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CHAPTER SIX
I MEET THE DOCTOR
The house was not difficult to find, as the street consisted of a single
house, all the rest existing only in the imagination of the builders of
Zapolarie.
It was getting dark when I knocked on the doctor's door. The windows
lit up and a shadow moved slowly across the blind. No one opened the
door, and after waiting for a while, I quietly opened it myself and
stepped into a clean spacious passage.
'Anybody at home?'
No one answered. A besom stood in the corner and I cleaned the snow
off my high felt boots with it—the snow outside was knee-deep.
'Is there anybody here?'
A ginger kitten sprang out from under the hallstand, stared at me in
fright and fled. Then the doctor appeared in the doorway.
Medically I suppose it would sound improbable, but the fact of the
matter was that in all those years the doctor had not only not aged, but
even managed to look younger. He more than ever now resembled that
lanky, jolly, bearded doctor who had dropped down on me and my sister
in the village that memorable winter.
'Do you want to see me?'
'Yes, Doctor, I'd like you to see a patient,' I said quickly. 'An
interesting case of muteness without deafness. The man can hear
everything but can't say 'mummy'.'
The doctor slowly pushed his glasses up on his forehead.
'I beg your pardon...'
'I said an interesting case,' I went on gravely. 'The man can
pronounce only six words: hen, saddle, box, snow, drink, Abraham.
Patient G., case record described in a journal.'
The doctor came up to me as if he were going to examine my tongue
and ears, but he simply said: 'Sanya!'
We embraced.
'So you've flown in after all!'
'Yes, I flew.'
He put his arms round my shoulder and led me into the dining-room.
A boy of about twelve was standing there who looked very much like the
doctor. He gave me his hand and introduced himself: 'Volodya.'
'Yes, Doctor, I'd like you to see a patient,' I said quickly. 'An
interesting case of muteness without deafness. The man can hear
everything but can't say 'mummy'.'
The doctor slowly pushed his glasses up on his forehead.
'I beg your pardon...'
'I said an interesting case,' I went on gravely. 'The man can
pronounce only six words: hen, saddle, box, snow, drink, Abraham.
Patient G., case record described in a journal.'
The doctor came up to me as if he were going to examine my tongue
and ears, but he simply said: 'Sanya!'
We embraced.
'So you've flown in after all!'
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'Yes, I Hew.'
He put his arms round my shoulder and led me into the dining-room.
A boy of about twelve was standing there who looked very much like the
doctor. He gave me his hand and introduced himself:
'Volodya.'
It was lighter here than in the passage, and the doctor looked me over
again. I suspect he was strongly tempted to have a peek in my ear.
While we were sitting drinking tea the doctor's wife, Anna
Stepanovna, came in. She was a tall, portly woman, who, in her anorak
and reindeer-skin high boots, looked like some Northern god. She was
just as big even when she took off her anorak and boots, and the tall
doctor did not look so tall beside her. She had quite a young face and
altogether she went very well with this clean wooden house with its
yellow floor boards and country-style floor runners. There was
something of old Russia about her, as there was of the town itself,
though it was an entirely new town built only five or six years before.
Afterwards I learned that she was a Pomor. (Pomor—a native of the
White Sea maritime area – Tr.)
'Ivan Ivanovich,' I said, when we had eaten everything on the table
and started on the delicious home-made cloudberry wine, 'do you
remember those letters we wrote to each other when I was in
Leningrad?'
'I do.'
'You wrote me a very interesting letter about that navigating officer,'
I went on, 'and I'd like to know whether you've kept those notebooks of
his.'
'Yes, I have them.'
'Good. Now let me tell you something. It's a fairly long story, but I'm
going to tell it nevertheless. As you know, it was you who once taught
me to speak. So now you have only yourself to blame.'
And I told him everything, beginning with the letters which Aunt
Dasha used to read out to me. About Katya I said only a few words by
way of information. But at this point in my story the doctor, for some
reason, smiled, then quickly assumed a look of gravity.
'He was a very tired man, that navigator,' he said. 'He really died
from fatigue, not gangrene. He had spent too much strength fighting
death and hadn't enough left to live with. That was the impression he
gave.'
'You talked to him?'
'Yes.'
'What about?'
'I think it was about some town down South,' the doctor said.
'Sukhumi, or maybe Baku. It was an obsession with him. Everyone was
talking about the war in those days-it had just started, but he only
talked about Sukhumi, how good it was down there, how warm. I
