“Go on, hiccup! Now you can hiccup all you want, you poor, booed-off fiancé! No, you were not booed off, you were hiccupped off!”
The following day I went to visit the Pepsinovs the way I always did. Zoya didn’t come down for dinner, and sent word that she couldn’t see me as she wasn’t feeling well, while Pepsi- nov spoke at length about certain young people who didn’t know how to comport themselves in public. The fool! He’s obviously not aware that the organs that induce hiccupping are not subject to voluntary stimuli! Stimuli, ma chère, means “shakers.”
“Would you give your daughter—that is, if you had one—to a man who wouldn’t think twice about belching in public?” Pepsinov asked me after dinner. “Ha? Well?”
“Um, yes... I would,” I muttered.
“Quite a mistake!”
That was the end of Zoya as far as I was concerned. She could not forgive my hiccupping. For her that was the end of me. Would you like me to describe the remaining twelve incidents?
I could, but... enough is enough! The veins on my tem-ples have swollen, tears are flowing freely, and my liver is churning.... “O brother writers, our destiny doth weave fateful threads!” I wish you, ma chère, all the very best! I squeeze your hand tightly, and send my warmest regards to Paul. I hear that he is a good husband and father. God bless him! Pity, though, that he drinks so heavily (this, by the way, ma chère, is not a reproach!).
All the very best, ma chère. Your faithful servant, Baldas- tov.
VILLAGE
DOCTORS
THE VILLAGE HOSPITAL. Morning.
As the doctor is absent, out hunting with the district police officer, his assistants Kuzma Egorov and Gleb Glebitch are seeing patients. There are about thirty of them. Kuzma Egorov is having a cup of chicory coffee in the reception room, waiting for the sick to sign in. Gleb Glebitch, who hasn’t bathed or combed his hair since the day he was born, is leaning with chest and stomach over the table, swearing and registering patients. Registration is set up like a census: the patients name, fathers name, family name, profession, place of residence, literate or illiterate, age—and then after the checkup, the diagnosis and the medicine issued.
“Damn this pen!” Gleb Glebitch shouts as he scrawls large ugly letters into the big book. “This is supposed to be ink? Its tar, not ink! The council never ceases to amaze me! They expect you to sign up patients, and then they give you two kopecks a year for ink! Next!”
A peasant with a bandaged face and baritone Mikhailo come in.
“Who are you?”
“Ivan Mikulov.”
“Huh? What? Speak Russian!”
“Ivan Mikulov.”
“Ivan Mikulov! I’m not talking to you! Get out! You! Your name!”
Mikhailo smiles.
“Like you don’t know my name!” he says.
“What’s so funny? Damn it! I’ve no time for jokes! Time is money, and these people come here to joke! Your name!”
“Like you don’t know my name! Are you out of your mind?”
“Of course I know your name, but I still have to ask! That’s the protocol... and no, I’m not mad, I don’t hit the bottle like you do. I don’t go in for heavy drinking, thank you very much! Name and father’s name!”
“If you’re so busy, why am I standing here talking to you when you already know all the answers? You’ve known me for five years... and now in the sixth you forget who I am?”
“I haven’t forgotten, it’s protocol! Do you understand? Or don’t you speak Russian? Protocol!”
“Well, if it is protocol, then, whatever! So write: Mikhai- lo Fedotitch Izmuchenko!”
“It’s not Izmuchenko, it’s Izmuchenkov.”
“Fine, Izmuchenkov... whatever, as long as I get cured. You can write Monkeyshine Ivanov for all I care.”
“Your profession.”
“Baritone.”
“Your age?”
“How the hell should I know? I wasn’t baptized, so I have no idea.”
“Forty?”
“Could be, but then again, who knows? Write down whatever you think best.”
Gleb Glebitch looks intently at Mikhailo and writes thir-ty-seven. Then, having given it more thought, he crosses out thirty-seven and writes forty-one.
“Literate?”
“Have you ever heard of a singer who can’t read? Use your brains!”
“In front of others you have to show me a little respect and refrain from shouting at me, do you hear? Next! Who are you, what’s your name?”
“Mikifor Pugolov, from Khaplov.”
“We don’t treat Khaplovites here. Next!”
“Please, have pity, Your Excellency! I had to walk twenty versts!”
“We don’t treat Khaplovites! Next! Who’s next! No smoking here!”
“I’m not smoking, Gleb Glebitch!”
“So what are you holding there?”
“It’s my cut-off finger, Gleb Glebitch!”
“I thought it was a cigar! We don’t treat Khaplovites!
Next!”
Gleb Glebitch finishes registering patients. Kuzma Egorov gulps down his coffee, and is ready to begin. Gleb Glebitch takes on the role of pharmacist and goes into the drug pantry, and Kuzma Egorov takes on the medical role and slips into an oilskin apron.
“Marya Zaplakskina!” Kuzma Egorov calls out from the book.
A little old woman comes in, wrinkled and hunched over as if crushed by fate. She crosses herself and bows with deference to the medicine man.
“Yes! Shut the door! What’s wrong with you?”
“My head, Mr. Doctor.”
“Your whole head, or just half of it?”
“My whole head, Mr. Doctor, the whole of it!”
“Don’t wrap your head up like that! Take that rag off!
Heads must always be cold, legs warm, and your body at middling climate! Any discomfort in the stomach?”
“Oh, lots of it!”
“So... Pull down your lower eyelid. Good, that’s enough. You’re anemic. I’ll give you some pills. Take ten of them morning, noon, and night.”
Kuzma Egorov sits down and writes out the prescription.
Three grams of Liquor ferri from the bottle by the window, as for the one on the shelf, Ivan Yakovlitch forbade us to dispense without his permission, ten pills three times a day for Marya Zaplakskina.
The little old woman asks what to take the pills with, bows, and leaves. Kuzma Egorov throws the prescription through a little window in the wall separating the drug pantry, and calls in the next patient.
“Timofei Stukotey!”
“Present!”
Stukotey walks in, thin and tall with a large head, from a distance resembling a knobbed walking stick.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“My heart, Kuzma Egorov.”
“Where?”
Stukotey points to his stomach.
“I see... how long have you felt this pain?”
“Since Holy Week... The other day I was walking and had to sit down more than ten times... I get chills, Kuzma Egorov... and then fever comes, Kuzma Egorov!”
“Hm... does anything else hurt?”
“To be honest with you, Kuzma Egorov, I hurt all over. But just cure my heart and don’t worry about the rest—I’ll get the old village women to cure that. I’d like you to give me some alcohol or something to stop the illness reaching my heart. These things just go up and up till they reach your heart, and when they get there, when they reach it... yes... then... uh... it snatches at your spine... and then your head feels like a stone... and then you cough!”
“Appetite?”
“None at all...”
Kuzma Egorov walks up to Stukotey and prods him, pressing his fist against his stomach.
“Did that hurt?”
“Oh... oh... uh... yes!”
“How about this?”
“Oooh... unbearable!”
Kuzma Egorov asks him a few more questions, thinks for a while, and then calls Gleb Glebitch. A consultation begins.
“Stick out your tongue!” Gleb Glebitch orders.
The patient opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue.