fall on the bed at night, depression sprinkles him with it, softly sowing it through half-shut fist. Only the weak regret useless sacrifices. He will be strong. He will burn everything that erects obstacles. He’ll grow into the saddle, he’ll tame the evasive, slippery Anastasia. He will lift the claylike, lowered face of his beloved, exhausted wife. Contradictions won’t tear him apart. The benefits will balance clearly and justly. Here is your place, wife. Reign. Here is your place, Anastasia. Rule. And you: smile, little Valerik. Your legs will grow strong and your glands will stop swelling, for Papa loves you, you pale city potato seedling. Papa will be rich, with pens. He will call in expensive doctors in gold-rimmed glasses with leather cases. Carefully handing you from one to the other, they will carry you to the fruity shores of the eternally blue sea, and the lemony, orangey breeze will blow the dark circles away from your eyes. Who’s that coming, tall as a cedar, strong as steel, with his step springy, knowing no shameful doubts? That’s Ignatiev. His path is straight, his income high, his gaze confident. Women watch him pass. Shoo! . . . Down a green carpet, in a red dress, Anastasia floats toward him nodding through the fog, smiling her shameless smile.
“I’ll at least get started on the paperwork. That takes ages,” Ignatiev said. “And then I’ll see.”
•
Ignatiev’s appointment was for eleven, but he decided to go early. A summer morning chirped outside the kitchen window. Water trucks sprayed brief coolness in rainbow fans, and Life cheeped and hopped in the tangled tree branches. Behind his back, sleepy night seeped through the netting, whispers of depression, foggy pictures of misery, the measured splash of waves on a dull deserted shore, low, low clouds. The silent ceremony of breakfast took place on a corner of the oilcloth—an old ritual whose meaning is forgotten, purpose lost; what remains is only the mechanical motions, signs, and sacred formulas of a lost tongue no longer understood by the priests themselves. His wife’s exhausted face was lowered. Time had long since stolen the pink flush of youth from the thousand-year-old cheeks and their branched fissures. . . . Ignatiev raised his hand, cupped it, to caress the parchment tresses of the beloved mummy—but his hand encountered only the sarcophagus’ cold. Frozen cliffs, the jangle of a lone camel’s bridle, the lake, frozen solid. She did not lift her face, did not lift her eyes. The mummy’s wrinkled brown stomach: dried up, sunken, the sliced-open rib cage filled with balsamic resins, stuffed with dry tufts of herbs; Osiris is silent. The dry members are tightly bound with linen strips marked with blue signs: asps, eagles, and crosses—the sneaky, minuscule droppings of ibis-headed Toth.
You don’t know anything yet, my dear, but be patient: just a few more hours, and the shackles will burst and the glass vessel of despair will shatter into small, splashing smithereens, and a new, radiant, shining glorious Ignatiev will appear to the boom and roll of drums and the cries of Phrygian pipes, wise, intense, complete; will arrive riding on a white elephant on a rug-covered seat with colored fans. And you will stand at my right, and on my left—closer to the heart—will stand Anastasia; and white Valerik will smile and reach out, and the mighty elephant will kneel and gently swing him in his kind, ornamented trunk, and pass him to Ignatiev’s strong arms, and Ignatiev will raise him above the world—the small ruler, intoxicated by heights—and the exulting nations will cry: ecce homo! Ecce ruler from sea to sea, from edge to edge, to the glowing cupola, the blue curving border of the gold-and-green planet earth.
Ignatiev came early, the hallway outside the office was empty, there was only a blond man hanging around, the one with the ten o’clock appointment. A pathetic blond with shifty eyes, biting his nails, nibbling his cuticle, stoop-shouldered; sitting down, then jumping up and examining closely the four-sided colored lanterns with edifying medical tales: “Unwashed Vegetables Are Dangerous.” “Gleb Had a Toothache.” “And the Eye Had to Be Removed” (If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out). “Give the Dysentery Patient Separate Dishes.” “Air Out Your Home Frequently.” An entry light went on over the door, the blond man groaned softly, patted his pockets, and crossed the threshold. Pathetic, pathetic, miserable man! I’m just like him. Time passed. Ignatiev squirmed, sniffed the medicated air, went to look at the pedagogical lanterns; Gleb’s story interested him. A sick tooth tormented Gleb, but then let up; and Gleb, cheerier, in a jogging suit, played chess with a school friend. But you can’t escape your fate. Gleb suffered great torments, and bound up his face with a cloth, and his day turned to night, and he went to the wise, stern doctor, and the doctor did ease his suffering: he did pull Gleb’s tooth and cast it out; and Gleb, transfigured, smiled happily in the final, bottom illuminated window, while the doctor raised his finger in admonition, bequeathing his time-honored wisdom to new generations.
Behind him came the rattle of a dolly and stifled moans, and two elderly women in white coats drove a writhing, nameless body, wrapped in dried-up bloody bandages—face and chest—only the mouth was a black hole. Could it be the blond? . . . Impossible . . . After them came a nurse with an IV, frowning, who stopped when she noticed Ignatiev’s desperate signals. Ignatiev made an effort and remembered the language of humans:
“The blond?”
“What did you say? I didn’t understand.”
“The blond, Ivanov? . . . He had it, too? . . . Extracted it, right?”
The nurse laughed grimly.
“No, they transplanted it into him. They’ll take yours out and put it in someone else. Don’t worry. He’s an inpatient.”
“You mean they do the reverse, too? Why such . . .”
“He’s doomed. They don’t survive it. We make them sign a disclaimer before the surgery. It’s useless. They don’t live.”
“Rejection? Immune system?”
“Heart attack.”
“Why?”
“They can’t take it. They were born that way, lived their whole lives that way, never knowing what it is. And then they go and have a transplant. It must be a fad or something. There’s a waiting list, we do one a month. Not enough donors.”
“So, I’m a donor?”
The nurse laughed, picked up the IV, and left. Ignatiev thought. So that’s how they do it here. An experimental institute, that’s for sure. . . . Ivanov’s office door opened, and a golden-haired someone strode out, haughty, pushy; Ignatiev jumped out of the way, then watched him go . . . the blond . . . A superman, dream, ideal, athlete, victor! The sign over the door was blinking impatiently, and Ignatiev crossed the threshold and Life rang like a bell in his trembling chest.
“Please sit for a minute.”
The doctor, Professor Ivanov, was writing something on a card. They were always like that: call you in, but they’re not ready. Ignatiev sat down and licked his lips. He looked around the office. A chair like a dentist’s, anesthesia equipment with two silvery tanks, and manometer. Over there, a polished cupboard with small gifts from patients, harmless, innocent trifles: plastic model cars, porcelain birds. It was funny to have porcelain birds in an office where such things were done. The doctor wrote and wrote, and the uncomfortable silence thickened, the only sounds the squeal of the pen, the jangle of the lone black camel’s bridle, and the stiffened rider, and the frozen plain. . . . Ignatiev squeezed his hands to control the trembling and looked around: everything was ordinary; the shutters of the old window were open and beyond the white window frame was summer.
The warm, already dusty leaves of the luxurious linden splashed, whispered, conspired about something, huddling in a tangled green mass, giggling, prompting one another, plotting: let’s do it this way; or how about like this? Good idea: well, then, we’re agreed, but it’s our secret, right? Don’t give it away! And suddenly, quivering as one heady, scented crowd, excited by the secret that united them—a wonderful, happy, warm summer secret—with a rustle, they lunged toward their neighboring, murmuring poplar: Guess, just guess. It’s your turn to guess. And the poplar swayed in embarrassment, caught unawares; and muttered, recoiling: easy, easy, not all at once; calm down, I’m old, you’re all so naughty. They laughed and exchanged glances, the linden’s green inhabitants: we knew it! And some fell down to the ground, laughing, into the warm dust, and others clapped their hands, and still others didn’t even notice, and once more they whispered, inventing a new game. Play, boys; play, girls! Laugh, kiss, live, you short-lived little green town. The summer is still dancing, its colorful flower skirts still fresh, it’s only noon by the clock: the hands triumphantly pointing up. But the sentence has been read, the permission granted, the papers signed. The indifferent executioner—the north wind—has put on his white mask, packed his cold poleaxe, is ready to start. Old age, bankruptcy, destruction are inexorable. And the hour is nigh when here and there on the bare branches there will be only a handful of frozen, contorted, uncomprehending old husks, thousand-year-old furrows on their earthy, suffering faces. . . . A gust of wind, a wave of the poleaxe, and they too will fall . . . I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, thought Ignatiev. I can’t hold on to summer with my weak hands, I can’t stop the decay, the pyramids are collapsing, the crack has sundered my trembling heart and the horror of the witnesses’ useless suffering . . . No. I’m dropping out of the game. With magic scissors I will cut the enchanted ring and go outside. The shackles will fall, the dry paper cocoon will burst, and astonished by the newness of the blue and gold purity of the world, the lightest, most fragile butterfly will fly out and grow more beautiful. . . .
Get out your scalpel, your knife, your sickle, whatever you usually use, doctor; be so kind as to sever the branch that is still blooming but is hopelessly dying and toss it in the purifying flames.
The doctor extended his hand without looking up—and Ignatiev hurried, embarrassed, afraid to do the wrong thing, handed him his pile of test results, references, X rays, and the envelope with one hundred fifty rubles—the envelope with an unseasonal Santa Claus in a painted sleigh with presents for the kiddies. Ignatiev began to look, and saw the doctor. On his head in receding cones sat a cap—a white tiara in blue stripes, a starched ziggurat. Tanned face, eyes lowered onto the papers; and falling powerfully, waterfall-like, terrifying, from his ears down to his waist, in four layers, in forty spirals: a rough, blue Assyrian beard, thick ringlets, black springs, a nocturnal hyacinth. I am Physician of Physicians, Ivanov.
“He’s no Ivanov,” Ignatiev thought in horror. The Assyrian picked up the Santa Claus envelope, lifted it by one corner, and asked, “What’s this?” He looked up.
He had no eyes.
The empty sockets gave off the black abyss of nothingness, the underground entrance to other worlds, on the edges of the dead seas of darkness. And he had to go there.
There were no eyes, but there was a gaze. He was looking at Ignatiev.
“What is this?” the Assyrian repeated.
“Money,” Ignatiev said, moving the letters.
“What for.”
“I wanted to . . . they said . . . for the operation, I don’t know. You take it. (Ignatiev horrified himself.) I was told, I wanted to. I was told, I asked.”
“All right.”
The professor opened a drawer and swept rosy-cheeked Santa with presents for Valerik into it, his tiara shifted on his head.
“Is surgical intervention indicated for you?”
Indicated? It’s indicated. Isn’t it indicated for everyone? I don’t know. There are the test results, lots of figures, all kinds of things . . . The doctor looked down toward the papers, went through the results, good dependable results with clear purple stamps: all the projections of a cone—circle and triangle—were there; all the Pythagorean symbols, the cabalistic secrets of medicine, the backstage mysticism of the Order. The professor’s clean, surgical nail went down the graphs: thrombocytes . . . erythrocytes . . . Ignatiev watched the nail jealously, mentally pushing it along: don’t stop, everything is fine, good numbers, sturdy, clean, roasted nuts. Secretly proud: marvelous, healthy zeros without worms; the fours like excellently built footstools, the eights well-washed eyeglasses; everything suitable, satisfactory. Operation indicated. The Assyrian’s finger stopped. What’s the matter? Something wrong? Ignatiev craned his neck and looked anxiously. Doctor, is it that two over there that you don’t like? Really, you’re right, heh-heh, it’s not quite . . . a small bruise, I agree, but it’s accidental, don’t pay any attention, read on, there are all those sixes over there, spilled like Armenian grapes. What, they’re no good, either? . . . Wait, wait, let’s figure this out. The Assyrian moved his finger and went down to the bottom of the page, then flipped through the papers, made a neat pile, and clipped it. He took out the chest X ray and held it up to the light for a long time. He added it to the pile. I think he’s willing, thought Ignatiev. But anxiety blew like a draft through his heart, opening doors, moving curtains. But that too would pass. Actually, more precisely, that was exactly what would pass. I’d like to know what it would be like after. My poor heart, your apple orchards still stir. The bees still buzz and dig in the pink flowers, weighed down by heavy pollen. But the evening sky is darkening, the air is still, the shiny axe is being sharpened. Don’t be afraid. Don’t look. Shut your eyes. Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything will be very fine.
I wonder if the doctor had it done, too? Should I ask? Why not? I’ll ask. No, I’m afraid. I’m afraid and it’s impolite and maybe I’ll spoil everything. If you ask, your dry tongue moving meekly; smiling tensely, gazing beseechingly into the nightmarish dark gaping like a black hole between his upper and lower lids, vainly trying to meet his gaze, to find a saving human point, find something, some sort of—well, maybe not a welcome, not a smile, no no, I understand—but even scorn, fastidiousness, even revulsion, some answer, some glimmer, some sign, somebody stir, wave your hand, do you hear me? Is anyone in there? I feel around in the dark, I feel the dark, it’s thick; I see nothing, I’m afraid I’ll slip and fall, but where can I fall if there’s no path beneath my feet? I am alone here. I am afraid. Life, are you here? . . . Doctor, excuse me please, sorry to bother you, but just one question: tell me, is Life there?
As if in foreboding, something in his chest cringed, scurried, crouched, eyes shut, arms over its head. Be patient. It will be better for everyone.
The Assyrian let him look into his deep starless pits once more.
“Sit in the chair, please.”
And I will, so what, it’s no big deal, I’ll just go sit, casual-like. Ignatiev settled in the leather reclining chair. Rubber straps on his arms and legs. On the side, a hose, tanks, a manometer.
“General anesthesia?”
The professor was doing something at his desk, with his back to Ignatiev, and he replied reluctantly, after a pause.
“Yes, general anesthesia. We’ll remove it, clean it out, fill the canal.”
“Like a tooth,” thought Ignatiev. He felt a cowardly chill. What unpleasant words. Easy, easy. Be a man. What’s the problem. Easy. It’s not a tooth. No blood. Nothing.
The doctor selected the proper tray. Something jingled on it. With tweezers he selected and placed on a low table, onto a glass medical slide, a long, thin, disgustingly thin needle, thinner than a mosquito’s whine. Ignatiev squinted at it nervously. Knowing what those things were for was horrible, but not knowing was worse.
“What’s that?”
“The extractor.”
“So small? I wouldn’t have thought.”
“Do you think yours is big?” the Assyrian said irritatedly. And he stuck the X ray under his nose, but he could make out nothing but foggy spots. The doctor was already wearing rubber gloves fitted tightly over his hands and wrists, and with a bent tweezers he rummaged among the shiny bent needles and vilely narrowing probes and pulled something out: a parody of scissors with a pike’s jaws. The Assyrian scratched his beard with a rubber finger. Ignatiev thought that the doctor was ruining the sterility and meekly mentioned it aloud.
“What sterility?” The professor raised his eyelids. “I wear gloves to protect my hands.”
Ignatiev smiled weakly, understandingly. Of course, you never know, there are people with diseases. . . . He suddenly realized that he didn’t know how they would drag it out: Through his mouth? His nose? Maybe they make an incision on the chest? Or in the hole between collarbones, where day and night the soft throb continues: sometimes hurrying, sometimes slowing its endless run?
“Doctor, how . . .”
“Quiet!” The Assyrian exclaimed. “Silence! Shut your mouth. Just listen to me. Look at the bridge of my nose. Count to twenty to yourself: one, two . . .”
His nose, mouth, and blue beard were firmly wrapped in white. Between the white mask and the striped tiara the abyss stared from his eyes. Between the two sockets, openings into nowhere, was the bridge of his nose: a tuft of blue hairs on a crumbling mountain range. Ignatiev began looking, turning to ice. The anesthesia hose was moving toward him from the side. A trunk; and from it, the sweet, sweet smell of death. It hung over his face; Ignatiev struggled, but gave up, tied down by rubber straps, stifled his last, too-late doubts—and they splashed in all directions. Out of the corner of his eye he saw depression, his loyal girlfriend, pressed against the window, bidding him farewell, weeping, blocking the white light, and almost voluntarily inhaled the piercing, sweet smell of blossoming nonexistence, once, twice, and more, without moving his eyes from the Assyrian emptiness.
And there, in the depths of the sockets, in the otherworldly crevasses, a light went on, a path appeared, stumps of black, charred branches grew, and with a soft jolt Ignatiev was sucked from the chair, forward and up, and was tossed there, on the path, and hurrying—seven, eight, nine, ten, I’m lost—he ran along the stones with his almost nonexistent legs. And Life gasped behind him, and the bars clanged, and Anastasia wailed bitterly, wildly . . .
And I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry for those left behind and I can’t stop and I’m running upward, and huddled low the dacha station flew past, and with Mama and me—a little boy, no, it’s Valerik—and they turn, mouths open, shouting; but I can’t hear them, Valerik raises his little hand, something in his fist, the wind ruffles their hair. . . .
Ringing in the ears, darkness, ringing, oblivion.
•
Ignatiev—Ignatiev?—slowly floated up from the bottom, his head pushing aside the soft, dark rags—a lake of cloth.
He lay in the chair, the straps undone, his mouth dry, his head spinning. In his chest, a pleasant, calm warmth. It felt good.
The bearded man in the white coat was writing something on a medical chart. Ignatiev remembered why he was there—just a simple outpatient operation, he had to have the whatsit removed; what was that word. The hell with it. General anesthesia—that took pull. Not bad.
“Well, doc, can I split?” Ignatiev asked.
“Stay five minutes,” the bearded one said dryly. “So pushy all of a sudden.”
“Did you do it all, no tricks?”
“All.”
“Watch it, if you welshed on the deal, I’ll shake my bucks out of you real fast,” Ignatiev joked.
The doctor looked up from the papers. Well, that was the living end, a real knockout. Holes instead of eyes.
“What’s the matter, pal, lose your eyeballs?” Ignatiev laughed. He liked his new laugh—sort of a squealing bark. Fastlike. “Well, you’re really something, pal! I’m knocked out. Just don’t trip when you go pick up babes.”
He liked the dull spot in his solar plexus. It was boss.
“Hey, man, I’m off. Gimme five. Ciao.”
He slapped the doctor on the back. He bounded down the worn stairs with sturdy, springy steps, with whiplash turns on the landings. So much to do! And everything would work out. Ignatiev laughed. The sun was shining. Loads of babes on the street. Terrif. First off to Anastasia. Show her what’s what! But first, a few jokes, of course. He had made up a few jokes already, his brain was whizzing. “Gotta keep your shotgun clean,” he’d say. He thought that up. And when he left, he’d say, “Stay cool, suck ice.” He was so funny now: no joke, seriously, the life of the party.
Should I go home first or what? Home later, now I have to write to the right place and tell the right people that a doctor calling himself Ivanov takes bribes. Write it in full detail, with a lacing of humor: he has no eyes, but all he sees is money. Who’s keeping an eye on things, anyway?
And then home. I’ve had it keeping that preemie home. It’s not sanitary, you know. Arrange a bed in a home for him. If they give me trouble, I’ll have to slip them something. That’s the way the game is played. It’s normal.
Ignatiev pushed the post office door.
“What would you like?” the curly-haired girl asked.
“A clean sheet of paper,” Ignatiev said. “Just a clean sheet.”
Translated by Antonina W. Bouis