Tatyana Tolstaya - White Walls - Collected Stories

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, banded 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.