Cancer Ward (31 page)

The Rusanovs loved the People, their great People. They served the People and were ready to give their lives for the People.

But as the years went by they found themselves less and less able to tolerate actual human beings, those obstinate creatures who were always resistant, refusing to do what they were told and, besides, demanding something for themselves.

So they became wary of people who were badly dressed, impudent, or even a bit drunk. You came across people like that in suburban trains, at beer-kiosks, at bus and railway stations. A badly dressed man was always dangerous because it meant he lacked a proper sense of responsibility. He'd also probably be a man with little to lose, otherwise he'd be decently dressed. Of course, the police and the law were there to protect Rusanov against badly dressed men, only this protection would inevitably arrive too late. It would punish the criminal after the event Up against him on his own. Pavel Nikolayevich was in fact defenseless—neither his position nor his past services could in any way protect him; the lout might insult him for no reason, hurl obscenities at him, bash his face in just for the fun of it, spoil his suit, or even take it away by force.

So although there was nothing in the world Rusanov feared, he did begin to feel a totally normal, justifiable fear of dissolute, half-drunk men, or, to be more precise, of a fist striking him a direct blow in the face.

This was why the news of Rodichev's return had upset him so much at first: Rusanov imagined that the first thing Rodichev would do would be to punch him in the face. He was not afraid of Rodichev or Guzun taking legal action: legally they could probably never get at him; there was nothing they could or should have against him. But what if they were still big, strong, healthy men who might take it into their heads, vulgarly speaking, to poke him in the snout?

As a “new man,” intelligent and resolute, Pavel Nikolayevich had to overcome and stifle this fear.

Well, for a start, it might all be pure imagination, and anyway, Rodichev might not even exist any more. God forbid he should ever return. All these stories about people “returning” might be mere inventions. Pavel Nikolayevich was in constant touch with important events, yet so far he had no foreboding that life might assume a new character.

In the second place, even if Rodichev had come back, he wouldn't come here, he'd have gone to K——. Besides, he'd have other things to do than go looking for Rusanov. He'd have to watch his step so as not to be thrown out of K—— yet again. Pavel Nikolayevich's first involuntary fright had been quite unnecessary after all.

And even if he did start looking, it would take him some time to pick up the trail leading here. The train journey took three days, across eight provinces. And even when he arrived, he'd go first to Rusanov's home, rather than the hospital. Pavel Nikolayevich felt he was quite safe so long as he was in hospital.

Safe! That's a joke! A tumor like this, and you call it safe!…

Anyway, with a time of such uncertainty ahead, a man might as well die. Better to die than live in fear of every man who returned. What madness it was to let them come back! Why did they do it? They'd grown used to being where they were, they were resigned to it—why let them come back here and upset people's lives?

It looked by now as if Pavel Nikolayevich had at last burned himself out and was ready for sleep. He really ought to try to get some sleep.

But he needed to go down the corridor. This was the most unpleasant procedure in the clinic.

Moving his body very carefully, he turned over. The tumor was squatting on his neck, pressing against him like an iron fist. He clambered out of the bed with its sagging mattress, put on his pajamas, slippers and spectacles and set off, shuffling quietly across the room.

Alert at her table, Maria, severe and swarthy, turned watchfully toward him as he shuffled along.

At the top of the staircase a hefty, long-armed, long-legged Greek, newly arrived, was writhing and groaning in agony on his bed. He couldn't lie down. He was sitting up as if the bed were too small for him. He followed Pavel Nikolayevich with his sleepless, horror-stricken eyes.

On the middle landing a small, yellow-looking man, his hair still neatly brushed, was half sitting in his bed, propped up by two extra pillows and breathing oxygen out of what looked like a waterproof canvas container. On his bedside table he had oranges, cakes, Turkish delight and a bottle of yoghurt; he was quite indifferent to them all—he couldn't get enough clean, ordinary air, which cost absolutely nothing, into his lungs.

In the lower corridor there were more beds with patients in them. Some of them were asleep. An Oriental-looking old woman with a disheveled mane of hair was sprawled across her pillow in agony.

Next, he walked past a small room where all those due for enemas, whoever they might be, were placed on the same short, none-too-clean couch.

Finally, drawing in his breath and doing his best to hold it, Pavel Nikolayevich entered the lavatory. It was a lavatory without cubicles or even proper pedestals, and it made him feel specially vulnerable and humbled in the dust. The orderlies cleaned the place up several times every day, but they never managed to keep pace with it. There were always fresh signs of vomit, blood or other filth. Of course the lavatory was used by savages, unaccustomed to life's comforts, and by patients who were on their last legs. He would have to go to the senior doctor and get permission to use the doctors' lavatory.

But Pavel Nikolayevich's heart was only half in this highly practical plan.

He set off again past the enema room, past the disheveled Kazakh woman and the patients sleeping in the corridor.

Then past the condemned man with the oxygen bag.

On the top landing the Greek wheezed at him in a ghastly whisper, “Hey, brother, listen! Do they cure everyone here? Or do some die?”

Rusanov looked around at him wildly, and the gesture brought him up sharp: he realized that he could no longer turn his head by itself. His whole body, like Yefrem's, had to turn with it. The terrible thing stuck to his neck was pressing up against his chin and down onto his collarbone.

He hurried back to his own bed.

How could he think about anything else? How could he be afraid of anyone else? Who could he rely on?…

His fate lay there, between his chin and his collarbone.

There justice was being done.

And in answer to this justice he could summon no influential friend, no past services, no defense.

15. To Each Man His Own

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Oh, that's quite old.”

“What about you?”

“I'm sixteen. Just think what it's like to lose a leg at sixteen.”

“Where do they want to cut it off?”

“At the knee. That's for sure, they never take off any less. I've noticed that. Usually they take off a bit extra. So that's how it is, there'll be a stump hanging down.…”

“You can get an artificial leg. What are you going to do with your life?”

“My dream is to get into university.”

“What faculty?”

“Either philology or history.”

“Will you pass the entrance exam?”

“I think so. I don't get nervous. I'm pretty cool.”

“That's good. Having an artificial leg won't be a disadvantage there. You'll be able to work and study—more intensively than the others, in fact. You'll make a better scholar.”

“What about life—life in general?”

“You mean, apart from studying? What do you mean, life in general?”

“Well, you know.”

“You mean marriage?”

“Well, that too.”

“You'll find someone. Every tree can get a bird to perch in it. Anyway, what's the alternative?”

“What d'you mean?”

“It's either your leg or your life, isn't it?”

“Perhaps, yes. But it might get better on its own.”

“No, Dyomka, bridges aren't built on perhapses. Perhaps doesn't lead anywhere, only to more perhapses. You can't bank on that sort of luck, it's unreasonable. Have they told you what your tumor's called?”

“It's one of those SA ones.”

“That means sarcoma. You'll have to have an operation.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. If they came and told me they wanted to cut off one of my legs, I'd let them do it. Even though the whole point of my life is getting about, on foot and on horseback. Cars are no use where I come from.”

“Don't they want to operate on you now?”

“No.”

“Does that mean you've missed your chance?”

“How can I put it? I haven't exactly missed my chance … or perhaps I have in a way. I was completely wrapped up in my field-work. I should have come in here three months ago, but I didn't want to give it up. All the walking and riding made it worse. It was always being rubbed, it got wet, and then pus started coming out. Once the pus is out you feel better, you want to get back to work again. I thought, I'll wait a bit longer. It's still rubbing so much I feel like cutting off one of my trouser legs or sitting about naked.”

“Don't they bandage it?”

“No.”

“Can I see it?”

“Take a look.”

“O-o-o-gh! What a…! It's all black.”

“It's been black ever since I was born. I had a big birthmark here, but you can see it's degenerated.”

“What's that there?”

“They're three fistulas that remained after each of the three times it discharged. You see, Dyomka, my tumor's quite different from yours. Mine's a melanoblastoma, a real merciless bastard. As a rule, it's eight months and you've had it.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read a book about it before I came. It was only after I read it that I faced up to what I'd got. But the point is that even if I'd come earlier they still wouldn't have been able to operate. A melanoblastoma is such a swine you only have to touch it with a knife and it produces secondaries. You see, it wants to live too, in its way. Then, because I waited those months, this suddenly appeared in my groin.”

“What does Ludmila Afanasyevna say? She saw you on Saturday, didn't she?”

“She says they're going to try to get hold of some colloidal gold. If they do, they may be able to stop it in my groin and then smother the leg with X rays. That way they'll postpone…”

“They'll cure you?”

“No, Dyomka, it's far too late to cure me. Nobody's cured of a melanoblastoma. There just aren't any instances of recovery. In my case, cutting off a leg wouldn't be enough, and where could they cut higher up? The question is now, how to postpone it, and how much time do I stand to gain—months or years?”

“That is … You mean you're going?…”

“Yes, that's what I mean. I've accepted it, Dyomka. But living longer doesn't mean having more life. The real question is, what will I have time to achieve? I must have time to achieve something on this earth. I need three years. If they give me three years, I won't ask more than that. And I don't mean three years lying in the clinic, I mean three years in the field.”

Vadim Zatsyrko and Dyomka were talking quite quietly, sitting on Vadim's bed by the window. Only Yefrem, in the next bed, was within earshot, but ever since morning he had been lying there like a block of wood, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. Possibly Rusanov could hear too. Several times he had looked amicably at Zatsyrko.

“What do you think you'll have time to do?” asked Dyomka, frowning.

“Well, try to understand. I'm testing a new, controversial idea. The great scientists in Moscow seem to doubt whether there's anything in it. My theory is that you can discover deposits of polymetallic ore by looking for radioactive water. Radioactive—you know what that means? There are hundreds of different indications, but you can prove or disprove anything you want on paper. However, I feel, that's exactly it, I
feel
I can prove it in practice. It means I have to be out in the field all the time and actually
find
some ore, using this water and nothing else as a guide. Preferably I should do it more than once. But the work! While you're on the job you have to waste your strength on all sorts of trivial things. For example, there's no vacuum pump, only a centrifugal one, and to start it you have to suck out the air. How? By mouth! That means I get mouthfuls of radioactive water. We use it as drinking water, anyway. The Kirghiz workers say, ‘Our fathers never drank here, so we won't either.' But we Russians drink it. Why should I be afraid of radioactivity when I've got a melanoblastoma? I'm the obvious one for this work.”

“More fool you!” Yefrem's expressionless, rasping voice broke in on their conversation. He didn't even turn his head. Clearly, he'd been listening to every word. “If you're dying, what do you need geology for? It won't do you any good. You'd be better off thinking about what men live by.”

Vadim held his leg in one position, but he turned his head freely on its supple neck. His black, vivid eyes flashed and his soft lips trembled slightly before he replied, with no trace of offense, “I know the answer to that already. People live by creative work. It helps a lot. You don't even have to eat or drink!”

He was gently knocking his fluted plastic mechanical pencil between his teeth, watching to see how far they understood him.

“You read this little book here and you'll see, you'll be surprised.” Again Podduyev spoke without moving his body or looking at Zatsyrko. He tapped one rough fingernail against the little blue book in his hand.

“I've already gone through it.” Vadim's answer came back swiftly. “It doesn't belong to our age. It's too shapeless, not energetic enough. What we say is ‘Work harder! And not just for your own profit.' That's all there is to it.”