Eugene Vodolazkin - The Aviator

I used to tell her: wear a hat when it’s cold, otherwise you’ll get frostbite on your ears. Have a look, I would say, at how many pedestrians these days don’t have ears. She would agree – yes, yes, she’d say, I should – but she didn’t wear one. She would laugh at the joke and go around without a hat anyway. That little picture surfaced in my memory just now, though I haven’t the faintest idea whom it concerns.

Or perhaps a scandalous scene had come to mind, an outrageous and grueling one. It is unclear where it played out. The shame is that the interaction began well (one might even say good-naturedly) and then one word led to another and everyone quarreled. The main thing is that we were the ones who were surprised later: what was that for, why?

Someone noticed that funeral banquets are often like that: people talk for an hour and a half or so about what a good person the deceased was. And then someone in attendance remembers that, actually, the deceased was not perfect. And here, as if on command, lots of people begin speaking out and adding on, so, little by little, they come to the conclusion that the deceased was basically a first-rate heel.

Or there could be a real phantasmagoria: someone’s hit on the head with a piece of sausage and then that person rolls along an inclined plane, rolls and can’t stop, and his head spins from the rolling.

My head. Spins. I’m lying on a bed.

Where am I?

Footsteps.

An unfamiliar person in a white lab coat entered. He stood, placing a hand to his lips, and looked at me (someone else’s head is in the crack in the door). For my part, I looked at him, but as if I were not showing it. Out from behind eyelids not tightly closed. He noticed their trembling.

‘You’re awake?’

I opened my eyes. The unfamiliar person approached my bed and extended a hand:

‘Geiger. Your doctor.’

I pulled my right hand out from under the blanket and felt Geiger’s cautious handshake. This is how people touch when they’re afraid of breaking something. He glanced back for an instant and the door slammed shut. Geiger bent toward me without letting go of my hand:

‘And you’re Innokenty Petrovich Platonov, isn’t that so?’

I could not confirm that. If he was saying that, it meant he had grounds to do so. Innokenty Petrovich… I silently concealed my hand under the blanket.

‘You don’t remember anything?’ Geiger asked.

I shook my head. Innokenty Petrovich Platonov. Sounds respectable. Perhaps a bit literary.

‘Do you remember my coming over to your bed just now? How I introduced myself?’

Why was he like this with me? Or was I truly in sorry shape? I paused and rasped:

‘I remember.’

And before that?’

I felt tears choking me. They had broken out into the open and I began sobbing. Geiger took a napkin from the bedside table and wiped my face.

‘Come now, Innokenty Petrovich. There are so few events on this earth that are worth remembering and you’re upset.’

‘Will my memory be restored?’

‘I very much hope so. Your case is one where it’s impossible to assert anything for certain.’ He placed a thermometer under my arm. ‘You know, try recalling as much as you can, your effort is important here. We need you to remember everything yourself.’

I saw hairs in Geiger’s nose. There were scratches on his chin from shaving.

He was looking at me calmly. High forehead, straight nose, pince-nez – it was as if someone had drawn him. There are faces so very typical they seem invented.

‘Was I in an accident?’

‘One might say that.’

In an open vent window, air from the hospital room was mixing with winter air from outside. The air was growing murky, trembling and fusing; a vertical slat on the frame was merging with a tree trunk; and this early dusk – I have already seen it somewhere. And I had seen snowflakes floating in, too. Melting before reaching the windowsill… Where?

‘I don’t remember anything. Only some little things: snowflakes in a hospital window, the coolness of glass if one touches it with a forehead. I don’t remember events.’

‘I could, of course, remind you about something that occurred, but one can’t retell a life in all its fullness. I know only the most surface aspects of your life: where you lived, who you interacted with. Beyond that, the history of your thoughts and feelings is unknown to me, do you see?’ He pulled the thermometer out from under my arm. ‘Thirty-eight point five. Rather high.’

MONDAY

Yesterday, there was still no such thing as time. But today is Monday. Here is what happened. Geiger brought a pencil and a thick note book. And left. He returned with a writing stand.

‘Write down everything that happened during the day. And write down everything you recall from the past, too. This journal is for me. I’ll see how quickly we’re making progress with what we do.’

‘All my events so far are connected with you. Does that mean I should write about you?’

Abgemacht. [1] Agreed (Germ.). Describe and assess me from all angles: my modest persona will begin pulling other threads of your consciousness behind it. And we will gradually broaden your social circle.’

Geiger adjusted the stand over my stomach. It rose slightly, dolefully, with each of my breaths, as if it were breathing, too. Geiger straightened the stand. He opened the notebook and placed the pencil in my fingers; this was, really, a bit much. I may be sick (with what, one might ask?) but I can move my arms and legs. What, in actuality, could I write? Nothing, after all, is happening or being recalled.

The notebook is huge; it would be enough for a novel. I twirl the pencil in my hand. What is my illness, anyway? Doctor, will I live?

‘What is today’s date, doctor?’

He is silent. I am silent, too. Did I really ask something indecorous?

‘Let’s do this,’ Geiger finally utters, ‘let’s have you just indicate the days of the week. We’ll come to an understanding about time easier that way.’

Geiger is mysteriousness itself. I answer:

‘Abgemacht.’

He laughs.

So I went ahead and wrote everything down – about yesterday and about today.

TUESDAY

Today I made the acquaintance of Valentina, the nurse. She’s shapely. Not talkative.

I feigned sleep when she entered; this is already becoming a habit. Then I opened one eye and asked:

‘What is your name?’

‘Valentina. The doctor said you need rest.’

She answered no further questions. She swabbed the floor with a mop, her back to me. A triumph of rhythm. When she bent to rinse the rag in the pail, her underclothes showed through her white coat. What kind of rest could I have…?

I’m joking. I have no strength whatsoever. Geiger took my temperature this morning: 38.7, which worries him.

What worries me is that I cannot seem to distinguish recollections from dreams.

Ambiguous impressions from last night. I am lying at home with a temperature – it’s influenza. My grandmother’s hand is cool; the thermometer is cool. Swirls of snow outside are covering the road to my school, where I did not go today. This means they will come to the letter ‘P’ in the roll call (a finger, all chalky, will slide through the record book) and call Platonov.