Cancer Ward (50 page)

Eagle Owl turned his tobacco-brownish eyes on Rusanov. He blinked, as though he couldn't believe the question, and blinked again. Suddenly he opened his beak: “On the contrary.”

And he strode off across the room.

His walk was oddly unnatural. Something must have been pricking or chafing him somewhere. He hobbled away, the flaps of his dressing gown wide apart, bent forward clumsily, reminding one of a large bird whose wings have been unevenly clipped to prevent it from taking off into the air.

24. Transfusion of Blood

Kostoglotov was sitting in a sunny spot on a stone below a garden bench. He was wearing his boots, and his legs were curled uncomfortably underneath him, knees just off the ground. His arms were dangling lifelessly down to the ground. His uncovered head was hanging forward. He was sitting there warming himself, his gray dressing gown open, as unmoving and angular as the gray stone. His head with its cap of black hair was baking hot. The sun was scorching his back as he sat there motionless, soaking in the March warmth, doing nothing and thinking nothing. He could sit blankly like that for a long time, gleaning from the sun's warmth what had not been provided for him earlier in the bread and soup.

From a distance one could not even see his shoulders rising and falling as he breathed, but he had not toppled to one side; somehow he held himself up.

A fat orderly from the main floor came along the path. She was a large woman who had once tried to chase him out of the corridor for contaminating it. She was addicted to sunflower seeds. Now that she was out in the garden she was making the most of her chance to crack a few seeds. She came up to him and called out in her good-natured fishwife's voice, “Hey, Uncle! Can you hear me, Uncle?”

Kostoglotov raised his head and screwed up his face against the sun. Her figure looked distorted through his half-closed eyes.

“Go to the dressings room. Doctor wants you.”

He had sat there so long he was like just another warm stone. The last thing he wanted was to move or get up. He felt like a man who had to go to some job he hated. “What doctor?” he growled.

“The one who wants you, the one who says you're to go!” The orderly raised her voice. “It's not my job to come out and round you all up in the garden. Get inside.”

“But I haven't anything that needs dressing. It can't be me they want,” said Kostoglotov, refusing to go in.

“It's you all right!” The orderly was stuffing sunflower seeds into her mouth in between sentences. “I wouldn't mix you up with anyone, you long-nosed stork. There's no one else like you round here, darling.”

Kostoglotov sighed, straightened his legs and began to get up, groaning and supporting himself with his hands.

The orderly looked at him disapprovingly. “Walk, walk, walk—you should've saved your strength. You should have been lying down.”

“Oh,” sighed Kostoglotov. “We don't know everything before it happens, do we?” And he dragged himself along the garden path. He wasn't wearing his belt now. There was nothing left of his military bearing. His back was all bent.

He walked toward the dressings room, expecting to encounter some new unpleasantness and ready to fight it off, though he didn't know what it might be.

Waiting for him in the dressings room was not Ellya Rafailovna, who had taken Vera Kornilyevna's place for the past ten days, but a plump young woman. She was more than apple-cheeked, her cheeks were positively crimson with health. It was the first time he had seen her.

“What's your name?” she asked right away while he was still in the doorway.

The sun was no longer in Kostoglotov's eyes, but he was still screwing them up and looking as displeased as ever. He was eager to figure out what was going on, to get an idea of the situation, but he was in no hurry to answer questions. Sometimes a man has to hide his name or to lie about it. He didn't yet know what was the right thing to do.

“Well? What's your name?” the plump-armed doctor asked again.

“Kostoglotov,” he confessed reluctantly.

“Where have you been? Get your clothes off quickly. Come here and lie down on the table.”

It was only now that Kostoglotov remembered, saw and understood—all at once. It was a blood transfusion! He had forgotten they did it in the dressings room. First of all he wanted to stick to his former principles: he didn't want anyone else's blood, and he wouldn't give his own. In the second place this pert little woman, who looked as if she had drunk her fill of donors' blood herself, inspired no confidence in him. Vera had gone away. Once more there was a new doctor with different habits and fresh mistakes. What the hell was the use of this merry-go-round? Why wasn't anything permanent?

Sullenly he took off his dressing gown. He didn't know where to hang it—the nurse showed him where—and all the time he was trying to think up a pretext for not giving in. He hung up his dressing gown. He took off his jacket and hung that up. He pushed his boots into the corner. He walked barefoot across the clean linoleum floor and lay down on the high padded table. He still couldn't think of any reason to refuse, but he knew he'd be able to think something up presently.

The transfusion apparatus, rubber tubes and glass pipes with water in one of them, towered above the table on a shining steel support. On the same stand there were several rings for different-sized bottles: half-liter, quarter-liter and one-eighth-liter. The last ring was full. The brownish-colored blood was partly covered by a label to mark the blood group, the donor's name and the date on which it had been taken.

Kostoglotov was used to looking at things he wasn't supposed to look at, so while he was climbing onto the table he read what was written on the label. Instead of laying his head back against the headrest, he announced, “Ah-hah! February 28! Old blood. You can't use that.”

“Who are you to say that?” said the doctor indignantly. “Old blood, new blood, what do you understand about preservation? Blood can be kept over a month.”

Her anger stood out a bright raspberry color against her pink face. Her arms, bare to the elbow, were plump and rosy, but the skin was covered in goose pimples. It was not because of the cold; they were permanent.

For some reason it was these goose pimples that finally convinced Kostoglotov not to give in.

“Roll up your sleeve,” the doctor ordered. “Lower your arm and let it relax.”

This was the second year she had been working on blood transfusions and she could not remember a single patient who had not been suspicious. They all behaved as though theirs was the purest aristocratic blood and they were afraid of it being tainted. Invariably they looked sideways at the blood and claimed the color wasn't right, or the group wasn't right, or that it was too hot or too cold, or that it was congealed. Or else they would ask straight out, “Why are you giving me bad blood?” “Why should it be bad?” “Because it's written on it—‘Do not touch.'” “Yes, that's because it was earmarked for someone else, but he doesn't need it any more.” Even after the patient had let her put the needle in, he would go on muttering to himself, “That means it's not proper quality.” Firmness was the only way of breaking down these stupid suspicions. Furthermore, she was always in a hurry because she had a blood transfusion quota to get through every day in various different places.

Kostoglotov had already seen people with bloody swellings in the clinic—hematomas, they were called—because a vein had been double-punctured or the end of the needle misdirected. He had seen people trembling and feverish after transfusions because the blood had been introduced too hastily. And he had no inclination whatever to entrust himself to those impatient, pink, puffy, goose-pimply arms. His own sluggish, diseased blood, ruined by the X rays, was still more precious to him than any fresh addition. His own blood would sooner or later recover. And if his bad blood made them stop the treatment, so much the better.

“No,” he said grimly, refusing to roll up his sleeve or to let his arm relax. “Your blood's old blood. Anyway, I don't feel well today.”

Of course he knew he shouldn't give two excuses at the same time, only one. But the two came out together.

“We'll check the pressure right away,” said the doctor, quite unabashed. The nurse was already handing her the instrument.

The doctor was a complete newcomer, but the nurse belonged to the clinic. She worked in the dressings room, Oleg had never had dealings with her before. She was no more than a girl, but quite tall, with a dark complexion and a Japanese slant to her eyes. Her hair was piled on top of her head in such a complicated way that no cap or scarf would ever have been able to cover it. Every lock and turret of her tower of hair had been patiently bound with innumerable bandages. She must have come on duty fifteen minutes early to get the bandaging done.

None of this was much use to Oleg, but still he studied her white tiara with interest, trying to imagine what her hair looked like under the bandages. The one in charge here was the doctor, and instead of delaying he ought to be defending himself against her, making objections and trying to talk his way out. Yet here he was losing the rhythm of his arguments by watching the girl with the Japanese slant to her eyes. Like every young girl she embodied some sort of an enigma simply because she was young. She carried it with every step she took and was conscious of it at every turn of her head.

Meanwhile they had wrapped a great black snake round Kostoglotov's arm to squeeze it and to check that he had the right pressure …

He opened his mouth to raise another objection, but just then someone in the doorway called the doctor to go to the telephone. She gave a start and walked off. The nurse began to put the black tubes back into their case. Oleg stayed lying on his back.

“Where does that doctor come from, eh?” he asked.

Every tone in the girl's voice was part of the enigma that surrounded her. She knew this, and when she spoke she seemed to be listening to her own voice with great attention. “From the blood transfusion station,” she said.

“Why did she bring that old stuff, then?” asked Oleg. She was only a girl, but he wanted to test his guest.

“It's not old.” The girl turned her head smoothly and carried the white tiara across the room.

The little girl was quite convinced she knew everything she needed to know.

And maybe she did.

The sun had come round to the side of the building where the dressings room was. It didn't come straight in through the windows, but two of the panes were shining brightly and part of the ceiling was covered by a large patch of light reflected off something shiny. It was very bright and clean, and quiet too.

It was nice being in the room.

A door opened outside Oleg's field of vision. Someone came in, another woman.

She walked in. Her shoes made hardly any noise. Her little heels didn't tap out her identity.

And Oleg guessed.

No one else walked like that. It was she he was missing in the room, she and no one else.

Vega!

Yes, it was she. She walked into his field of vision, walked into it so simply, as though it was hardly any time at all since she'd stepped out of it.

“Where have you been, Vera Kornilyevna?” Oleg was smiling.

He didn't exclaim, he asked the question quietly and happily. And he didn't sit up, even though they hadn't tied him down to the table.

The room became quiet, bright and comfortable—just perfect!

Vega too had her own question to ask him. “Are you rebelling?” She too was smiling.

But his plan to resist had already weakened. He was enjoying himself, lying there on the table; he wouldn't be got off it as easily as that. He answered her, “Me? No, I'm through with rebellions … Where have you been? It's been more than a week.”

She spoke distinctly, as though dictating unusual or new words to someone particularly slow-witted. She stood over him and said, “I've been traveling round setting up oncological stations. Health propaganda, trying to fight cancer.”

“Somewhere out in the wilds?”

“Yes.”

“And now you've finished traveling?”

“For the time being. But what about you? You aren't feeling well?”

What was it in those eyes? Unhurried attentiveness. The first unverified note of alarm. The eyes of a doctor.

But apart from that they were light-brown eyes, like a glass of coffee with two fingers of milk in it. But of course it was years since Oleg had last drunk coffee. Friendly—that's what they were! The eyes of a very old friend.

“Oh no, it's nothing. I've probably got a touch of the sun. I sat there for ages, I almost fell asleep.”

“How
could
you sit in the sun! Haven't you learned during all the time you've been here that it's forbidden, exposing tumors to heat?”

“I thought it was only hot-water bottles.”

“Sun's even more strictly forbidden.”

“You mean I'm not allowed to go to the Black Sea beaches?”

She nodded.

“What a life! I'd better have my exile transferred to Norilsk…”
*
She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them. It was something beyond her power, even beyond her comprehension. “So why have you been unfaithful?”

“What's that?”

“To our agreement. You promised you'd give me blood transfusions yourself, not hand me over to some student.”

“She's not a student; to the contrary, she's a specialist. We have no right to do transfusions when she's here. But she's gone away now.”

“What do you mean—gone?”

“She was sent for.”

What a merry-go-round! A merry-go-round that didn't even protect him from other merry-go-rounds.

“So you'll do it?”

“Yes, I will. But what's all this about old blood?”