by Oleg Pavlov
Yet the magnanimous smile, revealing a row of white teeth that resembled pig gristle, was not wiped from the imperturbable porter’s face. Feeling himself a true medical professional in his white surgical cap, the elderly man eyed Institutov coolly. ‘So, it’s Mukhin, you say? No mistake here? It’s that particular Mukhin, is it, not some other one? We have to be quite sure, because it’s so easy to make a blunder.’
‘Here’s the sheet! You can see for yourself which Mukhin it is,’ Institutov raised his voice, but for a long time his opponent remained unmoved. ‘All well and good, of course, that you’ve got an official paper. And if Mukhin’s name is on it, then it’s our job to release the body of the deceased to his friends or relatives. But look, you’re turning this task of ours into an equation with three unknowns. Unknown number one: where’s the coffin? Unknown number two: which one of you is the relative? And the third one: where’s your respect for the deceased? Everyone we’ve got here was caught on the hop by death. They didn’t see it coming, didn’t get a chance to smarten themselves up; now, where’s your respect? That’s what we want to hear from you. Papers are papers, and of course they need to be in order. But you see, everyone who comes here has some paper or other; no one’s ever turned up and taken a body from us just like that. So that’s why I’m asking: you’re quite sure we have the right Mukhin? Who are you in relation to him? Normally we’d only release a Mukhin to a Mukhin. Or else what happens when the Mukhins turn up tomorrow asking for the body, and they’re all respectful, and they’ve gone about it in the right way – and me and Kolya here go off and look for it, but all we find is your paper, instead of their loved one?’
Institutov slumped and went quiet, realising that he was getting nowhere by shouting; these people only grew more impudent the more loudly you pointed out their duties. The porter, who sensed he had beaten the dentist, was also disappointed because there was nothing in it for him. They’d have to hand over the body. ‘Look, all right, we aren’t greedy,’ he said, unable to take the deathly tedium any more. Then he added casually, as if talking about lost property, ‘We’ll go and look for him.’ The two hefty men set to work. They began checking the trolleys in silence, entering their midst as though wading into water. The elderly porter was already in up to his waist. He smoothly separated the trolleys with his hands – which sailed noiselessly apart like boats – and like a diver eagerly scanned the sea of the dead. His workmate was doing the same, but hastily, without flair. The trolleys must have been loaded with the bodies that had been autopsied and were awaiting release. Each corpse had been split open from throat to groin, like gutted fish, and sewn back up afterwards – and these macabre stitches gaped in unhealable wounds. It was as though these people had been killed all over again – methodically, ruthlessly and, this time, for good. And it wasn’t revulsion but horror at what had been done to them that gave rise to something brotherly in the soul, some kindred feeling for each dead person. Kholmogorov had a chilling sensation that he, too, was about to die, as they all had, but just at that moment the ghastly voice of the workmate rang out, for he had found the right tag and for some reason was bursting with pride, or perhaps it was surprise: ‘Here he is! Mukhin! This is the one!’
The porters wheeled the trolley out into the open space and, with an impressive air, stepped aside to watch what would happen next. Pavel Pavlovich gingerly moved forward. He and Alyosha put the stretcher down beside the trolley – and again they froze, unsure of what to do. Alyosha stared at the floor. Institutov started fussing between the men, urging them on: ‘Come on, grab the arms and legs… One, two!’
Pavel Pavlovich complained, ‘I won’t do it without gloves.’
‘You’re full of nonsense, my friend! I’m telling you as a medical man: there’s no risk to your health. As the comrade porters will be happy to confirm…’
‘Yeah, but the porters are probably getting hazard pay in the form of extra milk. Nothing in it for me, though. I’m not doing it without gloves.’
The head of the infirmary appealed, in a ghastly voice addressed to no one in particular, as if he had lost his way: ‘Comrades! Where can we find some gloves? Are there any real professionals in the place?’
The senior porter grinned with a flash of malice, but he took pity on them, happy to know that they couldn’t do without him. In an instant some gloves had appeared. Kholmogorov and Pavel Pavlovich laid the body on the stretcher and carried it to the anteroom. There they found something resembling a narrow-gauge track for hauling up their cargo of death. The senior porter chummily referred to this contraption as the ‘corpse-carrier’. They fixed the stretcher onto the trolley, which reacted with a donkey’s obstinacy. They were having a hard time in the gloom setting its wheels onto the tracks – it bucked, as if struggling against being shod. ‘Now what’s with all this darkness?’ Institutov called out in an agonised voice. ‘Can we have some light?’
‘Go on, light the place up then, if you’re going to shout, only it’ll never happen. There are no lights in here because no one’s ever fitted any, though why not nobody knows,’ the senior porter said. ‘Anyway, what do you want to see? Nothing will get any whiter here in the light. Or you want a light to see where you’re going? Would be nice, of course, to have a light. But the thing is we’ve got the public coming in and out. The moment you fit a light they’ll nick it if they’re being kind, or smash it if they’re being nasty. See, where you have people, you’ll have light bulbs going missing. The most you can do is stand here with a candle. Well, do you want to stand here with one? Come on, you can take our place, me and Kolya will stand down, we’ll hand over our salaries and you can earn your keep here if you want to look after the candle. We’re all for mod cons and that, and if we’re walking about these boards like blind mice, that’s not to say we wouldn’t be glad to see the light and have our paths illuminated. Mind, you can always bash your mug in the mud when there’s light too – the thing that really matters is what’s in your soul.’
They started their ascent up the gangway of planks: laboriously pushing the trolley ahead, crowding each other in the narrow tunnel, hurrying to make their way out, shuddering from the screech of the wheels. It was oppressive and eerie. But it did not stretch on for all eternity, as it promised, lasting rather for just a few muscularly palpable moments. They pushed the trolley forward in fits and starts. It baulked, digging in with all four of its hooves. Each time they heaved, it sent a quivering tension through their muscles. When they broke through into the light, it was like salvation: they became themselves again, feeling such a subtle lightness, such weakness throughout their bodies, it was as if they had descended to earth from the skies. As they were loading the stretcher into the ambulance, the senior porter shouted out, ‘Oi, feet first, you idiot! You’re carrying a human being, not a log. Show some respect: he’s on his way to kingdom come.’ Pavel Pavlovich moodily obeyed. They turned the stretcher around and slipped it into the vehicle under the porter’s directions, their eyes averted. When they had finished and were ready to leave, Pavel Pavlovich suddenly refused to get behind the wheel. His voice became sulky and strident, like a child’s. Then he exploded in a tantrum, shouting to no one in particular: ‘You expect me to drive with my hands like this? Been dragging a corpse about, and now you want me to paw the wheel and drive off into the sunset?’
The porters looked on this spectacle with identical smiles, but they took pity and led the men off to wash their hands. They went back the way they had come. The senior porter led them to an inconspicuous door; on the other side they found a cool empty corridor onto which all the doors in the basement opened.
Pavel Pavlovich and Alyosha went through one of the doors – and suddenly they were in a neat and tidy bedsit with a television, a fridge, curtains on the windows, an old sofa and armchairs. Due to an abundance of random objects and instruments hung all over the place, it resembled a workshop. While they washed their hands, the senior porter and his helper were setting out vodka and snacks. ‘B
ut where’s his coffin, eh? Who’s going to bury Mukhin? He’s a soldier and all, so why are you taking him like he’s just an unclaimed corpse? Me and Kolya were thinking, “Here we have a defender of the motherland.” Thought they’d put on a funeral, could be some compensation for our efforts heading our way. Though it’s clear as day that it’s a murky case, they don’t bring them in for forensics just like that. Hey, the cat got your tongue? Come on, let’s at least drink to the young ’un’s memory. I’ll pour you a bit, the boss won’t notice…’
Pavel Pavlovich recoiled. ‘I won’t drink to him.’
‘What’s that? Knew him, did you?’ the senior porter pricked up his ears.
‘I knew all of them,’ he said testily. ‘Knew all the men I’ve driven over here to add to your pile.’
‘Well, well, doesn’t even want to drink to the kid’s memory… Why not have a bite then, mister driver-man? Grab yourselves some sausage.’ Holding himself with dignity, Pavel Pavlovich went over to the table and picked up a round slice of sausage resting like a medal upon a rectangle of black bread. The long-forgotten smell of sausage hit Alyosha and he swung towards it, but he couldn’t bring himself to take a piece. ‘And what are you smiling at? That’s some manners you have! Your lot have turned you all into wild animals. How can you hate each other like that? And where’s the sausage come into it, what’s it done wrong?’
‘I don’t like sausage,’ Kholmogorov said guiltily. These words seemed to astonish the porters, almost to horrify them. The junior one almost shrieked in shock: ‘How can you live without sausage?’
Alyosha was at a loss for words. The senior porter began speaking silkily and warily: ‘Seen too much, hey; I bet he’s sick to the back teeth of life, let alone sausage. I get it. And he can’t even bear to look at the living. But you’ve discovered this terrible secret, and you think you’ve got to the bottom of it? Look at me and Kolya: we eat sausage, we enjoy life – you want to know why? Live life while you can! You’ve got to eat and drink, love and be happy while you’re still alive. Now, when I die, I’ll join them on that pile there – and you’ll have to put up with my stench for a few days, apologies for the inconvenience. But all of this here is a holiday camp… What, did you see anyone writhing, did you hear anyone howling in their death throes? Nah, it’s all peaceful and quiet. But think how many people must have prayed for death to release them from their agony… So, see, they got released. And you avoid looking at them? That’s ’cause you’re feeling sorry for yourself, you’re afraid. Don’t be frightened. Take a look at death, but with respect, with an open heart. Life can be terrifying. It’s not the dead we should be afraid of – it’s the living. Death might seem filthy to look at, but inside it’s pure as a teardrop. And you’re wrong, my dear man, to turn your nose up at sausage. It’s got a little bit of the meaning of life, sausage has. If you’ve turned up in this world of ours, you should at least show some respect and savour it. Now, remember that.’
Pavel Pavlovich grinned and took a few more pieces of sausage. ‘May I? Wouldn’t mind savouring some of that meaning of life for him! I’m rather keen on smoked sausage, I do recall.’
When they had retraced their steps, he finished chewing the sausage and, the moment the morgue door closed behind them, he said to Kholmogorov cheerfully, ‘Bunch of greedy, scheming kulaks. “Enjoy life, be happy,” they say, but they operate like clockwork themselves. They’re fleecing each stiff like it’s a sheep, oh, yes! What’s there to be unhappy about? Just look at their chubby cheeks. All stocked up on vodka and smoked sausage. That was mighty strange of you to refuse it, seeing as they were offering. You could have tucked in, you know, savoured its meaning.’
Pavel Pavlovich patiently drove them back through the short and narrow streets. Just as they were leaving the maze they almost drove past another ambulance. The head of the infirmary cried out again, elbowing the driver: ‘Slow down, my friend! Stop the car! Well, fancy that!’ He flung open the door and jumped out joyfully. From the other banged-up ambulance, which had also stopped, emerged an old friend: another military medic, with his arms flung wide.
APPLES OF PARADISE
The field ambulance was wending its way through Karaganda. The head of the infirmary sat silently in the front; Pavel Pavlovich was behind the wheel, with his back to them. Alyosha was busy single-handedly soldiering in a way only he understood. He was doing his utmost, sitting upright on his perch like a guard dog entrusted with guarding something, yet the name of the stranger kept buzzing insistently in his head. The dead man lay sprawled on the stretcher. Two legs stuck out from under the woollen blanket. Those legs… they kept on thrusting into his sight. Each one seemed to be saying something – and for some reason they looked as though they were acting independently. There was something intense about them, something powerful, even. Alyosha surrendered to them and stared, unable to tear his eyes away: it was like watching a man drowning, dragged down headfirst, with his arms twitching spasmodically from beneath leaden water. From beneath the dead man’s blanket, likewise leaden in colour, each leg protruded as though from water, swollen with the howls of death, thick stumpy toes splayed and unable to grab hold of anything even if they’d wanted to. It seemed as if death itself was speaking from under the soldier’s coarse blanket – and Kholmogorov was by now clinging like a coward to the ledge to avoid sliding off.
They had arrived. An imperious white ship with a thousand identical neat windows sailed through the air, cleaving the cold glassy calm of the parks. Escorting this ship were a dozen smaller white boats. Everything exhaled peace and contentment, even the crystal-chandelier trees looked as though each was tended separately. ‘Ah, just smell that air… Marvellous!’ the head of the infirmary said fawningly.
At a booth near the vast gates that slid open like a stage curtain, some neatly attired guards made them wait a long time. The delay insinuated that you could only get in once you had lost all sense of your own importance and accepted what truly was important: acquiring permission to enter. Finally, one of the security guards swaggered over to the wretched old ambulance: ‘Your permit.’
‘No, no, my friend, we don’t work here. We’ve come on business. One of our privates was sent here to the neurosurgery unit, and now we need to tie up the paperwork and collect his things.’
‘You here for the corpse?’ the guard asked bluntly.
Institutov became agitated. ‘Sorry, we’ve come for his things, we took the body from you last week for a forensic autopsy. Today we’re having the ceremony, Comrade, and there’s a big difference, if you follow my meaning. Everything has to be sent to Moscow today, if, of course, you’ll…’
The guard turned his back on them and shouted to the checkpoint: ‘Vanya, meat wagon’s here, let them in!’
Once the vehicle had entered the secure area, Institutov exploded. ‘Got themselves a place at the gates of a medical establishment and see how they start lording it up! Who do they think they are, all these unqualified staff? Just who do they think they are? You dedicate your entire life to medicine, all for some illiterate idiot to come along and boss you about at the gate!’ Then he stuck his head proudly out into the breeze, let the air blow over him and, emitting a little snuffle, sipped a draught or two of the local air.
The ambulance slowly approached one of the small white-boat hospital buildings – yet even this one dwarfed their sleepy old infirmary. The building had its own private emerald of a garden and was surrounded by fruit trees that had already been prepared for winter. The ladylike apple and cherry trees met the arrival of the cadaverous cargo with a chilly aloofness that suggested they were not cut out for such encounters.
Institutov enthusiastically drew the salubrious air into his nostrils. They entered a reception area filled with cold light. Astride an examination couch, two youthful-looking male nurses were engrossed in a game of suicide draughts, and they were giving the black and white pieces a hard time, delivering them flicks, banging the board and generally doing their best to
lose as fast as possible.
When Institutov appeared, the young men quickly quietened down. One of them swiftly sized up the rather short man in his tired old officer’s trench coat and boldly blocked his way, asking with studied courtesy, ‘Do yu speke Inglish? Sprechen Si Deutsch? Parlez-vous de Français?’ Institutov felt aggrieved but responded with equal courtesy, though he must have known that he was dealing with staff consisting entirely of squaddies undergoing treatment.
‘My friend, I’m here to see the head of the department.’ The attendant did not bat an eyelid.
‘Yes, natürlich, go on, I’m listening. Understand? Verstehen?’ said the talkative young man who had become defiantly imperturbable.
‘I’m here about the corpse – I mean the case. If you’d be so kind, young man, I’ll obviously need to see your superior this time.’ Institutov rattled out his words fairly coolly, worried that the attendant might completely destroy his credibility.
But the young man was in no hurry to answer. He marvelled and, turning not to the head of the infirmary but to his own companion, said, ‘Das ist fantastisch! Georges, the Inspector General has arrived!’
His friend answered gruffly, ‘It’s my lunch break; I’m not going anywhere. I want some nosh. Serge, pop into the canteen, will you, and get me a bottle of kefir. Antonina will give it to you, she’s rather taken with you. Oh and I’ll have a loaf of white as well, haha! And I’ll drop in on Svetlana, rustle up some sugar too.’
‘That Sveta is trash, what a filthy girl! And she’s grown too big for her boots. We can do without her sugar; let her stew in her own juices. No, go to Antonina, the light of my life, and say, “I’m a fool, a total bonehead, and I’d like some kefir please and I’m willing to give you one for it, Mademoiselle.” Well, what are you standing there for? We told you quite clearly: go on in, Immanuil Abramovich is in his office, he’s expecting you. Goodbye, aufwiedersehen, adieu, howdoyoudo, buenosdios, arrivederci!’