And afterwards he wrapped his fingers around the parts of her within his reach and named the bones that formed her. Manubrium. Ulna. Radius. Scapula. And she listened to the inflections of his voice, felt the vibrations of his words in her ear. Their breathing slowing, calming.
A SIREN WAILS in the distance. Grigory watches the lovers stand and leave, brushing grass off each other’s backs, still laughing. He opens the window and puts his head outside, the evening air refreshing him. He shouldn’t still be here. He knows he won’t get any more work done this evening. An impulse comes over him to go see a play at the Kirov, but it’s too late now. He wants some company. He could call on Vasily, have a drink at his kitchen table, but the man has a family, there’d be kids to be bathed. Besides, Vasily’s wife would probably remember it was Grigory’s birthday. How pathetic he would look, calling round because he had nowhere else to spend the evening.
No. He’ll go home, go to bed early, something he hasn’t done in an age.
In the corridor visitors are leaving the wards, coats slung over their arms. They have concerned conversations: couples, siblings, parents. Telling each other their impressions of how their loved ones are progressing, saying all the things they can’t say in front of the sick. We put on our most positive front in the face of weakness. He sees this continually. Around each corner people are leaning their backs to the wall, crying silently, a hand to their faces, their companions standing beside them, a reassuring touch on their shoulder or arm. Inside the wards the patients are silent. In time they’ll pick up a conversation again, introduce their visitors in retrospect, summarizing them in brief biographies: their son’s career; the intolerant men their daughter always chooses; the older brother who still treats them as though they were a teenager; the grandchildren they’re still waiting on. He passes through Intensive Care, stopping at the nurses’ station to inquire about the progress of his patients for the day, something he does every evening. All are stable and have reacted well, so far, to surgery. He decides to round off his day by checking in on this morning’s endoscopy, making his way to the ENT ward. The nurse reminds him of the patient’s name, Maya Petrovna, and points him towards her bed.
She’s sitting up, knitting, her needles clicking time.
“A scarf?” he asks.
“It was supposed to be a sweater. But they all end up as scarves eventually.”
“You’re not following a pattern?”
“I’m just following the needles.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Relieved.”
She stops her knitting and leans over conspiratorially.
“I had a thought, before the anaesthetic. I knew it was a routine procedure but I began to fear the worst.”
“Don’t worry, you’re not the first.”
“No, that’s not it. I wasn’t worried about it all ending. I was worried about the funeral. I couldn’t bear the conversations. ‘Death by Chicken Bone’—what a fate. Everyone doing their best not to laugh. I thought, if I have to die early I want it to be from a condition with a complicated name.”
Grigory smiles. “I’m not sure you get to choose.”
He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Good night. I’m glad to see everything’s okay.”
“Thank you, Doctor. It’s good to be back to normal.”
“Good luck with the scarf.”
“You should wish the scarf luck instead, it has no idea what’s ahead of it.”
Grigory passes through the lobby, filled with people waiting to be admitted. Those without chairs sit against the walls, framing the perimeter of the room. There’s a chorus of coughing. A pool of tea lies in the middle of the aisle. He walks past it; it’s not his responsibility and, besides, he’s finished for the day. Three steps more and then he stops. He can’t bring himself to ignore it and walks back to the admissions desk, asking the receptionist to get some attendants to clean it up. When he sees her making the call he turns to go.
And she’s sitting there, in the front row.
Talking to a kid with floppy blond hair.
Pushing it away from his forehead.
Her hair is short, sharply cut; it still has its dark lustre, with the odd rogue strand of grey. Her face is slightly more defined, sinews in her neck beginning to show. She’s talking to the boy, and he realizes it’s Zhenya, her nephew, his nephew still, technically, an older version of the child he knew, beginning to take on the heft of a teenage boy, broader shoulders, a thicker face, and he can hear the inflections in her voice as she talks to the child and they reach him in waves, warm, subdued, utterly her.
Maria.
He says her name.
She turns and looks at him, and he realizes what an advantage it was to have noticed her first. She can’t control her reaction. The flicker of naked shock across her face, which softens into pleasure, familiarity.
“Grigory.”
He takes a step towards her.
“What are you doing here?”
She gestures to Yevgeni to hold up his hand, which he does, the fourth digit red and swollen, possibly fractured.
“He’s telling me he caught it in a door. Which is code, of course, meaning some kids attacked him.”
“You should have called me.”
“I didn’t want to bother you. We can wait.”
“Come through.”
“We can wait. We’ll be called soon.”
“Come on through. Please.” Grigory turns to Yevgeni. “Let’s get you looked after. I bet it hurts.”
“It’s not too bad,” Yevgeni says, attempting bravery.
“Do you know who this is, Zhenya? It’s Grigory. Do you remember him?”
Yevgeni looks at the doctor. He remembers the man carrying a present into their apartment. A large, wrapped box. But he doesn’t remember when this was or what was in it.
Grigory picks up an admissions form, indicates to the receptionist that he’ll take this case and leads them through the doors.
They walk in silence to Radiography. It feels too casual for them to speak while moving. And the boy is there—they need to get reacquainted on their own before they can talk in front of others.
Grigory steps aside for a short conversation with a radiographer then returns and speaks gently to Yevgeni.
“You’re going to get an X-ray of your hand. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes. It’s a photograph of my bones.”
“That’s right. Sergei here will look after you. It’ll only take a few minutes. When he’s finished, he’ll bring you back to us. Is that all right?”
Yevgeni nods. “Yes.”
“Come on then,” says Sergei. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
Sergei offers his hand to Yevgeni, but he doesn’t accept it, so instead Sergei begins to walk and Yevgeni follows.