Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

Everything I am writing now is from excitement. From my flickering consciousness that seems not yet fully thawed. I don’t know why I wrote all this: after all, I did not go anywhere today. I found the telephone number, address, and even a photograph of the hospital in the directory but I did not go. I only called and found out the room number: 407.I did not have enough resolve to go.

SUNDAY

The day began the same as yesterday. I rose early in the morning, had some coffee. I ordered a taxi and consequently went after all. Hospital, windows stuck together, two smokers by the entrance – everything was just like the photograph. And the witch at Information, her glasses on a cord.

Here it is, fourth floor. I walk along the corridor, reading rhombuses with the room numbers: sometimes they’re in place, sometimes they’re broken off. The numeral 407 is penciled on a door. I knock. My heart is knocking, too. From inside (not immediately) someone suggests entering – the voice is female, coarse, and almost male. I press on the door: it’s jammed. The same voice suggests pressing harder. The door opens, shaking spasmodically. And this all shakes me a little even now, as I write.

I enter and the sharp smell of urine hits my nose. Eight beds in two rows. Eight old women: seven are lying, one is half-sitting, the one by the window. She’s apparently the one who answered. I attempt to guess which of them is Anastasia.

‘Who are you here to see?’ asks the sitting woman.

Yes, she had answered: a rare voice. I can only imagine having a voice like that nearby for an entire life…

‘Anastasia Sergeyevna.’

‘Voronina? And who are you to her, her grandson? Or just a relative?’

A good question; the main thing is that there is a choice. I look at the questioner. Her face is not visible against the light, there is only a voice.

‘Just a relative.’

The old women begin moving around in their beds; some of them lift themselves on their elbows a little. A tin mug falls from one of the bedside tables; I pick it up. On the rim of the mug, where lips touched it, is dried-up chewed bread.

‘Well, if you’re a relative, then take care of her,’ advises the voice. ‘The old woman’s been lying in shit for two days and nobody will come.’ And she unexpectedly reduces her volume: ‘Nobody wants to wash old women.’

Nobody does. My eyes are becoming accustomed to the lighting and I am beginning to distinguish the speaker’s facial features. There is no fierceness in them. A rural snub nose with tiers of wrinkles extending from it. Gray hair coming out from under a headscarf.

‘Katya, don’t you cause a fuss,’ sounds from one of the beds. ‘A person has come here for the first time, and you’re attacking him.’

‘And where was he before?’ wonders Katya.

‘Wherever he was, he’s not there now, [This, I notice, is exactly right.]’ Did her granddaughter come yesterday? She did. And washing? A nurse could do that, by the way.’

Katya chews at her lips, as if she’s weighing that possibility, too.

‘You can wait until kingdom come for our nurse here.’ Her voice sounds almost conciliatory. ‘She won’t lift a finger without a hundred note. Probably boozing it up in the staff room.’

And I still have no idea which one here is Anastasia. They are not pointing her out to me because they think I know her. Finally, the woman who has been talking with Katya waves a hand in the direction of one of the beds.

‘Don’t listen to all of us. Go to your grandmother.’ I understand where I need to go, and I take the first step. Essentially, I knew this from the first second but was afraid of confirmation. Now that the confirmation has been received, I go. I examine the bedside table without looking up at Anastasia. Bottle of mineral water, tube of lotion, glass with dentures. These are Anastasia’s dentures.

Anastasia. She is lying with her eyes closed. Mouth half-open. Breathing heavily. Sometimes bubbles form when she breathes and burst right away. Her left hand is on the blanket, clenched in a fist, as if threatening someone. Whom? The Bolsheviks who killed her father and sank me into liquid nitrogen? Life in general? I take that hand by the wrist and bring it to my lips. I did that so many times, barely touching, nearly imperceptibly. Studying every line at the bend of the hand, sensing the invisible hairs. And now the hand is different, completely different. Wet from my tears. The fist unclenches slowly: it is too late to threaten. And there is nobody to threaten. ‘Maybe you could… wash her after all.’ That’s Katya.

‘I’m ready. I just don’t know how it’s done…’ ‘None of them know at first. We’ll give you hints.’ She would make it even on the Solovetsky Islands. They order me to pull an oilcloth out from under the mattress and unfold it. After taking Anastasia by the shoulder, I shift her on her side (her flesh is light) and put the oilcloth underneath. Anastasia is in a disposable diaper (I think that’s what it’s called?), the same kind I’ve seen babies wearing on television.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Katya commands. ‘Everything becomes habit.’

I am not afraid. I recall how I dreamt of seeing Anastasia’s nakedness. I cast a glance at her face. Anastasia’s eyes open slightly but there is no awareness in them. That is even better.

‘Take it off. It’s good her granddaughter started buying those things: at first we got by with cloth diapers.’

I unfasten the diaper. I separate it from her flesh with a peeling sound. Smell. To be blunt, it is a strong stench. Well, and so what if there’s a stench? I inhaled and touched just about everything on Solovki. The only person close to me is lying in front of me and if that person’s condition is like this, it must be taken for what it is. It is happiness that the person is here and held on until my return to life. I ball up the diaper and place it neatly on the floor.

‘Now take the bedpan out from under the bed and put it on the oilcloth. Lift the old woman by her lower back and put her rear end on the bedpan.’ Katya stands and shuffles as she fumbles for her slippers. ‘Her granddaughter deals with it on her own. You’ll learn, too.’

Katya leaves the room for a minute and returns with a sponge and pitcher. The water in the pitcher is warm and – judging from the color – has manganese crystals in it. Oddly enough, Katya’s officer-like tone helps me: it does not allow me to ease up. I pour a little water with my left hand and wash Anastasia’s groin with my right. I cautiously guide the sponge.

‘Spread her legs wider, otherwise it won’t all get washed!’

Do not be silent, Katya, do not be silent: this would be impossible to do in quiet. A piece of feces floats into the bedpan under the flow of the water.

I wipe Anastasia with a towel. I wipe the oilcloth. I take out a disposable diaper and wash the bedpan. I am ordered to rub everything with lotion so there is no irritation. I press lotion out of the tube on my fingers and touch her groin. I feel my hand shaking. I so desired this flower at one time.

MONDAY

It is the last day of May; tomorrow will be summer. I am writing just after midnight: strictly speaking, it is already summer. I remembered something summery when I was going to see Anastasia in the afternoon.

I run into her by chance on the corner of Kamennoostrovsky and Bolshoy. Where are you going? Home. So am I. She and I walk along Bolshoy Prospect, the sun in our eyes. The clattering wooden soles of her shoes echoing. She is trying to step carefully: they clatter no matter what, they are those kind of shoes. At the corner of Ordinarnaya Street a droshky comes out of nowhere. At the last instant, I extend my arm and hold Anastasia back. Her bosom touches my arm. Something within me explodes: from the contact but even more from fear that she could fall under the droshky. On a sunny day. In a warm Baltic breeze. She would be lying on the pavement and the wind would rustle her dress. Legs awkwardly twisted, the worn wood of her soles visible. I had always been afraid for her: what if something suddenly happened to her, she being so ethereal and fragile? She turned out to be more unbreakable than I thought. Life had made her that way.