Somehow, it is a relief for me that she remained Voronina.
Do I want to see her?
FRIDAY
Very much.
I very much want to see her.
SATURDAY
I rose early in the morning, had some coffee. I found the number for City Hospital Number 87 in the telephone directory. I called. As I had expected, the hospital is far away, on the outskirts – I cannot reach it on my own. I ordered a taxi. I sensed that I would go to see her today but told Geiger nothing. I needed to go there alone.
I got in the car and we headed south. It was nice to ride through the old part of the city, but my soul began pining when we reached Kupchino. It is not a Petersburg-like district. We stopped at the hospitaclass="underline" it is squalid, befitting the district. Dilapidated. Cracks in the windows are stuck together with strips of paper; there is plywood in some places instead of glass. Old buildings are not as dispiriting as this, even in the same condition: even those not cared for have a dignity. The new ones are flimsy and inauthentic; it is immediately visible that they are shams.
Two people in white lab coats were smoking under the canopy, spitting thickly on the ground. Two camels. I walked past them to the information window. There was an old woman there with her glasses on a cord.
‘What room is Anastasia Sergeyevna Voronina in?’
She put on her glasses. Wetting her finger with saliva, she paged through something. I had forgotten to ask on the telephone when visiting hours are here. And about indoor shoes and about a gown.
‘Fourth floor, room 407.’
‘When are visiting hours?’
‘Visit when you like,’ she said, not looking up.
She didn’t open her lips.
‘So how does she look now?’
‘Who?’
‘Voronina.’
She didn’t answer. It would have been better for me to ask about a gown. Or about the shoes.
‘By the way, there are two camels standing out there.’ I pointed at the entrance. ‘You should look at the entrance, not at me.’
I walked up the stairs (the elevator wasn’t working) and only every other light was lit. I nearly fell into artificial plants in the half-darkness. I had run into these mass-produced objects several times already in my new life, primarily in government-run institutions. Their beauty is dubious for my taste, though they don’t require light. They most likely require the opposite: the less light, the better they look. It is strange that I was capable of thinking about them in this condition. It was from excitement.
Everything I am writing now is from excitement. From my flickering consciousness that seems not yet fully thawed. I don’t know why I wrote all this: after all, I did not go anywhere today. I found the telephone number, address, and even a photograph of the hospital in the directory but I did not go. I only called and found out the room number: 407.I did not have enough resolve to go.
SUNDAY
The day began the same as yesterday. I rose early in the morning, had some coffee. I ordered a taxi and consequently went after all. Hospital, windows stuck together, two smokers by the entrance – everything was just like the photograph. And the witch at Information, her glasses on a cord.
Here it is, fourth floor. I walk along the corridor, reading rhombuses with the room numbers: sometimes they’re in place, sometimes they’re broken off. The numeral 407 is penciled on a door. I knock. My heart is knocking, too. From inside (not immediately) someone suggests entering – the voice is female, coarse, and almost male. I press on the door: it’s jammed. The same voice suggests pressing harder. The door opens, shaking spasmodically. And this all shakes me a little even now, as I write.
I enter and the sharp smell of urine hits my nose. Eight beds in two rows. Eight old women: seven are lying, one is half-sitting, the one by the window. She’s apparently the one who answered. I attempt to guess which of them is Anastasia.
‘Who are you here to see?’ asks the sitting woman.
Yes, she had answered: a rare voice. I can only imagine having a voice like that nearby for an entire life…
‘Anastasia Sergeyevna.’
‘Voronina? And who are you to her, her grandson? Or just a relative?’
A good question; the main thing is that there is a choice. I look at the questioner. Her face is not visible against the light, there is only a voice.
‘Just a relative.’
The old women begin moving around in their beds; some of them lift themselves on their elbows a little. A tin mug falls from one of the bedside tables; I pick it up. On the rim of the mug, where lips touched it, is dried-up chewed bread.
‘Well, if you’re a relative, then take care of her,’ advises the voice. ‘The old woman’s been lying in shit for two days and nobody will come.’ And she unexpectedly reduces her volume: ‘Nobody wants to wash old women.’
Nobody does. My eyes are becoming accustomed to the lighting and I am beginning to distinguish the speaker’s facial features. There is no fierceness in them. A rural snub nose with tiers of wrinkles extending from it. Gray hair coming out from under a headscarf.
‘Katya, don’t you cause a fuss,’ sounds from one of the beds. ‘A person has come here for the first time, and you’re attacking him.’
‘And where was he before?’ wonders Katya.
‘Wherever he was, he’s not there now, [This, I notice, is exactly right.]’ Did her granddaughter come yesterday? She did. And washing? A nurse could do that, by the way.’
Katya chews at her lips, as if she’s weighing that possibility, too.
‘You can wait until kingdom come for our nurse here.’ Her voice sounds almost conciliatory. ‘She won’t lift a finger without a hundred note. Probably boozing it up in the staff room.’
And I still have no idea which one here is Anastasia. They are not pointing her out to me because they think I know her. Finally, the woman who has been talking with Katya waves a hand in the direction of one of the beds.
‘Don’t listen to all of us. Go to your grandmother.’ I understand where I need to go, and I take the first step. Essentially, I knew this from the first second but was afraid of confirmation. Now that the confirmation has been received, I go. I examine the bedside table without looking up at Anastasia. Bottle of mineral water, tube of lotion, glass with dentures. These are Anastasia’s dentures.
Anastasia. She is lying with her eyes closed. Mouth half-open. Breathing heavily. Sometimes bubbles form when she breathes and burst right away. Her left hand is on the blanket, clenched in a fist, as if threatening someone. Whom? The Bolsheviks who killed her father and sank me into liquid nitrogen? Life in general? I take that hand by the wrist and bring it to my lips. I did that so many times, barely touching, nearly imperceptibly. Studying every line at the bend of the hand, sensing the invisible hairs. And now the hand is different, completely different. Wet from my tears. The fist unclenches slowly: it is too late to threaten. And there is nobody to threaten. ‘Maybe you could… wash her after all.’ That’s Katya.
‘I’m ready. I just don’t know how it’s done…’ ‘None of them know at first. We’ll give you hints.’ She would make it even on the Solovetsky Islands. They order me to pull an oilcloth out from under the mattress and unfold it. After taking Anastasia by the shoulder, I shift her on her side (her flesh is light) and put the oilcloth underneath. Anastasia is in a disposable diaper (I think that’s what it’s called?), the same kind I’ve seen babies wearing on television.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Katya commands. ‘Everything becomes habit.’
I am not afraid. I recall how I dreamt of seeing Anastasia’s nakedness. I cast a glance at her face. Anastasia’s eyes open slightly but there is no awareness in them. That is even better.