Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

Someone among the Zhdanovka dropouts notices Zaretsky. The sausage maker’s galoshes slosh in the wet snow, which attracts attention. The bank of the Zhdanovka in March is not the sort of place to take a stroll. It’s clear to an attentive person that the man sloshing in the snow has not come down here at random.

Prepared for any development of events, the observer noiselessly follows Zaretsky. He follows him out from behind the suppositional weeping willow. He still doesn’t know what exactly Zaretsky has schemed up, but sees a victim in him.

He has a knack, the instinct of a hunter. Speaking in contemporary terms, he’s a scumbag. He’ll kill without thinking about practicability. He’ll kill because it’s possible to kill. He’ll look at the manipulations with the sausage (he’s accustomed to not being surprised), raise the rock, and lower it on the back of his client’s head.

He eats the sausage as he watches the death throes. He melts into the dusk.

Geiger wrote about Zaretsky’s murder and Platosha asked him to read it aloud. Geiger, who has banned the word ‘no’ with regard to my husband, began reading. I was watching only Platosha. He listened calmly to the strange description he’d ordered and though I thought it had sufficed for him, it turned out that, no, it had not. And that’s what he said: it did not suffice. He didn’t explain why. It seemed to me that Geiger was a little annoyed and that his annoyance regarding Platosha’s strange request somehow even appeared to be unexpected. Maybe Geiger was annoyed that it was a strange request and he had fulfilled it. And then, there you go: it didn’t fit.

Geiger said to me:

‘Well, then you write about that death.’ He turned to Platosha. ‘Or you?’

Platosha answered:

‘Good, I’ll try.’

I nodded.

I think we’re all truly close to lunacy.

And also: Platosha’s flying off to Munich tomorrow. And he’s not taking me with him.

Geiger could not manage the seemingly simple matter of writing a description of Zaretsky’s murder. It works out that’s not such a simple matter. We’ll see what Nastya writes. She told me yesterday that I’m not fighting for my recovery. Maybe tiredness is the reason here, I don’t know. It is hard to sense the acuteness of a feeling – any – for long. It seems to me that one tires from even fearing death. In the end, something sets in, taking the form of indifference for some and tranquility for others.

I am losing my strength and memory but not experiencing pain and in that I see that mercy has been presented to me. I do know what suffering is. It is terrible, not because it torments the body but because you no longer dream of ridding yourself of pain: you are prepared to rid yourself of your body. To die. You simply are not in a condition to think about matters such as the meaning of life and you see ridding yourself of suffering as the only meaning of death. When an illness’s symptoms are mild, that gives an opportunity to think everything over and prepare yourself for anything. And then those months or even weeks issued to you become a small eternity and you stop considering them a short period. You cease comparing them with the average life expectancy and other silliness. You begin understanding that there is an individual plan for each person. What does average life expectancy have to do with anything…?

Tomorrow I go to Munich. I place no big hopes on this trip but I am glad for it in some sense. We’re all truly tired and we need to get some rest from one another.

Today we saw Innokenty off at the airport. I’ll fly to Munich in a week.

Second day without Platosha. It feels empty. Now I can cry as much as I want – nobody sees – but there are no tears. It turns out you need someone’s presence for tears, even if you think the person doesn’t notice anything. I went to an evening service and I did have a cry there. It’s good it was so dark; nobody could see anything.

Platosha sent me an email this morning. He writes that they welcomed him well and showed him the city. They went for a walk in the English Garden during the second half of the day. He liked the garden best of all because – even with the fallen leaves – it reminded him of places in Siverskaya. After that, Platosha described the Siverskaya forest in late autumn, in detail. Sharp air smelling of mold, a brook between the trees, crows on branches. Those birds, he wrote, love thin branches, so they can sway. I hadn’t noticed that but it’s true, that’s exactly what they do: come to think of it, do crows have many pleasures? It’s both hilarious and touching: Munich fits into five lines and the rest is Siverskaya. There’s a question at the end: did I describe Zaretsky’s murder? I thought he’d forget with everything going on now, but he didn’t. I’ll have to get going on it, I promised after all. I don’t feel like it.

They showed me Munich. A beautiful city but its heart beats indifferently. I had never been to Munich and nothing resonates for me here, neither the aromas of its shops or the greenery or the beautiful cars. All of that came about and developed without my participation, with the exception, perhaps, of the English Garden, which reminds me of childhood. Even on the day I arrived, it occurred to me that this visit is seemingly in vain. It’s difficult to explain, but that’s the exact impression that has formed.

Later I had my first meeting with the doctor, Professor Meier. My initial thought: my German doctor is better. To the question ‘Wie geht es Ihnen?’ [17] How are you? (Germ.). I answered ‘Ich sterbe.’ [18] I’m dying (Germ.). My answer reflected the notes Geiger had sent, my overall general state, and, of course, Chekhov; Dr Meier had but the vaguest notion of all that. He muttered ‘Noch nicht,’ [19] Not yet (Germ.). and we communicated further with the help of an interpreter: my grammar-school German ran out there.

While conducting my initial examination, Professor Meier became absorbed in papers for a long time. A half-hour, perhaps longer, passed. Paging through my medical history (which Geiger heroically translated into German!), the doctor kept wetting his index finger with saliva and chewing at his lips. Sometimes he scratched his nose. Then he raised his head and said:

‘Expect no miracles from our clinic. That’s so there are no misapprehensions. We will do all we can.’

I felt that I was smiling broadly, showing all my teeth:

‘But it’s miracles I came for…’

‘Miracles, that’s in Russia,’ said Meier, his gaze growing sad. ‘There you live by the laws of the miracle, but we attempt to live in conformity with reality. It’s unclear, however, which is better.’

‘ When God wishes, nature’s order is overcome, ’ I said, expressing my main hope, but the interpreter could not translate that.

She asked me to clarify what I had in mind.

‘Tell the professor that he’s completely right. There is something to think about here.’

I walked along the clinic corridor and pondered how – when things are located within the bounds of medicine – it is better, of course, to trust Germans. But my case went outside those bounds long ago. So why am I here?

Innokenty just told me he’s returning to Petersburg.

He was calling from the hotel, where he’d stopped for his things. He’ll head to the airport from there.

He requested that I not tell Nastya about his return. He doesn’t yet know if he’ll succeed in buying a ticket for the soonest flight and he doesn’t want to worry her. The main thing is he doesn’t want her to talk him out of it. And I have to take that as automatically applying to me, too.