by Maxim Osipov
The chief physician steps out, wiping his mouth—their Women’s Day celebrations have already started.
“Ksenia Nikolayevna, would you like to have a listen? We record all calls made to the emergency services.”
What would she want to hear that for? “Let’s just get to Zhidkov,” she says. “And look at how run-down everything is. When are we going to get any repairs done, eh?”
The chief physician hangs back: “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
Zhidkov is sitting in the corridor, yellow, shrunken. It’s been a long time since she last saw him.
“So you’re alive, then?” she asks. “But look at you—how much do you weigh now?”
Can’t be more than fifty kilos. She has brought him something to eat.
“And how about you, Ksiusha—still eighty kilos?”
Of course not. Seventy-five to seventy-seven. Nothing’s changed.
Zhidkov looks at her pleadingly; he’s got some idea in his head. She feels sorry for him, of course, but everyone has to die at some point.
“Are you going to take me home?”
No, not till summer—as he well knows.
“By summer. . . by summer I’ll already be reunited with our Verochka. Though I doubt communists like me are allowed to believe such things . . .”
Of course he is. Everyone’s allowed to believe such things nowadays. A communist! What a country they had flushed down the drain . . . But no more about Verochka, not today, not again—enough. Verochka was the one who used to visit Zhidkov, you see; she would read him books. Good books, according to Zhidkov, although he can’t remember which ones.
“They aren’t treating me here, Ksiusha. Other patients get put on a drip . . .”
A nurse is walking down the corridor. Ksenia signals at her with a jerk of the head: “Call the consultant, please.”
The consultant is young, newish, and neat; he’s not from around these parts.
“I have already explained everything to your husband. Excuse me—ex-husband,” he says. “No, surgery is the only way. Yes, he’ll have to go to Moscow; we don’t do heart surgery here. Nor anywhere else in this province. Guarantees? What sort of guarantees are you expecting? There is a risk, of course. Let’s say. . . 10 percent. But without surgery, the risk is one hundred. Understand?”
Ugh, what a whiner. Calmly, she says, “The specialists I’ve spoken to in the city beg to differ. Anyway, why would you operate on him—at his age?” To Zhidkov: “Bring me your discharge notes from the city.”
Zhidkov clearly can’t walk at all; two steps and he’s gasping for breath. Ksenia overtakes him and walks into the ward. There are two beds. In the second one lies an old man, festering. Couldn’t they have given Zhidkov his own room? After all, he was once assistant secretary of the District Party Committee, not some rough kolkhoz farmhand. One must respect the past. Ksenia rummages around in Zhidkov’s bedside table and catches a whiff of a strange smell—one not coming from the old man: the remains of some pelmeni she had sent Zhidkov. By now he has finally dragged himself over to the bed.
“Hey, Ksiusha, why don’t you buy my beehive?”
“Piss off with your bees! Look, here it is,” then she reads: “Treatment at the site of permanent residence.”
The doctor grimaces. “Who wrote that nonsense? They don’t know what they’re talking about . . .”
And you do? she thinks. The consultant starts explaining again. She isn’t participating, isn’t listening. Then suddenly she hears him say: “. . . if he has the operation he could live to a good age. We’ve persuaded him, almost. So you should stop being part of the problem, and start being part of the solution.”
This is going too far. She pays a visit to the chief physician: He will give Zhidkov a drip twice a day, every day. He is responsible for it. It will be done under his personal supervision. And that asshole consultant is not to be let anywhere near Zhidkov. Happy Women’s Day to the women on his team.
“And to you, Ksenia Nikolayevna, happy International Women’s Day! All the best!”
•
“Is Pavel Andreyevich in?”
“Oh yes—for you, Ksenia Nikolayevna, he’s always in,” his secretary replies.
What’s that stupid smile about? Oh. The secretary knows.
Five years earlier Ksenia had come to visit Pasha, who had just been elected, largely thanks to her: he was a normal guy and—crucially—a local (a local, plus his grandfather had fought in the war—those were all his trump cards). She had come to his office to congratulate him and wish him many years’ good service to the town. After a bit of small talk, Pasha suddenly started maneuvering Ksenia into his back room: “Come on, Ksenia Nikolayevna, let me show you a movie about me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see; it’s a good one,” he replied.
There was a couch in the room, the curtains were drawn. Pasha jumped on Ksenia from behind, just as his comrades had taught him: women like strength in a man.
“Pasha, what the hell?”
“Seducing you.”
“Mad with power, eh? I’m practically a grandmother. Are there no young women in this town?”
Pasha stepped back for a moment, turned his head: “It’s status that I need now.” Then he threw himself on her again.
“Fine, have your status, you flying falcon. Just give me a minute—turn around.”
Pasha: an air-force academy graduate, undersized, no neck to speak of. Despite his big head, everything else is teeny tiny. You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. Their “love” lasted forty seconds and has not been repeated since, but as far as the town is concerned, Pasha and Ksenia are lovers.
Pasha is signing his Women’s Day cards. Why does he bother? He has a photocopier. No, he’s decided to do it himself—he’s a “workaholic.”
“You’re not looking after yourself, Pavel Andreyevich.”
“Ksenia Nikolayevna! And to what do I owe this visit?”
“I have a sensitive matter to discuss.”
Pasha assumes a statesmanlike countenance. “Do go on, Ksenia Nikolayevna. Let’s see to it that it’s resolved.”
She lays everything out: they have the plans for the chapel, but there’s a small problem—the land. Everything has been agreed upon with the church authorities: the chapel is very much needed. Meanwhile, her neighbor is living in luxury on a fifteen-hundred-square-meter plot of land virtually in the center of town.
“He’s doing nothing of the sort,” says Pasha. “My Kristinka is his student. She says he lives like . . . like a little bird.”
Ah yes, like a little bird. A heavenly little bird. And he feels good.
Pasha suddenly becomes very tense.
“How’s that . . . program of yours coming along—spiritual regeneration, the Slavonic script . . .”
“Since when have we been interested in scripts, Pavel? Let’s give this little bird of yours a council house—we’ll need all the more space if we’re to have this program you’re asking about. Come on Pasha, get your head out of the clouds, what are you—a giraffe?” What she wants to shout is: “For God’s sake, houses ‘burn down’ all the time; you of all people should know—you were a fireman!” but that’s something she wouldn’t dare say, not even to him.
“I thought you were a man, Pavel. You promised me last week!”
“I’m sorry, Ksenia Nikolayevna, but last week was last week, and this week is this week.”
“Where’d you get that one from?”
Pasha had heard a regional governor use the phrase. Oh yes, he is often in the city on public affairs. They have reached a dead end, an impasse. Does Pasha even know what a chapel is?
“I don’t see the . . . logistics,” he grumbles.
Pasha thinks a bowling alley would be better. Bowling would be more popular.
“Bowling? What are you talking about? Come on, Pasha, you can’t really think that. You’re an official—you’re a man of the state!�
��
“State, Ksenia Nikolayevna, is a relative term.”
He’s sulking. Was it the giraffe comment? A man like him should take it as a compliment. Suddenly Ksenia has a light-bulb moment.
“Do you have any idea what that teacher’s up to?” she asks, inspired. He may be a heavenly little bird, but that bird shits too. And behind her very house that little bird has built a nest of depravity. “Aren’t you afraid for your daughter?” She pushes and pushes, bringing out her handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. “Do you want her to . . . do you want it to happen to her too?”
Pasha thinks for a while.
“All right. We’ll sort this scumbag out.” About time. “We’ll take care of this. There shall be a chapel—prepare the resolution! Now, let’s have a drop to celebrate: happy International Women’s Day—here’s to health, strength, and love! Bottoms up!”
Oh God, he’s had quite enough already.
•
Visiting the courthouse is more a matter of pleasure than business. The judge, Yegor Savvich Rukosuyev, is a cheerful man who loves singing and does his job well, with a touch of musicality, presiding over trials smoothly and without interruption. His pace has started to slow a little lately; he’s lost his hair and has been traveling into the city for medical tests. Atrophic cerebral changes—he showed Ksenia the results of his latest consultation. “Don’t tell anyone,” she laughed in response, “especially not the lawyers.”
If there’s something Ksenia regrets in life, it’s that she never became a judge. She gets goose bumps at every sentencing: everyone stands, the judge announces the sentence . . . it’s a powerful thing. They simply type something out, and then—swish: three, five, ten years.
Today two of her former Tajiks are on trial. She fired them in September, and since then they have been up to no good—or, rather, had been. Theirs is a nation of criminals; the exceptions only prove the rule.
It had been an overcast morning, but now the sun is shining. While walking to the courthouse, Ksenia’s mood had been buoyant; Pasha’s brandy had done the trick. And lo and behold, here they are: the handsome young Tajiks are standing at the back door. It can’t be easy, holding a cigarette in handcuffs. “My, you certainly have lost weight without me,” Ksenia thinks, “just look at those hollow cheeks! Oh well, that prison food’ll fill you out in no time.”
Yegor steps outside, priest-like in his robes.
“Let’s get started,” he says. They keep things simple here. “Come on guys, eins-zwei, into the courtroom.” Yegor calls everyone guys. But these ones, it would appear, don’t speak Russian. “You too, Ksenia Nikolayevna, please step inside.”
As usual, Ksenia makes for the back room; the door into the courtroom is left ajar so that she can see and hear everything. The defense attorneys (both assigned to their defendants through article 51 of the Criminal Procedure Code); the public prosecutor; the clerk: it appears that everyone has gathered.
“All rise for the judge,” says the clerk, and then, before anyone has even managed to move, “Please be seated!” from Yegor. This man could teach Father Alexander a thing or two; that priest’ll drag out any old service for two hours. The case number, article, and the defendants’ names—both impossible to pronounce—are read; a junior judicial counselor leads the state prosecution; there are no objections, no requests. The defendants’ right not to give evidence against themselves is made clear to them. Then it’s time to read the indictment. The prosecutor is told he can do it sitting down.
These two men had stolen a phone from a boy—a local—at the bus station. As far as it is known, several boys had been robbed (and several phones taken), but only one boy had reported it to the police. There had also been three Tajiks, not two: one had gotten away. Nothing in life is as it appears in court; it’s less streamlined. That’s why Ksenia likes it here—there’s no need for any superfluous Tajiks, nor superfluous phones, nor victims, for that matter; the latter couldn’t even be talked into taking part in the proceedings.
Yegor nods gently, as though to the beat of some internal music. All Ksenia hears from the lawyers is the odd “Stand,” or, “Answer the judge’s question.” The first Tajik pleads guilty to all charges, the second only to some. The first admits: Yes, he struck the victim; it was also he who went through his pockets.
“With your hands?” asks the prosecutor.
What else could it have been? Does the defendant even understand these questions? Ksenia tries to guess how old he is, whether he would have known life in the Soviet Union. If so, he shouldn’t have skipped school; he’d at least know some Russian. What a country they had all shared!
The second Tajik is more confident with his Russian.
“Vitalik and I were sitting, eating some Rolltons—”
“Rollton instant soups,” Yegor interrupts. “A message from our advertisers, eh?” He turns towards the open door, behind which he knows Ksenia is sitting.
“That’s not what you’re on trial for,” the man’s lawyer steps in. “Did you hit the victim? Threaten him? Who took the phone?”
“I can’t say anything about the phone,” the defendant states. “I was in an intoxicated state.” The lawyer just waves his hand: a screw this and a just do your time in one.
The interrogation of the witness lasts all of one and a half minutes, the closing statements—two. The court adjourns for deliberation. Now let’s try and guess: “One year and three?” asks Ksenia, “That is—three years and one?”
Yegor nods: spot-on; she always gets it right.
Ksenia enters the courtroom. It’s the climax of the trial.
“I hereby sentence you to . . .” Boom goes the gavel, and it’s done! “Remove the convicted!”
•
Yegor is a good judge: his sentences are never overturned. Back in his office, he puts his robe into the cupboard, from which he brings out a guitar, glasses, and some brandy.
“Don’t dry up, Ksenia! Here, slice yourself some lemon, and then we have pickles, olives, salted fish . . .”
It’s the second day of Lent, but hey, it gives Ksenia something to say at confession.
“Happy Women’s Day, Ksenia! Chin chin!”
Yegor has tears in his eyes: alcohol goes straight to his head now. In the good old Soviet days Ksenia and Yegor had been involved. Ksenia would hurry here after work, they would lock the door, and Yegor would take her in his arms and whisper sweet nothings in her ear, such as: “Guess who they’ve got over the barrel now, Ksiusha.” Oh, those were the days . . . He tries to take Ksenia in his arms now; she gently extricates herself.
“And what if, I have a . . . sexual surge?”
A surge? Yeah, right. His whole life the judge has only truly loved one woman: Alla Pugacheva, the singer. “For that woman,” he has often said, “I could kill an innocent man.” What he particularly cherishes in Ksenia is her voice.
“Shall we sing something?”
“What’s the hurry?” Ksenia asks. “Later.”
Yegor leans back in the sofa, narrows his eyes: “In that case, let’s discuss your godly matters. . . . I get a real kick out of it. . . . What’s all this I hear about bar codes supposedly being the number of the beast?”
News takes a while to reach this town. She starts to explain: Each bar code has three sixes embedded in it, 666. “Here, take this bottle,” she says, “see? It’s there on every product.”
“But why do they need these three sixes—if we can call them that? I’m missing something.” Yegor picks up the bottle, starts refilling his glass.
She couldn’t say exactly.
“Must be some sort of synchronization . . .”
“Ha!” the judge chuckles. “But we have three sevens to get synchronized! Get it? Our good old Soviet 777 port—that’s our synchronization!”
Yegor is a cheerful man; with him the world feels warmer, brighter. And why shouldn’t he be cheerful? He has money, and the work he does is interesting, important. Ksenia should have become a law
yer too—it was a mistake to give it up. And she had wanted to give Verochka the right start in life . . . She remembers the morning she has just had; her spirits darken. She needs to tell Yegor about the teacher: yes, there is an outsider in this, their town.
“Yegor, do you remember my Verochka? Someone led her astray—did you know about that?”
Yegor’s still in a cheery mood—he’s pleased with his port joke.
“The teacher, you mean? Come on, how did he lead her astray? You said it yourself—nothing happened between them.”
“Yes, the teacher. Some teaching for you. And what about those Literary Thursdays—that poetry, that prose?”
“Ksiusha, what’s all this about? I mean, it’s not as though Verochka . . . Look, sorry, but she was never quite all there. It’d be fine if it was only that wreck of a dad she took pity on—but all the lame ducks of this world? Remember when she brought in that bum off the street?”
“What on earth made you think of that? Verochka was only a child then.”
“Drop it with the teacher. It’s bad for you—look, you’re in pain. Take it easy, Ksiusha. It’ll pass; time’s a healer.”
“No, Yegor—now, you listen to me: We’ve got an outsider in this town. An enemy—well, maybe not an enemy, but he might as well be. Or someone else is taking advantage of the situation: Did you know that teacher of yours is writing something? Would you like to have a read?”
Yegor waves it off: Doesn’t he have enough to read?
“Your land has certainly piqued their interest,” says Ksenia, as though in passing, by the by; it’s quite an art.
Yegor knows how to be serious, if need be.
“What land? Who?”
“Does it matter? There are outsiders in our home, Yegor. Outsiders!”
“Anyone—anyone—who threatens our . . . this . . . you know, this . . . sovereignty we have, well, they’ve got it coming!” He slams his fist on the coffee table. Bang! “You and I, we’ll show them how our fathers and grandfathers defended this land. From the Germans! And the French!” And, after a moment’s thought, “And the Poles!”
