by A J Allen
Her hand descended the last few inches and came to rest on his shoulder. She shook him gently and stood watching as his head lolled once and his mouth snapped shut like a trap.
“Vasili,” she whispered softly. “Wake up now.”
He woke, blinking several times as if surprised to find himself in bed, before narrowing his eyes and peering up at her.
“What time is it?” he asked thickly.
She told him. It was half past four.
“So late? I must get up.”
Tugging back the blanket, Dr. Tortsov swung his legs off the bed and pointed unsteadily towards his shoes, which stood neatly together beside the wall. Obediently Yeliena stooped and picked them up, saying as she did so:
“I’ve brought you up some tea. It will be getting cold.”
Stepping into the shoes, he grunted his thanks.
“Why didn’t you wake me before?” he complained.
“You looked so tired, I hadn’t the heart. There is no hurry.”
“Pass me my spectacles, would you?”
As she handed them to him she heard a loud knocking downstairs and, a moment later, the sound of Katya hurrying along the hall to answer the front door.
“Who’s that?” muttered the doctor testily. “I’ve no time to see anyone now. You shouldn’t have let me sleep for so long. I promised Nina Roshkovsky that I would look in on her before her supper.”
“It’s only Anton Ivanovich,” she assured him. “You told me to invite him to take tea with us so that you could talk to him about the epidemic.”
“Did I?” he asked doubtfully. “I don’t remember.”
“Well you did,” she assured him, adding with mock defiance, “and I don’t care what you say, you needed the rest. It won’t help anybody if you wear yourself out.”
“I suppose you are right. I had quite forgotten about Chevanin.”
In the darkness, his hand felt for hers and, finding it, gave it a squeeze of apology.
“Be a dear, go down and look after him. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
Leaning down, Yeliena planted a quick kiss on her husband’s cheek before moving away from the bed, leaving him staring thoughtfully down at his dangling shoe laces.
“But I still have to go out later,” he murmured.
Standing in the doorway, Yeliena opened her mouth to protest, but said nothing. There seemed little point in her arguing.
* * *
Yeliena found Chevanin in the sitting room, warming himself by the fire. As she crossed the room to greet him, the young man drew himself up and gave a small bow.
“Good afternoon, Yeliena Mihailovna! Katya tells me that Vasili Semionovich has already returned. I hope I have not been keeping him waiting?”
“No, Anton Ivanovich,” she assured him. “He has been resting. He will join us shortly. Please, be seated.”
Settling himself in one of the two chairs that stood on either side of the hearth, Chevanin cast a wry glance around the comfortably furnished room.
“I must say, I envy you Yeliena Mihailovna,” he announced.
“Oh? Why is that?” she asked as she drew a glass of tea from the samovar and passed it to him.
“Well, among other things, because your house is always so warm and welcoming. My rooms by the hospital are perpetually cold and damp. Old Nidovsky, Pavel Nadnikov’s uncle, is in charge of the boiler, but he seems to spend most of his time wrapped around a bottle. So the tenants must freeze to death before he can stir himself to throw some more sticks on the fire. That’s why I am always so grateful for your invitations to tea, otherwise who knows? The doctor should have to start all over again, training another numbskull like myself.”
Yeliena smiled. She knew how wildly her husband’s protégé’s talk swung between self-deprecation and overconfidence. When he had first been sent to assist the doctor, she had been uncertain as to whether he would prove to be of any use at all. His bluff manner had irritated her, based as it had been on little practical experience. But Vasili had been right in his prophecy: a few Siberian winters had steadied the young man and he had become a reliable and innovative addition to the practice; a junior partner in all but name.
“Take this morning, for instance,” Chevanin continued, between sips of tea. “When I awoke, it was so cold that I had to chip an inch of ice off the panes of my bedroom window.”
“But this is February,” she protested gently. “You must expect that.”
“From the inside of my window?” Chevanin asked innocently.
Yeliena laughed out loud. Dear Anton Ivanovich! she thought. In so many ways he is still just an overgrown boy. His sense of fun has not yet been ground out of him.
Seeing his mischievous grin, Yeliena was reminded again of the conversation she had had with Madame Wrenskaya the day before. She shrugged inwardly. It seemed inevitable that Chevanin would soon find himself engaged to one of the eligible young ladies of the town: Shiminski’s daughter, or even Kuprin’s girl. Perhaps it would happen during the coming summer; if not, then certainly the following one. And then he would become a stranger to their house. Marriage would make him grow up. To her surprise, the thought saddened her.
“Have you heard what our glorious hospital administrator did today?” Chevanin asked.
But whatever he was about to say was lost, for no sooner had the words left his mouth than the doctor walked briskly into the room.
Automatically, Yeliena rose from the couch and began to draw off another glass of tea from the samovar. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Chevanin had risen also and was standing stiffly to attention in front of the fire.
“Chevanin,” said her husband gruffly.
“Doctor,” responded his assistant, stepping quickly to one side in order to allow his employer to reach the warmth of the fire. But the older man wanted to talk and, indicating that Chevanin should resume his seat, he lowered himself into his favourite chair and began at once to fire questions at him concerning what had happened in the town during his short absence.
Seeing the two men sitting there on either side of the hearth – Vasili leaning back with his legs comfortably outstretched, Chevanin sitting forward on the edge of his seat like a nervous student undergoing an examination of his dissertation – Yeliena had the uncanny feeling of time giving a sharp jolt. One moment she had been enjoying a warm and amusing conversation with a good friend; for how else could she think of Anton Ivanovich? The next, as if by magic, she had been excluded from the circle and relegated to being a mere glass bearer. First a glass for her husband, then a second glass for Anton Ivanovich, followed by the first offering of the plate of cakes…
“Do try the pastries, Anton Ivanovich. They are fresh from Gvordyen’s today… A macaroon, dear? They’re your favourite.”
Holding the plate out to them, Yeliena observed how neither of the two men took more than a moment’s notice of her, so intent were they upon discussion of their cases. Just a sideways glance and a nod of thanks from Anton Ivanovich, a quizzical inspection of the plate over the top of his spectacles from her husband. Nothing could be allowed to stem the flow of words. Typhus at Belogoriya and Tsingalensk. Was that certain? Yes, it was certain. In some of the villages, as many as one in three had already died.
“Tea and typhus,” thought Yeliena bitterly as she carried the cake plate to the tea tray. “Nothing has changed. I could have given them anything and they would have taken it. ‘Here, dearest Vasili, take this dead toad. It was caught last year on the banks of the Sosva river and has been pickled in brine. Anton Ivanovich, do try one of these dainty horse’s hooves. I know that you would die rather than complain in my husband’s company. Or perhaps you would prefer one of my breasts? You would like them, they are very sweet…’”
The shock of this outrageous notion made Yeliena blush furiously. Taken aback by the sudden thought that had sprung unbidden to her mind she quickly turned away, covering her embarrassment. In her haste, the plate tilted in her hand
so that the cakes came dangerously close to being tipped onto the floor. She realised that the two men had stopped talking and were watching her. Trembling, she wondered if she had actually spoken her thought aloud. Without thinking, she stammered an apology.
“I… I’m sorry!”
“Are you unwell, my dear?” asked Dr. Tortsov.
“Yes, I am quite well, thank you,” she replied with great effort, “I… I just felt a little faint, that is all. Forgive me. Please go on with what you were saying.”
Somehow, she managed to put the plate down next to the samovar. Picking up her own glass of tea, she took a deep breath and walked as steadily as she could back to her place on the sofa that was drawn up to form the third side of the square around the fire. Concerned, the doctor waited until she was seated. Once he was assured that her condition would not provide any further interruptions, he resumed outlining his plan to his assistant.
“What we must do is wait a week and see whether the outbreak dies down. If it doesn’t, then I shall begin taking steps towards declaring a quarantine zone of around the town.”
“Is that possible? I mean, can you do that?” asked Chevanin with a frown.
“Oh yes,” replied the doctor confidently. “The same thing happened four years ago. All it means is that nobody is allowed into town from the infected areas. People who are merely passing through are refused entry or, in extreme cases, put up in whichever building I designate as the interim sanatorium. It has to be somewhere that can be sterilised and disinfected afterwards.”
Chevanin nodded thoughtfully.
“I see. And does everyone cooperate? I mean, there must be loopholes that allow people out and the disease in.”
“Fortunately, with the river frozen and the hunters sleeping out in their yurts there is little travelling done at this time of year. If it was later, say in May or June, then I grant you there would be more of a problem. But Colonel Izorov was very helpful last time in enforcing the exclusion order and even if the town council gets up on its hind legs, you can usually rely on the police to do as they are bid. Once I have convinced the colonel of the seriousness of the situation, Berezovo will be sealed as tight as a drum; within a day or two at the latest.”
Listening to her husband sketch out the precautions that would have to be taken, Yeliena thought of what quarantine would mean to the citizens of the town. She could recall the last quarantine. It had been in August and the long days of enforced isolation had made the townsfolk restless; she remembered there had been a suicide. At the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Father Arkady had held three services a day. The captain of the garrison, a fair-haired young man everyone had nicknamed ‘the German’, had ordered his company to parade twice a day down the main streets in full uniform. There had even been one or two impromptu band concerts by the tradesmen in the town which had met with some success until Colonel Izorov had banned them for playing unpatriotic airs. Despite these distractions, tempers in the town had frayed as the supply of food began to run short and the feeling of captivity had grown. Robbed of the summer’s quickening of life, the people had become frantic.
Being so close to the eye of the storm, Yeliena had escaped the worst effects of the crisis, although on several occasions townspeople had accosted her in the street, either to berate her husband or to plead with her to persuade him to lift the order. Like the other women, she had walked to the fish market every morning and queued for food, determined that they should see that she was no better off than they were. But in the evening, she did not have to bear the brunt of a workless husband’s frustrations, or comfort a hungry child while fretting over the latest wild rumour. Instead, she had sat quietly, as the colonel and her husband had talked over the day’s affairs (much as Vasili and Chevanin were doing now), stifling her urge to cry out. The ordeal had lasted twenty-seven days. On the twenty-eighth, the epidemic having abated, the order of quarantine was lifted. Two months later, a letter of commendation signed by the Governor General himself had been delivered to their home. Characteristically, her husband had written in his reply that while he was honoured by the General’s letter, he would have preferred an assistant; a calculated piece of bravado which yielded not a rebuke but the arrival, the following summer, of a young Anton Ivanovich Chevanin. Now it seemed that the wheel of sickness had turned full circle and that the town was to be made to once more undergo the same trial. She wondered what atrocities might be committed due to the strain of isolation, deprivation of vital supplies and the threat of death.
“Until we know one way or another, it’s best to say nothing,” the doctor was saying. “All the same, keep a sharp look out for any signs of it on your rounds. Incidentally, have you been to the hospital today?”
“Yes,” replied Chevanin. “I looked in on my way over.”
“And?”
“Nothing to report there. Yesterday, two peasants were admitted suffering from vomiting and diarrhoea. I examined them myself. It wasn’t typhus.”
“What was it?”
“Our old friend ‘fishbelly’,” Chevanin told him, pulling a face.
The doctor stood up and began to pace agitatedly up and down.
“They had better be isolated, just in case,” he muttered adding quickly, “though I am sure your diagnosis is correct. Damn it! Why in God’s name won’t they learn? Anybody with an ounce of sense in his head knows that you shouldn’t half dry fish if you are putting it in store for the winter. But every year it’s the same. Some drunken fool falls ill and dies because months ago his wife – probably drunk herself – hadn’t dried the fish properly. How many times do I have to tell them? Half drying means semi-decay and when you rough salt the fish, you aren’t destroying the bacteria but preserving them. And what is the result? Ready-made poison!”
“Vasili, please calm down,” urged Yeliena.
But the doctor would not be calmed.
“I tell them over and over again,” he declared angrily. “Mix a little bit of sulphur with the salt. That way, it breaks down the bacteria. But do they listen? Of course not! So here we are, on the verge of a typhus epidemic in the town and the hospital beds are full of people with stomach ache!”
With an expression of disgust, he reached out for a small brass handbell which hung from a hook below the mantelpiece and rang it briskly. Katya appeared, wiping her large red hands on her apron.
“You may clear away the tea things and lay the table for supper,” he ordered.
“Yes sir.”
Turning to Chevanin, he enquired grumpily if he was free to eat with them. Unsure how he should reply after the doctor’s ill-tempered outburst, his assistant hesitated, glancing at Yeliena, but the doctor had already assumed his assent, for he instructed Katya to lay an extra place for him at the table.
“What are we having tonight, anyway?” he demanded of Yeliena.
“Fish,” she replied quietly.
There was a moment’s silence. Chevanin laughed.
“Then so be it!” declared Dr. Tortsov. “Fish it is and God help us all!”
Throwing himself back into his chair, he watched Katya clumsily clear away the remains of their tea. He appeared irritated at her presence.
“Poor Katya!” Yeliena chided him gently when the maid had left the room. “She will be worrying for days now that you don’t like the way she cooks fish, or that she might poison Anton Ivanovich. Then she would have nothing left to live for, but to throw herself in the Ob.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the doctor with a laugh. “What an absurd idea! I most certainly hope that she does not try to do that. Since it is frozen solid, she would only succeed in bouncing across to the other bank in a very undignified manner.”
“She might bounce even if it wasn’t frozen,” suggested Chevanin.
The doctor laughed again, his humour restored.
Smiling at Anton Ivanovich’s jibe, Yeliena watched as her husband offered his assistant a cigarette from a box beside his chair. Katya’s
calf-like devotion embarrassed the young man and she had spoken to the girl more than once about her mooning around him, but to little effect. Neither of the men had realised that her comment about suicide had only been half in jest. She suspected that if ever Katya believed that her own death would somehow save Chevanin’s life, then she would not hesitate for an instant. To her simple and uncomplicated mind, it would be the natural thing to do for the one you loved.
Men don’t want women to die for them, she thought, they are far more demanding than that. Men want women to live for them and for what they believe in. Poor Anton Ivanovich! The woman who will attract him will not be plain, meek and humble but wilful, determined and above all pretty. She will be as brilliant as a diamond and probably just as hard.
“By the way, Lienochka,” said her husband casually, “on my journey back to town, I gave some thought to the question of the forthcoming theatrical extravaganza.”
“That is a coincidence,” she replied. “Only yesterday I was asked about your plans. I do hope that it won’t be too much for you, with all this sickness?”
“Too much?” her husband snorted. “Ridiculous! I am quite capable of performing my duties as a medical practitioner and at the same time putting on a show. The problem is, there is only one female role in the first play and none in the second. So I shall require the services of only one woman in the entire production. An unenviable task, I am sure you will agree, to have to choose just one from all the women who will be clamouring for the role.”
“Clamouring?” echoed Yeliena doubtfully.
“Why yes! These plays are not the usual stale farces but works of wit and elegance by one of Russia’s best modern playwrights. I anticipate no shortage of volunteers for the part. That is why I have already come to a decision on the matter. I want you to play the role.”
“Me?” cried Yeliena in surprise. “Vasili, you cannot be serious!”
“Oh, but I am.”
“I… I could never do it,” she protested with a laugh. “I refuse to do it.”