Our reality was based on the opposite premise—and with some cause. The salve worked well on the burns. Much more significant, the "nasties" themselves, as Alyosha called them, had begun responding to the X-rays: the groin lumps and little ulcers that had appeared on his stomach were growing smaller and less painful. He "felt himself up" and chuckled.
"Listen, buddy, you're still a neophyte in thrills. The little buggers have had enough—behold this.^'
I did look, encouraging myself to smile at the uncooperatively indistinct improvement. The London doctor's extreme pessimism, I told myself, had not accounted for Alyosha's strength. Besides, what did I know? I much preferred following his party line, which was stouter than ever. He was going to recover. His life would still be very full. He'd cut back a bit on activity and eliminate the summer trips to soak up his beloved southern sun: his own research had told him that strong ultraviolet rays were a permanent threat. But this was a blessing in disguise. He was sick of the Black Sea anyway; we'd go to the cooler Baltic coast, with its European touches. And take our best friends. "Everybody paired off according to age: Lady Anastasia with 'little dog' Maxi; you and old me."
Such talk usurped any serious discussion of his infirmity. Even if the damn nuisance did exist, which we sometimes actually doubted, the treatment would tame it for unreserved riddance by the operation—the success of which depended largely on his own
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positive attitude. Nothing so insignificant as "crabs" could get the better of him Some days I even detected gratitude for a salutary change of perspective.
"Kismet's taken pity and done for me what I couldn't myself That jostling in the market every day, the skirt-chasing—never a minute to think. What can be better than sitting in your own place with a mute doorbell? When this is over . . ." He never completed the thought, but it was understood the old life was finished.
Meanwhile, his deterioration proceeded in stages. In late September, we had a fragrant spell of "old woman's summer." He'd been scheduled for preoperation rest in the clinic that week, but was so buoyed by the Vermont-like days that "Luxuriant" gave him the time off, except for the treatments. Still unable to think of him as an ordinary patient, she let us drive her home for the sake of his chitchat.
Then we went to a river beach where he used to spend at least a few hours of most summer days before going south. Hundreds of bathing-suited girls were recruited here, but it was even better just to lie on the sand, cherishing the fall sun that built up under our sweaters. Just the two of us—he still looking much younger than his fifty years—shooting the breeze about his Army and my Navy days, next year's hikes together in the Carpathians. The next day we drove to Arkhangelskoye, the former Golitsin manor on the banks of the same Moscow River twenty-five kilometers from the center—far more beautiful, because simpler and more lyrical than any country estate I'd seen in Europe. The new restaurant for foreign tourists there was uncrowded because of the season, and I got Alyosha to eat a full bowl of borscht.
But he slumped when the weather turned. October arrived wet and raw; his protests were mild when he was told it was time for his complete clinic rest. After a week, he was permitted out for a few hours daily. He said he wanted to drive, but soon asked me to take over, joking about himself in terms of the fairy princess who feels the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty featherbeds. His body had begun to hurt "in general."
We took to making our outing in late afternoon; rush-hour traffic lifted his spirits. In mid-October, we came upon the tanks rehearsing for the Revolution Day parade—the spectacle Ana-
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stasia and I had blocked out with our kiss. On the way back, I had to stop the car for him to be sick.
When the call came, I had to think for a moment. Before my memory clicked, the chief administrator was apologizing for being away, soothing me like a family friend in a confidential matter. And I felt a current passing between the poles of confidence that this man would fix everything and conviction of his phoniness.
Was I listening? Although things were still in flux, they'd advanced enough to justify a meeting. This was no time to make merry, but "the tongue feeds the head": it was an old Russian custom to eat while talking. And important people had indeed agreed to talk to me. He named a time and place.
The evening was stranger than the sum of its parts: a propitious atmosphere, my optimistic side reckoned, in light of the unorthodoxy of the undertaking itself. Something was wrong somewhere—as it had to be in order for Alyosha to be accorded treatment reserved for the headmen. Someone was lying, as people must to get spare parts through back doors. The very air of dissimulation heightened my anticipation—and queasiness. It was too late when I guessed which feeling was right.
The caviar was in little iced pots at each setting. Seven double portions but six diners: early in the meal, the chief administrator returned from a telephone call to announce that the specialist had been detained. We began without him, attacking a spread of hors d'oeuvres stipulated at receptions for official guests of upper-middle importance. The numbers surprised me more than the luxury: the chief administrator had said nothing about bringing so many staff". The dinner was crowned by Georgian specialties, for we were in a private room of the esteemed Aragvi restaurant, observing the Soviet custom of approaching important business through a banquet.
One of the doctors questioned me about Alyosha's medical history; another took notes. They were far from my kind of Russians, but my kind didn't reach high places. Perhaps they weren't doctors in fact, but some sort of medical administrators, conceivably even attached to the mysterious clinic; but as in so many Soviet situations, it seemed wrong to ask. A new West
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German preparation called "DMSO" was mentioned. I had tried so hard to get it in London that dvukhmetilovaya-okissera, the Russian translation, remained in my mind. If this was one of the prizes, it was worth any unease in this inlaid atmosphere.
"Another drop of the white stuff, young man? Come on, you need to relax." I lifted my glass—kept filled by a team of waiters from a bountiful collection of bottles—to join in their toasts to good-fellowship; and even told a few self-conscious stories myself
No action was taken. It was agreed that Alyosha should be given an exhaustive examination, starting from the very beginning. And that we all must meet again soon—no doubt for further screening of me: the five pairs of eyes were recording my moves like television cameras as we honored the Georgian custom for downing the final glass. Maybe it was the old awe of Americans, even at this level. They were all childishly curious about my life in New York.
Outside, they were exaggeratedly solicitous about how I would make my way back to my dormitory. I said I'd take the metro and they climbed into their cars, obviously amused. At the notion of an American on foot while they were chauffeur-driven? I couldn't decide whether they cared about Alyosha or, at bottom, whether they had been shy or supercilious with me.
"He started by selling flour for something called 'French buns,' later rechristened 'Soviet buns' of course. His father was a serf He made his pile by driving himself more than your ordinary muzhik, not necessarily being smarter. Everybody called him 'granny,' the employees too. It confused me for years; I thought that was his name. ..."
We were parked alongside Young Communist Ponds, a leafy residential corner, while Alyosha was reminiscing. He mentioned his family more often now, although seemingly stopping short of the stories he wanted to tell. Feeling this would come, I withheld my questions.
Again that afternoon, his grandfather intrigued him most: a peasant-turned-landlord who had much in common with the type described by Gorky. A shrewd, sometimes imperious man, extremely indulgent to his sole grandchild and principal heir. Alyosha was raised under his roof and domination.