by Oleg Pavlov
Outside an office with the name plate ‘HEAD OF THE PATHOLOGY DEPARTMENT’ sat two more young men – strikingly different from the first pair, in that their noses were buried in a fat medical book and they were deeply absorbed in cramming one of its chapters. But the departmental head was not in the room. Institutov continued the hunt. Wandering around the unit, they passed through the waiting rooms – and again met two young men, who seemed to be filling in for the ones studying outside the locked office. This time, though, the doppelgängers were hard at work dressing the baggy, chalky, clapped-out old body lying on a steel table into an ash-grey general’s uniform with gold epaulettes. The procedure was drawing to an end: the male nurses were pulling a pair of trousers with stripes over the deceased man’s wizened chicken-legs. When they found themselves in a hall apparently being readied for people to pay their last respects to the general, there they were again: two young men setting the chairs in neat rows in front of the plinth for the coffin, earning tender glances from the weepy relatives of the deceased. All this took place in the comfortable and homely environment of the hall, where the carpeted floor gently muffled all footsteps, as though everyone were moving about in sneakers.
His head spinning from all the walking and the waltz of emotional tension, Institutov floated through the bluish-ultraviolet air. Eventually they came to a room where the walls and floor were lined with tiles: it was evidently a morgue, but one where the snow-white sterility was carefully limited to just a few resting places. The concrete ledges on both levels lay empty. Eight hosed-down concrete racks were attached in two tiers to the walls; the space at the wall with a clean little window was filled by a steel table that shone like a mirror. The young men who kept popping up had beaten them to it again: in the middle of the morgue, oblivious to the world, darting like lunatics from wall to wall, they were kicking a crumpled old shoe in place of a ball. It was clear at a glance that they had set up their own gym in this hidden corner: the iron snout of something resembling a barbell was peeping from under a ledge, and a pull-up bar had been discreetly fixed to the door frame.
This time it was no illusion: the male nurses who had called each other Serge and Georges in the reception area really were here. It seemed as though the young men had been running ahead of them the whole time, presiding over the huge building, having dreamt this all up as a jape, or having invented their Immanuil Abramovich for the sake of appearances.
Their matte bodies, glistening from their footwork and naked to the waist, assailed the nose with the cloying scent of an aftershave that both men had soused themselves in like sponge cakes. And they shared the same coiffure: hair tucked behind the ears, lovingly slicked back and shining with something greasy resembling shoe polish that made their heads gleam in the light like buffed-up boots. The more assertive one seemed to be younger. When one of them lasciviously yelled, ‘Go-o-o-a-l,’ Institutov, whose presence had gone unnoticed, boomed like a judge: ‘As you were, players! Stop your clowning. You’ll explain this outrageous behaviour to Immanuil Abramovich. Have you no sense of shame? Fancy yourselves the Brothers Karamazov, eh? Look, I’m pressed for time. I have no intention of putting up with the antics of two cocky little brats.’ The male nurses deflated and reluctantly pulled on some blue surgical scrubs that were most likely hand-me-downs from the doctors.
One of them puckered his brows expectantly, while the slighter and slenderer one kept his distance from Institutov, saying coldly, ‘We aren’t your men. We can only take orders from Immanuil Abramovich. You, Comrade, must have landed from Mars.’
‘Comrade Head of Department! Immanuil Abramovich!’ called out the head of the infirmary.
The sleek young man grew uncomfortable and hurried to make amends: ‘Hey, now why are you shouting? What’s worrying you? We’ll sort it all out straight away. S’il vous plaît.’ He gave Institutov a dignified, tender glance – and the head of the infirmary suddenly responded with a mellow sort of smile.
A few minutes later the strapping suave attendant and the pompous toothpuller who resembled a cockroach had developed such a rapport that the two of them were already breezily running things in the morgue.
‘Sergei, my friend, we shall need to bring in the body,’ said the head of the infirmary gently, talking down to him ever so slightly.
‘Don’t you worry, just relax,’ the young man said in a deep, languorous baritone and, with the predatory gait of a cat, he swept across the morgue to unlock the back door, bearing his aloof, manly face like an egg on a tray. He had a bunch of keys hooked to his belt.
Pavel Pavlovich drove the field ambulance up to the back entrance. They brought in the corpse, still draped in a blanket, and tipped it from the stretcher. The load hit the mirror-like surface of the table. Glancing at the back of the body, all smeared in dirt with its gaunt shoulder blades protruding like chicken wings, Serge yelped in surprise: ‘But that’s one of our customers! Wow, who’d have thought it… Look who’s shown up! The fatherland hasn’t forgotten its heroes, I see. I remember when Georges and I were called to the operating theatre. Intelligence reported that a soldier had croaked on the battlefield. A stray bullet, could have happened to anyone. And the hero’s body never went under the surgeon’s scalpel. Haha, Georgie and I weren’t in much of a hurry either: we were, ahem, getting amorous with one of the local ladies. So we got there, politely put him on the bier, chatted courteously about culture and literature and fine young ladies before we drove him away… And then the customer suddenly comes back – well, I’m impressed, bravo! Georgie, what river did you send this little log down? Forsooth, I tell you, my naïve little kefir-guzzler, there are rivers that flow backwards!’
The male nurses were rocking and choking with laughter. They were grabbing each other as though slugging it out, and their lively, happy laughter was plashing about the mortuary. And the moment Pavel Pavlovich growled moodily, ‘It’s you two that ought to be lying there, top-and-tail,’ the young men’s eyes popped in delight and, unable to muster words, they fell into another fit of giggles, no doubt imagining the scene vividly.
‘Well then, Private Mukhin seems to have left an indelible mark in the memories of Sergei and Georgii,’ said Institutov hastily, in the hope that the male nurses would let up. But a new burst of laughter broke out.
Pavel Pavlovich spoke louder: ‘Cut it out, you clowns. Or if you like, I can beat some tears out of you. I do love watching men cry.’
Serge instantly quit laughing and spat some words out at the stranger: ‘I’m talking for the benefit of people who possess a sense of humour. Georges and I couldn’t give a monkey’s who this Mukhin geezer was and what kind of heroism he was up to. These Mukhins, they drop like flies, the tiniest thing gets them – and then you’re preparing for your next customer.’
‘Always prepared!’ said his workmate, neighing like a horse, but his friend for some reason cut him short with a spiteful look, and he clammed up.
‘So, our Mukhin is your customer.’ The head of the infirmary spoke amicably, wanting to butter up the now cagey young men.
‘Well, I don’t know…’ Serge replied lazily. ‘S’il vous plaît…’
The head of the infirmary continued cautiously. ‘I do love a good joke, of course; all this boyish laughter and zeal. I was young myself once, you know, and I wasn’t – put it this way: I wasn’t afraid of death, I laughed in its face. But as the old proverb goes: if you want to eat the fruit, you must climb the tree. That’s enough, you’ve had your fun. Now it’s time, my dears, to get to work. To spruce up your customer. Work comes first!’
Georges shook his head like a stallion and gave a big delicious yawn. Serge spoke for him: ‘We can’t do it, we’re not old enough.’ Then he fell into a sulk, drew himself up regally – and suddenly left the room. Institutov did not remain flummoxed for long, for into the morgue strayed a ward assistant, who was being herded along like a cow. She was a deflated, stooping woman in a medical gown that hung on her shoulders like a sack – indeed it look
ed as though it had been sewn from sackcloth. Serge was still wearing a wounded expression, but he could not resist saying behind her back, ‘And please give a warm welcome to… the sewer rat! Attired in white. A manual worker. Well, what are you standing there for? Get to work. I’ll start the stopwatch, maybe you can set a world record.’
She turned and looked at her herdsman with devotion, mysteriously willing to grant his every wish. Serge evaded her gaze nervously. He had picked up a cassette player from somewhere, all wound up in duct tape, making it look like a cheek swollen with toothache. The noise issuing from it sounded like teeth grinding. Suddenly it emitted a wailing like a stab of pain, then it began whining again, shifting between groans and howls and the gnashing of teeth. The male nurses made themselves comfortable on the concrete ledge, engrossed in their new toy. Serge jealously kept a fast hold on the machine, cradling it like a baby. Crooning away, they were dangling their legs freely from the ledge, as though on a swing, and tirelessly nodding their heads to the beat.
The ward assistant glanced brightly and hungrily in their direction and set to work, moving her arms back and forth as though in a daze, holding a rubber hose in one hand and a rag in the other. ‘Stand back or I’ll splash you all,’ she said with concern, glancing at the strangers with the same childlike simplicity, as though their presence were superfluous. But she clearly enjoyed spraying them with water. All she was after was some attention, to feel needed. Yet the sight of her somehow provoked a feeling of shame. She could not have been all that advanced in years – surely they weren’t looking at an old woman? Yet her sagging cheeks, frail lips, thinning eyebrows and wrinkles – even the limp, ingratiating way she spoke – all implied old age.
Having escaped notice while washing one half of the body, she began work on the other side, wielding the hose and rag. She knuckled down, single-handedly rolling the dead body onto its back like a mannequin, although no one was looking her way; then, apparently eager to please, she clucked loudly in sympathy: ‘Oh, I can’t get this bit clean! The hands are as black as an African’s.’
‘She’s trying to wash off his tan! The silly goose has never seen a tan. Looks like young Mukhin was somewhere hot, been basking in the sun,’ said Serge.
‘Oh, what a face, I’ve never seen such a beautiful face…’ she said.
‘Fallen in love, my little rat? So rats need love too?’ said Serge with gusto, locking tenaciously onto her pitiful gaze. ‘Well he’s still quite a looker: see how much gold dust she’s panned out of him. You wanna marry him, eh? Is it love at first sight, or have you had your eye on him for a while?’
‘If only old Mukhin had known –’ Georges stammered, clumsily entering into the spirit ‘– he was such a hit with the girls!’
‘Ah, it’s true love. Now they’ll merge in a kiss… Bravo!’
‘Nah, it’s – you know, platonic,’ Georges said with a chuckle.
Institutov spoke in disgust: ‘Our comrade is hard at work, putting her heart and soul into it. What’s so funny about that?’
‘They’re finding it funny that somebody’s died but they’re still alive, and they’re laughing at her for taking pity on him, when they couldn’t care less about a soul,’ Pavel Pavlovich snarled, not concealing the fiery dislike in his wide eyes.
This time Serge ignored the stranger – he just turned up the music, until the jarring metal noise drowned out even their own laughter. ‘Cocksuckers!’ Pavel Pavlovich called out. The male nurses leaped off the concrete ledge: worked up by the music wailing from the cassette player, hunched over and baring their teeth like two angry monkeys, they sprang into action. But their path was blocked by Institutov, whose hands had suddenly developed a special strength: grabbing Serge in one and Georges in the other, he shoved the men right back onto the ledge, where they landed with their spirits dampened. ‘Now, what would Immanuil Abramovich say about this? I don’t get it, my friends, are you totally out of your minds? Sorry, but only hardened criminals resort to brute force and vile insults to sort out their problems,’ he said, taking fright.
The tape recorder was blaring away. Despite having been beaten back into place, the male nurses were glaring defiantly from the concrete ledge. Serge stared mockingly at his foe, as if giving him the eye, with a deliberateness that suggested he was playing a game. Pavel Pavlovich glowered back at his unabashed laughing eyes, inscrutable as a cat’s; it seemed as though they weren’t even reflecting the present moment. The young man was getting a kick out of the exchange. Pavel Pavlovich felt an unpleasant quivering growing in his chest, as though a great slimy cold toad had climbed straight into his soul. His eyes started bulging with the tension, and once or twice, against his will, he blinked, unable to pass the simplest test of the game. And each time, the young man blew him an air kiss. Pavel Pavlovich could not hold out and so he gave in, lowering his eyes. Serge continued to stare at him, but now he did so seriously and intently, making a show of studying him, and this caused Pavel Pavlovich torment, as though some other will were lurking inside him, forcing him to submit to this hostile and scornful gaze.
Suddenly a rather lively man, who didn’t seem to belong there, looked in on the mortuary. He was on the chubby side, sporting a groomed coppery head of hair and a silky beard that bloomed on his exuberant face; even his intelligent, penetrating eyes – two ripe berries – amply exuded sweetness and the light of nature’s fruit. ‘Sergei… Georgii… Boys, keep it down!’ he said – perhaps chiding, perhaps chastising, and about to disappear. Silence suddenly fell and the sound of water became audible. Serge and Georges stood to attention, almost bolt upright.
‘How do you do, Immanuil Abramovich,’ the youth managed to greet him in a sugary singsong.
‘Well, look, it’s all right, nothing to worry about… The ceremony has begun, so can you stay quiet.’ And he addressed everyone present: ‘Hello Comrades, we’ve started the viewing, could I ask you to keep it down.’
‘Hello,’ responded the head of the infirmary.
‘Delighted to meet you, hello, hello…’ the departmental head said without hesitation, and he graciously greeted everybody present one by one, even apparently greeting the dead man lying on the table amid all the worldly bustle. ‘Hello. Hello. Pleasure to meet you. Hello. Please accept my condolences… We’ve begun the ceremony, I’m afraid, sorry I can’t be of assistance. However if you wait your turn… Sergei, dear, can you keep things in order?’
‘Comrade Head of Department!’ Institutov pleaded. ‘Just one question?’
‘I’m afraid the ceremony has already begun. I shan’t be able to assist with the removal of your body, it will have to wait, nothing I can do about it…’
‘Oh but you can help, you can! One of our privates was on your books some time ago – we have the body right here. I’m taking the body back now, but there’s still no sign of his things. They should have been delivered to you – well, how can I put it, what are we to dress him in for the occasion? All his things are still on the books in the place where he was serving. His dress uniform, his tie, shoes – everything needed for the ceremony. You were the ones who recorded the fatality – well, I should be picking him up in tip-top condition from you. I’m sending him to Moscow! At zero hours twenty-five minutes. Any delay, if you’ll excuse the pun, will be the death of me!’
‘Yes, yes, colleague, I understand… Sergei, look, could you give out – ermm, a smart set of clothes, I believe is what we need. Now, help out our guests.’
‘What splendid words! You’re my saviour, Immanuil Abramovich. See, I’ve also got to drive out to the back of beyond for the coffin – that’s coming from another establishment. And the train won’t wait – get there one minute late and that’s it. Toot-toot! It’ll arrive in the capital with an empty space. Oh, how soulless this all is, such a bundle of red tape! You’d hardly call it rational – everything in different locations, and there’s just the one of me! Just think about it: here I am, a man with a university education, weighed down with med
ical knowledge – and I’m chasing about doing the devil knows what, instead of treating my patients, saving lives, doing good! Just think what I have to deal with every day… In the infirmary, where you’d expect some semblance of sterility, they defile every square inch of the place. Steal everything they can eat. Spoil everything they touch. And that’s just the mice! After these latest developments in the country, one doesn’t know what to live for any more, what the future will bring… If you ask me, it’s all going to hell in a handcart.’
The benevolent man shot Institutov a gentle, understanding glance: ‘Now really, my dear colleague, you ought to take it easy… Look how pale and drawn you are. Being in healthcare isn’t a career, it’s a matter of body and soul. But I can tell you this from personal experience: the only way to treat depression is by communing with the beautiful.’ And he withdrew, almost whispering to them, as though they were children: ‘Goodbye, Comrades, please do keep your voices down.’
The head of the department vanished in a cloud of his own heartfelt warmth. For a moment, a resounding, primordial silence reigned over the basement. ‘Hey, didn’t you hear what he said? Chop-chop, go and fetch his things, you ass. Pronto!’ Serge hissed at the perplexed ward attendant, who had been stealing time on the quiet, trying her hardest to please him with a new world record.
‘Wh-wh-where are his togs, y-y-you r-rat?’ said George suddenly in a strangled voice, the veins on his neck swelling up like a bull’s. The woman cowered and threw the hose to which she’d been tethered to the floor; bruised by their words and forgetting the soapy rag she held in her other hand, she rushed out of the morgue. Once she was gone, the young men recovered their composure and began chatting away as if nothing had happened. They seemed to be lingering simply to mess around.
