Zuleikha

by Guzel Yakhina

  Leibe didn’t raise an eyebrow when a new method of assessment was established in place of traditional individual exams (which the Red student body weren’t unaccustomed to). He obligingly received the confused and blushing representative of a student group who held out a heap of examination papers and mumbled an unintelligible answer to each question, confusing “adenosis” and “atheism,” sincerely attributing “hirsutism” to a little-known offshoot of Christianity, and, with spirited indignation, pushing “menarche” into the same family of words as “monarchy,” something contrary to the representative’s proletarian consciousness. Each time, the professor would nod approval and mark a grade of “satisfactory” in all the exam papers. This “rotational method” assumed one test taker and one collective grade for all.

  His colleagues – who had formerly carried the titles of “meritorious,” “ordinary,” and “extraordinary” professors, but were intermingled by this time into one frightened human medley under the general and anonymous name “teaching staff,” without any distinctions in titles or degrees – were astounded at the changes that had occurred in him. Rumors soon began spreading around the university (“Professor Leibe – how shall I put this kindly? – is not quite himself.”). But Professor Leibe’s mental state was the least of the worries for the rectors, who were replacing one another in those years at a truly revolutionary, cavalry speed.

  The rectors didn’t concern Professor Leibe, either. Thanks to the egg, he simply didn’t notice them. He met only those he wanted to see at general gatherings that took place every now and then. In the university’s large hall, which glimmered with thousands of candles and a mirror-like parquet floor, friendly rector Dormidontov smiled at him from the presidium’s table as before, bearded philanthropists nodded importantly from their places in the auditorium, and the sovereign emperor squinted, fatherlike, from a claret-colored gilded armchair in the front row, spoiling this deserving educational institute with his fairly frequent visits. Professor Leibe was likely the only one who continued toiling at Imperial Kazan University. All his colleagues had long since moved on to serving at Kazan State University.

  And that’s how the egg was.

  The professor ended up having to renounce his practice because of the egg. It turned out that the egg and practical medicine were absolutely incompatible. Delivering a lecture or discussing diagnoses was possible even with the shell on his head. But examining a patient certainly required its removal because the professor couldn’t see disease through its thick, merciful walls, instead noting a patient who was extremely well fed and brimming with health.

  Leibe initially attempted to engage in a balancing act by taking off the shell for a couple of minutes during an examination then hurriedly putting it back on again, then taking it off again during a follow-up examination. He conducted operations without the egg, but this became genuine torture for him because Volf Karlovich’s psyche, which had become pampered, was wounded by seemingly innocuous remarks made by student observers or those assisting the doctor during the operations. It was in this extraordinary manner that a profession that had previously granted enjoyment and delight unexpectedly became the cause of pain and suffering.

  Volf Karlovich quickly sensed that the egg didn’t like this sort of juggling. The egg became lackluster and its shine grew sad and dimmed after yet more rounds at the clinic where it was repeatedly removed from the professor’s head and then replaced. Leibe was even frightened one time after an operation when he noticed hairline fractures on the egg’s smooth surface, but his alarm turned out to be unfounded. He had only to wear the egg without removing it for several days for the fractures to heal. The problem, however, was obvious: the egg was forcing him to make a choice.

  The professor chose in favor of the egg. He renounced his practice at the clinic and stopped receiving patients at home. A short while later he left the university department, too, without the slightest regret, since teaching no longer brought as much joy as observing an ideal world through the merciful shell. The grateful egg helped Leibe expunge everything unpleasant from the present as well as the past. His memory was cleared of what was painful and foul, and what had passed became just as bright and cloudless as the present. His own notion was that he remained a respected professor and a practicing surgeon who was successful and in demand. He was of the constant, joyful conviction that he had conducted his latest operation yesterday and would deliver his next lecture tomorrow.

  Leibe didn’t notice the changes at his own apartment: loud residents who’d been assigned living quarters and were supplemented by numerous progeny, the disappearance of the greater part of the family silver and furniture, the absence of heating in winter and the switching off of the gas lamps. He lived without leaving his father’s office and he directed the skimpy remnants of his emotional warmth toward his beloved and selfless friend, his one and only faithful companion, the precious egg.

  Sometimes he would wake up at night in fear. Had the egg gone away? No, the egg had not gone away. To the contrary, it gradually grew and strengthened, fitting ever more closely on its host and becoming one with him. Walls had grown out of its fairly flat crest – first down to the chest, later to the waist – so now Leibe was more solidly and dependably shut off from the surrounding world. Apparently the egg would soon grow out along the entire length of his body and close up. The professor did not know what would happen after that. Absolute happiness would likely ensue.

  From time to time, however, moments did arise that forced Leibe to, well, not to remove the egg, no, but to thrust the tip of his nose out from under the shell for a short while and glance at the true world. Some sort of restless little bell occasionally dinged, high-pitched and alarming, in a little corner of his consciousness. The professor would look around in surprise, thrusting his head out from under the large, dependable egg dome as if he were a turtle that had awakened. What is this? What happened? Most often, the stubborn little bell summoned him to patients. After peering out for an instant, Leibe would see the patient, grow frightened, and immediately pull his head back. But his tenacious brain had already managed to make an initial diagnosis or advance a couple of hypotheses, and then the flywheel of debate would begin to spin. “Stop!” the professor would command himself. And he would try to bury recollections of those moments somewhere in out-of-the-way parts of his memory as quickly as possible. He wished he could have ripped from his head that unbearable little bell that disturbed his peace but he didn’t know where it was located. With time, however, the ringing sounded more rarely and he hoped it would soon abate forever.

  The professor and the egg were happy together. Their joint life flowed along, evenly and unhurried, just as inexorably as a billiard ball directed by skilled hands rolls into a pocket. And then, suddenly – the cue’s hard counterblow! – there was the indelicate visit of a young personage in a rapturous state who was, by all appearances, suffering from infertility. This event marked a change in direction for his joint existence with the egg, and Leibe’s life unexpectedly became more varied and full, though no less pleasant. After tiring out a little in his seclusion, the professor enjoyed the changes, observing them through the egg’s solid, transparent walls, which by this time already came to knee level.

  The university sent a smart automobile with glistening black finish and chrome handles for him. The interior was stupendously soft and the ride was both smooth and swift.

  During the time Leibe was absent from Imperial Kazan University, the building itself had undergone considerable renovations and was nearly unrecognizable. The professor’s experienced eye divined in the harsh new lines of the architecture the remnants of details and contours that were of the past and very dear to his heart: the bend of a formal staircase, a half-removed bas-relief of a two-headed eagle on a wall, the festive patterned layout of a parquet floor, and a crystal chandelier that flashed inside a doorway.

  The students who now accompanied him everywhere were unfailingly polite and spoke little. This m
odest reticence, which was moving to the point of tears, touched him more than anything, because these students were no match for their impertinent, talkative predecessors, who were ready to express their point of view on the tiniest question or enter an argument for the paltriest of reasons. Their businesslike concentration struck him, too. The students hurried along marble stairs and long corridors so energetically, even desperately, that it was as if they were ready to explode from the craving for knowledge that overflowed in them. It turned out that green student uniform jackets had been exchanged for gray jackets with horizontal patches on the chest and broad collar tabs where the students wore distinguishing badges, apparently in accordance with their course of study or achievements. Professors’ uniforms were now gray, too. Nobody, however, reproached Volf Karlovich for his dark blue uniform of the old design, which made him very grateful to the new leadership.

  Leibe met the rector that day. A certain Butylkin, whose appearance was rather simple and who was overly direct in conversation but charming, you couldn’t take that away from him. Beyond that, he turned out to be quite a Germanophile, holding lengthy conversations with Leibe about German politics and economics. They became fairly close on that basis and Leibe was sincerely sorry to leave the hospitable walls of his alma mater when duty called him to head up a large military hospital.

  They drove him along Voskresenskaya Street to a hospital situated right by the kremlin and the descent toward Black Lake, and the edge of his building flashed through the automobile window on the way. Leibe sighed yet again about his good fortune to have Grunya. She’d look after the apartment while he worked on matters of state importance.

  During a lengthy excursion through endless hospital corridors, the quartermaster announced that the hospital entrusted to him had huge, even strategic, significance. “I ask that you not worry, gentleman officer,” Leibe assured him. “I will do everything within my power.” And he kept his promise, taking up residence right away in one of the hospital departments so as not to waste time on trips home, since he would disappear into the operating room for days at a time. He didn’t ask himself who was now fighting whom; that was of little interest to him. His concern was to operate, to pull patients from the deadly abyss and not allow life to abandon weak bodies mangled by gunshots. Volf Karlovich fought on the side of life.

  Not one to bear open admiration and flattery, the professor was forced to endure the ecstatic gazes of one of the medical nurses who often watched him with a long, wide-eyed stare – he could clearly see the black pupils dilate in the depths of her green eyes. It’s possible she was in love with him. There would not have been anything unusual in that, since female assistants and nurses often fall in love with surgeons during operations. Lengthy stints alongside one another, practically forehead-to-forehead, and the maximal exertion of physical and mental energies all cause strong, uncontrollable flares of vivid emotions that a young, inexperienced heart can easily take for deep feelings among team members who operate together.

  Shortly thereafter, the command decided to transport the hospital to the rear and appoint Leibe the director of the special train. Trembling with emotion and pride, he agreed. Fourteen railroad cars were entrusted to his care. Five of them held the seriously wounded, six had people with wounds of moderate and light severity, one contained an operation room and triage, and one was a pharmacy combined with a utility area. The train’s staff and guards were located in a separate car. Leibe was rarely in his own compartment, sleeping there only in fits and starts, collapsing on a mattress and dropping into a deep slumber. His work required twenty-four hours a day. He was working like the devil. He lived for his work.

  The special train hurtled through blazing forests and steppes burned to the ground, and over tempestuous rivers, crossing bridges that smoked and exploded behind it. His face black with soot and his hair disheveled, Leibe raced through the railroad cars like a winged demon, giving commands, scolding negligent male nurses, offering advice to the general practitioners, and cheering up patients. He would pop into the operation room like a whirlwind, like a flash of lightning, and then the doctors would sigh with relief, the orderlies would smile, the patients would stop yelling, and the green-eyed nurse’s timid doe-like eyes would look up at him.

  He’d noticed long ago that she was pregnant. The despicable little bell’s offensive ring had called him to the real world one time and, based on the nurse’s appearance, the professor’s experienced eye had picked up special signs of future motherhood that were thus far elusive for the rest. Leibe even announced this to his negligent student, Chernov, who came to visit one time, catching up with the special train to retake a medical school examination. The conversation with Chernov brought Leibe no pleasure since the professor didn’t like students whose eyes showed no readiness to give themselves over to medicine as passionately and selflessly as he himself.

  One time, the special train was captured by the enemy army and the professor’s fatherly, work-weary hand blessed several dozen passengers’ escape from captivity to search for their people and deliver a message written in Leibe’s hand requesting the train’s liberation. The operation was successful and the train was soon taken back from the enemy. Leibe even spilled a solitary tear when the liberated train set off to run the rails again, headed toward danger and adventure.

  This was when he noticed that during his glorious journey the egg had begun growing at a speed hitherto unprecedented. Its walls had thickened and strengthened so much that they could probably withstand a strong strike. Their transparency had taken on a much stronger iridescent tinge that slightly distorted his peripheral vision, though their luminescence had become bright and powerful. The egg already nearly touched the floor, fully covering Leibe to his toes, so it had become extremely challenging to peer out from underneath it when the little bell called. Each night before bed, the professor thought with a soulful tingle about the morning he would awaken to discover the egg’s walls had joined underneath the soles of his feet.

  Meanwhile, the war was picking up speed. At the front, the heroic professor was steeped in deserved glory and then sent on a new assignment, commanding a naval flotilla in the murky yellow waters of eastern seas.

  “I am not an admiral, I am merely a professor of medicine,” he said, listlessly resisting and chilled at the presentiment of grandiose assignments, which he simultaneously feared and desired. “I don’t even know how to shoot.”

  “Nobody but you can handle it,” the adjutant answered confidently, narrowing his gray eyes in respect and pointing a firm hand at the shining gangway.

  A gangway gleaming with a thousand scrubbed cleats soared up to a huge snow-white liner bristling with the steel muzzles of weapons. At the swing of the adjutant’s glove, a brass band of one hundred instruments festively struck up a tune on shore. A chorus of three hundred select dogs joined in with the melody, barking with such feeling and harmony that Leibe’s soul trembled. He made his decision, stepped onto the gangway, and began walking up, to the deafening applause of the crowd remaining on dry land. After climbing up to the liner, he suddenly realized that they needed to shoot from onboard the ship at those very people, the ones making the rapturous ovation.

  “Hold on,” he muttered to the adjutant, who followed unceasingly at his heels, “this is happening very hastily, as if everything’s on fire.”

  “Soon, professor, soon!” said the adjutant, revealing sugar-like teeth in his smile and ordering, “Fire!”

  “Let me catch my breath,” said Leibe, stalling for time and backing away.

  “Fire!” insisted the adjutant.

  “Your ship’s bells are ringing over there,” he said, attempting to distract the relentless adjutant.

  “Fire!” the other shouted as loudly as a donkey at a Sunday bazaar. “Fire and your damned egg will finally close up! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  The ship’s bells truly were ringing, though.

  But this isn’t the ship’s bells at all. This is the p
rofessor’s little bell. For the first time, Leibe is glad about the ringing, which is usually unwelcome. He crouches. He lifts the egg’s dome slightly and it’s as heavy as a stone. He pokes his head out, leaving the liner, the bad-tempered adjutant, and the people (who continued applauding deafeningly) inside the shell.

  He needs to catch his breath for a couple of seconds. His heart is pounding erratically. And it’s cold outside. It’s night and an orange fire is crackling. People are bustling around him.

  “They’ve started … reproducing,” mutters one.

  “Boil some water or something,” shouts a second.

  “I think it’s best for the men to leave us,” says a female voice.

  “We’ll freeze to death without the fire,” says a bass voice. “What, you think we’ve never seen a woman give birth …”

  The maternity patient is lying with her face tilted up toward the sky, moaning quietly. Moaning in a bad way, Volf Karlovich understands. Weakened. She’ll lose consciousness soon. When childbirth begins, a woman should shout in anger, from the depths of her soul. She could use some smelling salts under her nose right now.

  The egg’s heavy, warm dome presses at his spine. It quivers slightly, calling him back inside. Right away, thinks the professor, right away. I’ll just tell them to give her smelling salts and bring her to the clinic immediately.