The operation went brilliantly. Then another and another. The renown of the young surgeon, “a natural,” took wing in the Kazan province. And that was how he lived, working in clinical surgery for his father and in gynecology (a bit embarrassed about that and not advertising it) for himself.
When, by the way, did he last operate? Volf Karlovich begins pondering. It seems as if it wasn’t long ago at all, but it’s challenging to remember the exact date or reason for the operation. Teaching takes so much time and energy that some events fade from memory. He’ll have to ask Grunya.
Volf Karlovich takes a watering can from the windowsill and waters his palm plant. This is the only thing Grunya isn’t allowed to do in the home. Watering is a special ritual because it soothes the professor. The huge tree with glossy, fleshy leaves standing in a wooden tub on the floor is his exact contemporary. On the day he was born, fifty-five years ago, his father planted a pip in the tub and forgot it. A month later he was amazed to discover a stubborn, stubby sprout. The palm grew and gradually transformed into a tall, powerful tree, though it’s true it has never once bloomed. The day it blossoms will be a holiday for Volf Karlovich.
The door opens wide with a cracking sound and Grunya bursts into the room as noisily and relentlessly as a locomotive flying along the rails. “Good morning,” utter her plump lips, touched with bright lipstick. That means the morning truly is good. Just like the day ahead.
The smell of buckwheat groats with onion fills the room.
Grunya places a silver tray with a small china cup at the edge of the table.
“Please ask the workmen to begin this bedlam of theirs a little later,” Volf Karlovich says with an imploring smile, standing next to the palm. “I want to work in quiet for a while.”
Grunya nods silently, her head piled high with thick, interwoven braids like a ship’s ropes.
“And when…” Volf Karlovich attentively fingers the smooth, cool leaves, “…when will this endless renovation end?”
“Soon,” mutters Grunya in a low voice, heading for the door. “There’s not much longer to wait.”
“And also, Grunya…”
She stops by the door and turns.
“Can you recall? When did I last operate? Somehow it’s slipped my mind.”
Grunya furrows her low brow.
“Why do you need to know?”
Volf Karlovich shrinks under her threatening gaze.
“I feel uncomfortable when I can’t remember such a simple fact of my biography.”
“I’ll go remember it,” says Grunya dryly, nodding decisively, as if she were butting the air in front of herself, and leaves.
Clinking dishes, excited female voices, and children’s crying carry through the slightly open door.
“But I asked for quiet!” says Volf Karlovich, placing his hand to his forehead like a martyr.
Grunya goes to the kitchen to fetch breakfast for herself and Stepan.
Three huge windows without curtains. Clothes lines divide the space into two uneven triangles. Six tables that seem to dance along the walls. Six kerosene cookers on the tables. Six large-bellied cabinets. All told, there are seven rooms in the apartment but Volf Karlovich doesn’t have his own table. Meaning he doesn’t have a kerosene cooker, either.
Women who’ve been passionately discussing something go quiet and disperse to their own corners when they see Grunya. The sizzling of someone’s eggs in a frying pan becomes distinctly audible. Grunya’s hand grabs at the clothes line and carefully shifts the hanging sheets, pushing them back into an accordion.
“I’ve told you not to take up my half,” she says to the ceiling.
“But you don’t do laundry today,” says one of the women, hands on hips, sleeves rolled up.
Grunya silently unties the apron around her waist and hangs it on the freed-up clothes line: Now there’s laundry! Then she opens the sideboard, takes out bread, and locks it again with a key. She picks up a pan of porridge from her kerosene cooker and heads for the door. The women gaze after her. Water bubbles in a basin with boiling laundry. Milk sizzles as it boils over.
It’s dark in the hallway; the gas lamps haven’t been working for ten years now. Cabinets and trunks block a once-wide hallway so you can’t get through. There it is, communal life: darkness, overcrowding, and the smell of fried onions. Things were very different before.
Grunya pushes a door with her mighty rear end and enters her room.
“What took so long?” Stepan is at the table in just an undershirt, using a screwdriver to tinker with a large padlock. Spots of shiny black oil cover his hands.
“He’s trying to recall when he last operated.” Grunya places the pan on the table and pensively scrutinizes the tablecloth’s pattern.
Stepan sets down the screwdriver and picks up the lock. Click! The shackle greedily latches shut. He takes the key lying beside it, inserts it, rotates it with a smooth mechanical sound, and the lock opens obediently.
“It’s ready.” His smile bares smoke-stained teeth dancing crookedly in his mouth.
“He wants to recall when he last operated,” Grunya repeats, louder. “But what if he wants to recall something else?”
“You think it’s that simple? He wants to recall something and then he does? He hasn’t remembered for ten years, and then he wants to, so there you go?” Stepan wipes his hands on his under-shirt, breaks off some bread, and starts chewing.
“How should I know?” Grunya takes a ladle and hurls a gob of thick, steaming porridge on a dish.
“When did you send the letter?” Stepan eats the steaming buckwheat with a large spoon, not burning himself.
“It’s been about a month already.”
“That means they’ll come soon. There’s not much longer to wait. They’re just regular people working there; they need time to look into things.” Stepan reaches his little finger into the depths of his upper jaw for a grain that’s stuck, then wipes his finger on the tablecloth. “It’s our job not to miss them. And there you go!” He stands, shakes the heavy lock in the air, and hangs it on a nail by the door. “They’ll shut the room off and you’ll scoot right over to put a lock over the little paper seal they stick on the door. If anybody asks, say the building manager ordered it.”
Sitting on a stool, Grunya moves her head a little, in agreement.
“The building manager, he won’t change his mind?” She’s looking out from under her brow, watching as Stepan sits back down at the table and resumes working his spoon; his muscles are rolling along his shoulders like mounds.
“Don’t you be worrying.” Stepan smiles broadly and there are dark spots of buckwheat in the grooves between his teeth. “Don’t you be worrying ’bout nothing – I’ll take care of it! Soon you’ll be drinking your coffee in mister professor’s room from mister professor’s cups.”
Her fleshy lips tremble in a flustered smile, then open up a little again, alarmed:
“Even so, I feel sorry for him. He was quite a person…”
Stepan licks his spoon thoroughly. He walks up behind Grunya and places his sinewy hands on her round shoulders. Her marvelous bosom quivers under thin, faded cotton and slowly rises in a deep breath, like yeast dough on a stove.
“What’s to feel sorry about?” Stepan mouths this, whispering in Grunya’s ear. “He was, then he ended.”
There’s a strong male odor coming from Stepan, blended with the smell of buckwheat and machine oil. Grunya tightens her fingers on her knees, creasing the fabric of her dress.