Tatyana Tolstaya - White Walls - Collected Stories

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 cant.

“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!