She begins with his head. The doctor has strictly forbidden the commandant to remove the dressing from his head and Ignatov submitted after making a bit of noise; they are no longer winding a little cap on him but making a simple circular dressing instead. Zuleikha places her palms on the warm back of his head, which is overgrown in thick brown stubble with sparks of gray, then unwinds a long bandage, runs a hot damp rag along his pale skin and around fresh, zigzagging burgundy-colored stitches, and wipes it dry. She swabs the stitches with home brew that smells very bitter, then winds a clean bandage over them.
Now it’s time for the arm. Groaning from the effort, she somehow removes an uncooperative shirt from Ignatov’s large, warm body; he doesn’t help, not even with his healthy arm. She sees that his huge bruises are gradually changing color, lightening, and fading. Pale, flawless skin has appeared under them. She remembers Murtaza’s curly-haired belly and hairy shoulders, and his powerful trunk, like a tree’s, unembraceably broad in the shoulders and just as bulky at the waist. Everything is different for Ignatov, who has sharp shoulders pointing in opposite directions and a long torso that’s narrow at the waist. She removes the bandage, bathes the heavy, supple arm, which is stitched substantially in two places (he winces from pain, tolerating it), and all the bruises and abrasions on his chest, ribs, and back. There’s a conspicuous deep old scar under his shoulder blade and she averts her eyes at the sight of it, as if she’s peeked at a secret not intended for her. Dry rag. Home brew. New dressing. Put the shirt back on.
She treats his foot last. She places the basin on the floor by the bed and kneels. She separates the stump from the gauze and bathes it, feeling Ignatov’s heavy gaze on the top of her head. He holds his breath and groans, probably agonizing from fury rather than pain. She remembers washing Murtaza’s feet, if you could call them that: they were fat, broad hooves with the toes splayed in various directions. The black soles of his feet, coarsened from walking on soil, flaked and shed skin in her hands, like tree bark. Ignatov’s feet are long and slender with soles that are dry, smooth, and hard. His toes are probably handsome, too. Zuleikha doesn’t know this; she hasn’t seen his healthy foot.
She knows the rest of his body; she’s memorized it.
Wash thoroughly, wipe, swab, bandage.
Ignatov sits silently the whole time, his face turned to her. It’s as if he’s tracing her scent. She also thinks there’s an unbearable smell of honey. The hot water, the bandages, and even the home brew smell of honey. So does Ignatov’s body. And hair.
She tells herself not to raise her eyes from the floor. Not to touch more than necessary. Not to turn her head. To ball up the soiled gauze, wipe up the floor after herself, and get out, get out of there, launder the dressing rags in the icy Angara water, cool the hands, cheeks, and forehead; clench the jaw, squeeze the eyes shut, summon up in the mind’s eye a black tent that covers the commandant’s headquarters like a densely woven rug, and gallop away at breakneck speed, escape from him on a fast Argamak; heat water again tomorrow and go back up the path, to where Ignatov is already waiting for her, sitting on his tidied bed.
And that’s how they live for the whole remainder of the summer, until autumn.
In September, the doctor allows the dressings to be removed. By then, the sutures have already healed up and lightened. Today she’ll go to the commandant’s for the last time, to remove the bandages from his arm and head. They’ll still leave the dressing on the stump but Ignatov can change it himself now that he has two healthy arms.
She arrives at sunset, as usual. Pressing the heavy, hot basin to her belly, she knocks her foot lightly at the door, which gives way and opens. Zuleikha enters and unburdens herself of the steaming basin, setting it on the table. Ignatov isn’t in bed, though; he’s standing by the windowsill, with his back leaning against the window, and he’s looking right at her from the altitude of his warrior-like height.
“I came to take off your dressings,” Zuleikha says to the basin on the table.
“Then take them off.”
Zuleikha approaches Ignatov. He’s very tall, probably taller than Murtaza. His head, wrapped in a white bandage like a turban, is just under the ceiling.
“I can’t reach.”
“You’ll reach.”
She stands on tiptoe and stretches upward, tipping her head back to see. Her fingers grope for the familiar bristly back of his head and unwind the dressing. It’s hot in the commandant’s headquarters, as if it’s being heated.
“Your fingers are ice cold,” says Ignatov.
His face is very close. She silently unwinds the bandage. After she’s finally managed that, she lets her arms down, walks off to the table, and exhales. She submerges a hand with a piece of clean gauze into scalding water in the basin and walks over to Ignatov again, carrying the scrap of fabric, which is dripping hot water and steaming white.
“But I can’t see anything.”
“Then work by feel.”
She raises the fabric, applies it to the stubbly top of his head, and leads it down the steep back. Hot drops of water flow down her arm, wetting her smock sleeves. Her hands truly are cold, though, despite the hot water.
Ignatov is wearing a shirt over his bandaged arm but has only slipped his healthy arm into a sleeve. He usually removes his belt before Zuleikha’s arrival but today he hasn’t. She fumbles for a long time, agonizing, as she handles the tight brass fastener, and the belt finally clangs, muffled, on the floor. She’s angry and doesn’t pick it up; then she abruptly pulls up the thin fabric of his shirt, stripping it from his large, motionless body.
“You’ll break the other arm,” Ignatov says without smiling. “Stay this time,” he adds without a pause.
As Zuleikha furiously and quickly unwinds the endless long bandages, she feels her hands quickly warm from fury, heating and melting as a heavy, honeyed smell cloaks her, flooding her. Ignatov’s arm is already free of bandages. He cautiously moves his fingers. He lifts a hand and places it on her neck.
“Stay,” he repeats.
She breaks away, picks all the rags off the floor, and grabs the basin. She runs to the door, stumbling and spattering water.
“What about washing the sutures?” he shouts after her.
Zuleikha turns toward him and splashes hot water from the basin at his hairless white chest.
Zuleikha can’t fall asleep that night. She lies, listening to the darkness with her son’s even breathing at her shoulder, the doctor’s light snoring in the corner, and the rumble of the wind in the stove. It’s hot and stuffy.
She stands, greedily swallowing water from a dipper, then tosses a jacket on her shoulders and slips out of the house. It’s a clear night, the stars are out, and the moon is like a lantern. A milky-white steam floats from her mouth.
She goes down to the Angara and looks at the moon’s oily-yellow path, which is dabbled across the waves; she listens to froth murmuring by the shore and a distant yelping across the river. She braids her hair tighter, throws it on her back, and splashes her face with cold water. It’s time to go home.
Along the way she notices a bright red dot on the hill by the commandant’s headquarters. It’s Ignatov smoking. The dot gets bigger, swells with light, and then diminishes, paling. It blinks like a lighthouse. And Zuleikha answers its call.
Ignatov notices her from far away. He stops smoking and the red dot between his fingers goes out for an interminably long time. She stops at the front steps, looks at Ignatov sitting on the stairs, and takes her braids in her hands to unplait one, then the other. His hand suddenly jerks because the cigarette has burned down and scorched his fingers. He stands and goes up into the house, leaning on the crutch.