Very windy out, he said. Where’s the sheet?
It’s right here, said Frida, sticking a blank pad in front of his nose. But before you sign, you should know that our policy has changed.
Not for me, he said. I’m in a hurry.
For everybody.
Just the money, miss.
That’s precisely the issue. Our new policy is that this is not a bank. How about a massage or a checkup?
He peered at her uncomprehendingly. They examined each other’s face, finding them odder than they’d imagined. The old man decided to try again. I’ll take the ten rubles, he said, making sure to be as clear as possible.
No.
It’s my right.
A new policy, Frida said desperately.
I’m a veteran. Do you want to see my medals? They were in his pocket. He had eleven total. Three came in little red boxes, another two were in transparent plastic cases so scratched they were no longer transparent, and the rest were loose. Yet they were all, sheltered or not, in equally deplorable condition. He gave them to Frida one by one, and she looked at them carefully as if appraising with knowledge, meanwhile hoping that this might buy her time and calm the man, who must’ve had a very large pocket, maybe even had his pants tailored specifically so that the pocket could contain all his medals. She’d been holding the same medal up to her face for a long time. The others were like large, thin coins or copper stars under triangular, striped bands, but this one, which had been in one of the nontransparent plastic cases, looked like a life float with slits, in the center of which was Stalin’s profile, which seemed like a decapitated head, a very finely shaped decapitated head, with hair like the choppy sea.
At this moment two more seniors hobbled in wielding Medicare cards. One of them was a woman (never a good sign). They began to feed each other’s sense of righteousness and entitlement. Before the two of them even reached Frida’s desk, the man with the medals was reporting that Dr. Gamsky was trying to put one over on them. Apparently, senior citizens, veterans of the Great Patriotic War, survivors of Stalinism, weren’t very flexible. They used the word no freely but didn’t acknowledge it when it was used against them. And evidently they thought that doctors in this country just handed out cash. We will report you, they said. The authorities will find out that Dr. Gamsky got greedy and started keeping our bills for himself. The authorities would reprimand Dr. Gamsky and distribute the bills to their rightful owners, who had big plans for them, you could be sure of that.
Let us see the doctor, said the woman.
For a checkup? Frida asked.
For a word.
I’ll go back and get him, she heard herself say. Cataract stares bored into her back. The bathroom door was just barely ajar, with no light inside. Frida nudged it with her foot. Dr. Gamsky wasn’t inside, but she was, staring at her own glistening face in the mirror. She lifted her shirt — breasts. Farther in, two doors led to examining rooms and one, on the opposite wall, was to Dr. Gamsky’s private office. The examining room at the far end was used as storage, but the first examining room was fully functional, at least in appearance, imparting a very necessary sense of hope. That’s where Frida went, knocking but not waiting for a reply and finding it empty. A wad of used paper towels lay on the floor like squashed vermin. The bariatric footstool was standing on the counter, and a cabinet door hung open. The roll of paper over the exam table didn’t reach the table’s edge. It wasn’t torn or dirty but was no longer crisp. It was just terribly old.
That left one option. Frida knocked on Yuri’s private office. There was no reply. She pressed her ear to the crack — silence. Dr. Gamsky, she called. No answer. She tried the knob, and it gave. What was she afraid of? It was the expression on Dr. Gamsky’s face; unfortunately he was only too capable of mustering shame. But the room, which reeked of ammonia, was empty. She peeked into the storage room, dark and dense. This confirmed her suspicion: a hidden door. All this time she’d been wondering what Yuri was doing back there, and actually he hadn’t been back there at all.
More seniors had gathered. This qualified as civil commotion. These people had nothing to get back to. They could easily stay in the office all day. Perhaps the only thing more valuable than the ten-dollar bill was the opportunity to band together when it was denied them.
The doctor isn’t feeling well right now, said Frida. No one seemed to register this inane announcement.
Nu, said the woman. Where is he?
He said he’d be here in a minute, said Frida. But I’ll go see what’s taking so long. She grabbed her purse and went in search of the hidden door. It couldn’t be very hard to find, as it had to be large enough for Dr. Gamsky to fit through. Her cheeks were burning. She must’ve been crying. She entered the office and looked around. A shelf of medical textbooks, framed diplomas, a desk stacked high with papers, manila folders, binder clips, a coffee-stained mug — perhaps everything was fine after all. But if everything were fine, she wouldn’t be putting her hand on the wall and walking the length of the room, feeling for disturbances that might indicate a hidden passageway. In order to pass behind the desk, she pushed in the chair, but it wouldn’t go. She pushed harder. A groan issued from beneath. Frida’s heart thumped, and a bubble of icy fluid punctured in her chest, releasing the substance in all directions. She managed to squat down to inspect. At first she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Tufts of salt-and-pepper hair, knuckles, cuff links. Dr. Gamsky was folded tightly into the space under his desk. His knees were drawn into his chest, spine twisted and neck bent so that his head rested on his left shoulder, the one pressed up against the back of the desk. A half-empty bottle stood beside his usable hand.
I’m sorry to bother you, said Frida. It’s just that the situation out there isn’t good.
They’ve come for me, he said with resignation.
Patients came, said Frida, trying to espy in Yuri’s face the barest glimmer of relief.
Those geezers? What else is new? They come here like it’s the toilet.
They’re demanding the money.
What else do they have to live for?
And they’re very upset I’m not giving it to them.
Yuri’s chin stirred. Well, why aren’t you?
Because you said… Oh, never mind! As she stood up, her calves tingled from scrutiny. She pretended to inspect the notebook on his desk in order to prolong the moment, letting her legs be slathered in admiration. As she took a step away, something tenderly grazed the back of her ankle, and she got the distinct sense that this something was Dr. Gamsky’s lips, that mix of smoothness and bristle.
Wait, Frida, he said when she turned the knob.
She hurried back, squatted down again, steadying herself with a hand on the seat of his chair. She checked in with herself and knew she was prepared for whatever happened. He had that look on his face now, the one she was afraid of. Was it shame at his intentions, natural embarrassment at the situation they had found themselves in, or just an attempt at concentration? That look would’ve been fine on anybody else, but Dr. Gamsky was too manly for facial expressions. Yet he insisted on having them. She wanted to assure him that there was no need for shame or embarrassment. Suddenly dizzy, she toppled softly onto the carpeted floor. Her legs folded under her, calves pressed into the small rubber wheels of the swivel chair. Her fingers were tugging at the carpet’s individual fibers, or the fibers were tugging on her fingers. Her hair seemed to be everywhere, tousled, like in the bedroom of a French film. Dr. Gamsky was looking at her unwaveringly. Overwhelmed by the certainty that they were about to kiss, that it was only right, Frida leaned in. Dr. Gamsky’s hand, which was the size of a German shepherd’s head, shot outward. Frida didn’t flinch. The hand scratched Dr. Gamsky’s nose.