“I’m at the end of my tether,” Ignatiev said, clutching his hair and staring at his foam-flecked mug.
“You’re an old woman. You’re wallowing in your self-invented suffering.”
“No, I’m not an old woman. And I’m not wallowing. I’m sick and I want to be well.”
“If that’s the case, you should know: the diseased organ has to be amputated. Like an appendix.”
Ignatiev looked up, shocked.
“What do you mean?”
“I just told you.”
“Amputated in what sense?”
“Medically. They do that now.”
His friend looked around, lowered his voice, and explained: there’s an institute near Novoslobodskaya, and they operate on it; of course, it’s still semiofficial for now, it’s done privately, but it’s possible. Of course, you have to make it worth the surgeon’s while. People come out completely renewed. Hadn’t Ignatiev heard about it? It’s very widespread in the West, but it’s still underground here. Has to be done on the sly. Bureaucracy.
Ignatiev listened, stunned.
“But have they at least… experimented on dogs?”
His friend made circles near his ear.
“You’re really nuts. Dogs don’t have it. They have reflexes. Remember Pavlov?”
“Oh, yes.”
Ignatiev thought a bit. “But it’s horrible!”
“There’s nothing horrible about it. The results are excellent: the mental processes become much sharper. Will power increases. All those idiotic, fruitless doubts end forever. Harmony of body and, uh, brain. The intellect beams like a projector. You set your goal, strike without missing, and grab first prize. But I’m not forcing you, you know. If you don’t want treatment, stay sick. With your glum nose. And let your women unplug the phone.”
Ignatiev did not take offense, he shook his head: those women…
“Ignatiev, for your information, what you tell a woman, even if she’s Sophia Loren, is: shoo! Then they’ll respect you. Otherwise, you don’t count.”
“But how can I say that to her? I worship her, I tremble…”
“Right. Tremble. You tremble, I’m going home.”
“Wait! Stay a bit. Let’s have another beer. Listen, have you seen any of these… operated people?”
“You bet.”
“How do they look?”
“How? Like you and me. Better. Everything’s just dandy with them, they’re successful, they laugh at fools like us. I have a pal, we were at college together. He’s become a big shot.”
“Could I have a look at him?”
“A look? Well, all right, I’ll ask. I don’t know if he’d mind. I’ll ask. Although, what’s it to him? I don’t think he’ll refuse. Big deal!”
“What’s his name?”
“N.”
It was pouring. Ignatiev walked through the city in the evening; red and green lights replaced each other, bubbling on the streets. Ignatiev had two kopeks in his hand, to call Anastasia. A Zhiguli drove right through a puddle on purpose, splashing Ignatiev with murky water, splattering his trousers. Things like that happened frequently to Ignatiev. “Don’t worry, I’ll get that operation,” thought Ignatiev, “buy a car, and I’ll splash others. Revenge on the indifferent for humiliation.” He was ashamed of his base thoughts and shook his head. I’m really sick.
He had a long wait at the phone booth. First a young man whispered smiling into the phone. Somebody whispered back a long time, too. The man ahead of Ignatiev, a short, dark man, banged his coin against the glass: have a heart. Then he called. Apparently he had his own Anastasia, but her name was Raisa. The short man wanted to marry her, insisted, shouted, pressed his forehead against the cold telephone.
“What’s the problem?” He couldn’t understand. “Can you please explain what the problem is? What more could you want? Tell me! Just tell me! You’ll be rolling…”—he switched the receiver to his other ear—“You’ll be rolling in clover! Go on. Go on.” He listened a long time, tapping his foot. “Why my whole apartment is covered with rugs. Yeah. Yeah.” He listened a long time, grew bewildered, stared at the phone with its dial tone, left with an angry face, with tears in his eyes, walked into the rain. He didn’t need Ignatiev’s sympathetic smile. Ignatiev crawled into the warm inside of the booth, dialed the magical number, but crawled out with nothing: his long rings found no response, dissolved in the cold rain, in the cold city, beneath the low, cold clouds. And Life whimpered in his chest until morning.
N. received him the next week. A respectable establishment with lots of name plates. Solid, spacious corridors, carpets. A weeping woman came out of his office. Ignatiev and his friend pushed the heavy door. N. was an important man: desk, jacket, the works. Just look, look! A gold pen in his pocket, and look at the pens in the granite slab on his desk. Look at the desk calendars. And a fine cognac behind the square panes of his cupboard—well, well!
His friend explained their visit. He was visibly nervous: even though they had been at college together, all those pens… N. was clear and precise. Get all possible analyses. Chest X rays—profile and frontal. Get transferred to the institute by your local hospital, without making a fuss, put the reason: for tests. And at the institute, go to Dr. Ivanov. Yes, Ivanov. Have one hundred fifty rubles ready in an envelope. That’s basically it. That’s what I did. There may be other ways, I don’t know.
Yes, quick and painless. I’m satisfied.
“So, they cut it out?”
“I’d say, tear it out. Extract it. Clean, hygienic.”
“And afterward… did you see it? After the extraction?”
“What for?”
N. was insulted. Ignatiev’s friend kicked him: indecent questions!
“Well, to know what it was like,” Ignatiev said embarrassedly. “You know, just…”
“Who could possibly be interested in that? Excuse me…” N. lifted the edge of his cuff: a massive gold timepiece was revealed. With an expensive strap. Did you see, did you notice? The audience was over.
“Well, what did you think?” His friend peered into his face as they walked along the embankment. “Are you convinced? What do you think?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s scary.”
Headlights splashed in the black river waves. Depression, his evening girlfriend, was creeping up on him. Peeking out from behind the rain gutter pipe, running across the wet pavement, blending into the crowd, watching constantly, waiting for Ignatiev to be alone. Windows were lighting up, one after another.
“You’re in bad shape, Ignatiev. Decide. It’s worth it.”
“I’m scared. This way I feel bad, the other way I’m scared. I keep thinking, what happens later? What comes after? Death?”
“Life, Ignatiev! Life! A healthy, superior life, not just chicken scratching. A career. Success. Sport. Women. Get rid of complexes and neuroses! Just look at yourself: what are you? A wimp. Coward! Be a man, Ignatiev! A man! That’s what women want. Otherwise, what are you? Just a rag!”
Yes, women. Ignatiev drew Anastasia and grew lonely. He remembered her last summer, leaning toward a mirror, radiant, plump, her reddish hair tossed back, putting on carrot-colored lipstick, her lips in a convenient cosmetic position, talking in spurts, with pauses.
“I doubt. That you’re. A man. Ignatiev. Because men. Are. Decisive. And-by-the-way-change-that-shirt-if-you-have-any-hopes-at-all.” And her red dress burned like a flower.
And Ignatiev was ashamed of his tea-colored short-sleeved silk shirt, which used to belong to his father. It was a good shirt, long-wearing; he had gotten married in it and had welcomed Valerik home from the hospital in it. But if a shirt stands between us and the woman we love, we’ll burn the shirt—even if it’s made of diamonds. And he burned it. And it helped for a short while. And Anastasia loved him. But now she was drinking red wine with others and laughing in one of the lit windows of this enormous city, he didn’t know which one, but he looked for her silhouette in each one. And—not to him, but to others, shifting her shoulders under the lace shawl, on the second, seventh, sixteenth floor—she was saying her shameless words: “Am I really very pretty?”