Jersey knit, Dulin noted. Nina is dying for one. I feel awkward asking her where she got it.
“Good morning, good morning! We’ve been expecting you.” She extended her hand. “Margarita Glebovna. I’m the doctor in charge of the case. Efim Semenovich is waiting for you. Then I’ll show you to the patient.”
A corridor, doors—it looked just like an ordinary hospital ward. Only the corridors were absolutely empty.
Then they came to some heavy double doors adorned with a brass plaque. He was surprised by the spaciousness and the complete sterility of the office. There was not a single piece of paper or a single mote of dust on the sleek tabletop. The gnome, who was sitting behind the desk, was almost affable this time.
“Please, come in, Dmitry Stepanovich.”
Dulin sat on an uncomfortable chair in the middle of the room. A sea of gleaming parquet separated him from the professor. About ten feet of it.
Like an investigator, Dulin thought. He had once found himself sitting in just such a lone chair in the district KGB office. One of his classmates had gotten up to no good, and Dulin was called in for questioning. But the fairly canny functionaries realized very quickly how remote Dulin was from all that business, and let him go.
At various points in his life, Dymshitz had also had to occupy a faraway chair like that one. He didn’t like it; but it had made a deep impression on him.
“So,” Dymshitz said, barely parting his lips. “We have a very interesting patient on our hands.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, a cardboard file appeared. From afar, Dymshitz waved it around invitingly.
See that? He’s taunting me, Dulin thought, annoyed.
“A distinguished man. Was once a brigadier general,” Dymshitz said ponderously, emphasizing every word. “Fought at the front. Wounded twice; a concussion, mind you. He received honors and awards galore. Lost it all. His behavior is aberrant. He’s a drinker … his mind is shot. He suffers from delusions of grandeur. This contains the findings of the outpatient commission. I don’t think they were able to get to the bottom of it. You, however, will—I hope.”
He spoke these last words emphatically, articulating every syllable.
Anxiety gripped Dulin, so deep-seated that a wave of nausea rose up in him.
Why in the world am I so on edge? Dulin asked himself. But there was no time to come up with an answer.
“Here is the case history; and here is the epicrisis. Here are the findings of the commission. In making your diagnosis, you must take into account the role that alcohol plays in the illness, and make an annotation to that effect in the patient’s medical history.” Dymshitz opened the file and began to sort through the pages. “Here is a summary of a previous expert review, which was carried out under outpatient circumstances. There it is. Nineteen sixty-eight. We have our doubts about it. We would like you to examine the patient and then substantiate your opinion. We have reached the provisional conclusion that … Well, have a look at it.”
He approached Dulin, who stood up to take the file from him.
“The opinion of the commission is unfavorable … a number of paranoiac traits. Could these be alcohol-related? You have the last word, you’re the expert. We ourselves have come to a provisional conclusion. In short, examine the patient. Margarita Glebovna!”
Margarita Glebovna seemed to take shape out of thin air.
“Have there been alcoholic episodes?” Dulin asked timidly.
“Hmm. Well, yes,” Dymshitz said vaguely. “At least one unquestionable episode is present: he was under the influence when they arrested him.”
Dymshitz stood up again, a sign that the audience was over.
Margarita Glebovna ushered Dulin out into the corridor.
She wiped the corners of her lips with her fingertips, as though removing extra lipstick.
“You can look over the records here in the doctor’s lounge. Then I’ll show you the patient.”
Dulin opened the file and began studying the papers. Patient: Nichiporuk, Peter Petrovich, sixty-two years old. Wounded twice, one concussion, physical disorders. Who doesn’t have those? Record of a conversation with the psychiatrist … protocol. Dmitry Stepanovich couldn’t believe his eyes: even reading what the general had said was terrifying! Some sort of craziness! “What was your goal in creating an underground organization?” An anti-Soviet—he was a true anti-Soviet! And further: “The organization is called UTL—the Union of True Leninists.” Oh, so it turns out he’s not anti-Soviet, but the opposite … The opposite? What could that be? “What was your salary, Peter Petrovich?” A strange question for a psychiatrist. Oh, I see … I see. Seven hundred a month. Dulin didn’t even know that it was possible for someone to earn that much … And further: “So what was it you were lacking, Peter Petrovich, with a salary like that? The authorities provided you with everything you needed.” Yes, he’s absolutely right. It doesn’t make sense. Really, with money like that, why would you bite the hand that feeds you? Ah, that’s what it was … Czechoslovakia. He didn’t like the Soviet troops marching into Czechoslovakia … He denounced it publicly … slander against the state … now it all makes sense. But why would he tell a psychiatrist things like that? Of what interest would they be to a doctor?
The terms “spiritual brotherhood,” “moral perfection,” “anti-populist power of the Party-ocracy,” and, finally, “the sacred task of socialism,” underlined in red pencil, flickered in front of him. He’s a strange old geezer; not crazy, just eccentric. This was Dulin’s preliminary conclusion. He spent forty minutes poring over the records.
Then they brought in the patient—a tall, thin man in hospital pajamas and felt slippers. He stood close to the door, holding one hand behind his back and hanging his head slightly. Another man, shorter than the patient, came in with him; he sat down on a chair by the door.
“Good day, Peter Petrovich. I’m a psychiatrist, Candidate of Medical Sciences Dmitry Stepanovich Dulin. I would like to examine you and have a chat. Come over here and sit down, please.” Dulin indicated the chair next to him. “How do you feel? What symptoms do you have?”
The former general smiled and looked at Dulin. His gaze was too long, and too attentive.
“Only those corresponding to my age. Nothing in particular to complain about.” He gripped his knees with his large hands, which were covered with red spots.
Dulin asked, “How long have you had psoriasis?”
“From a young age. It began after the war. During the war, people didn’t suffer from ordinary human illnesses. It wasn’t the time or place for that. After the war it all started: heart, stomach, liver.”
He pronounced “liver” with a mocking drawl. Dulin examined Nichiporuk as they had learned to do at the institute: the sclera, the condition of his skin, mucous membranes … poor nutrition, most likely anemia … blood samples … it was anemia, of course …
“What day is it today, Peter Petrovich?” Dulin said quietly.
“A lousy one,” he replied briefly.
“Can you remember the date?” Dulin said.
“Ah,” the patient said, laughing. “You mean like Marchember? Today is July 22, 1972. Exactly thirty-two years and one month after the invasion of the German Fascist troops into the territory of the USSR.”
He seemed to be making fun of him, this former general. No, he was no doubt just trying to be funny—alcoholic wit! Actually, Dulin quite liked him. Dulin placed him on the examining table, palpated his stomach. His liver was enlarged. Let’s assume it’s alcohol-induced fatty degeneration. With significant malnutrition.
“What is your height? Your weight?”