The Absolute, page 7
The knocks began to sound:
“Just a moment!” shouted the doctor. And he went on:
“. . . or that the name is distinct, owing to speculation about the figure.”
“No,” he thought, “I don’t mean ‘speculation.’” But the word didn’t come to him.
Knocks.
“. . . or that the frame contains . . .”
“Doctor Propolski!”
“. . . or even that the image formed within our brains . . .”
“Is there anyone there?”
“. . . Reflection . . . ?”
End of inspiration.
“Coming!”
Table and papers flew. Propolski didn’t even bother to pick up, order and number his pages.
“I’m here!” he said, and opened the door. A clinical, professional glance over his patient: “But how have you let yourself go like this? Do you think I’m a magician who spends the whole day reviving stiffs? What the devil have you been up to all this time, my good man?”
“What’s wrong with me?” asked Frantisek.
“I only share my diagnoses with colleagues. It could be a chronic nephritis, an excess of calcium, bronchiectasis, brucellosis, ascites, cancer of the peritoneum, Kruegger-Rand salmonellosis . . . Let’s go to the thing and not the name . . .” said Propolski. “Are you prepared?”
“For what?” Frantisek’s heart raced as he imagined organ removals, mutilations, agonies . . .
“For a trip to the countryside. Great illnesses require great cures, so I’m going to submit you to some of the methods of modern science . . .”
Although the day was abnormally hot, Propolski swathed the patient’s neck in a wool scarf, spun him on his feet and took his arm. As they exited, opening the door of the doctor’s office, a draft of air blew through.
“What are those papers flying around?” asked Frantisek.
“Trash,” said the doctor, happy.
In the street, as they moved at a brisk pace, Propolski took it upon himself to point out the insignificant details of Crasneborsk’s building construction and explain how these trifles affected the habits of people living there (“One day, through a broken window, I could see the very naughty Ecratova bringing her little mouth forward . . .”). From architectural analysis to dissection of neighborhood life: in ten minutes, Frantisek had learned the shameful illnesses, low habits and wretched secrets of half the locals in the census, including their household pets. And the account wasn’t interrupted with praise; Propolski had a corrosive remark prepared to dilute the consistency of every virtue, an implacable scalpel at the ready to slice out and bring to light every festering defect. Uncomfortable, Frantisek had the sense his doctor was supplying him with this collection of memorable anecdotes in the same zealous spirit as a wife preparing a suitcase for her husband about to embark on a long journey. “He’s offering me the charms and variety of the world as seen through his eyes, as if they were the last images I must preserve before shutting my eyes,” he told himself. “But if I were to die at this very moment, the only thing I’d take away is the noise and confusion of his words.”
Overcome by the sadness of one who assumes the position of a dying man, my great-great-grandfather was far from grasping the doctor’s intention. The gentleness of his end echoed in him like a well-tempered chord, and tinted with the quiet russet of twilight what would otherwise have been a golden morning: sunshine, wheat swayed by gentle wind, the chirping of little birds. Propolski jerked the edge of my great-great-grandfather’s bag to make him stop, and with a rather affected gesture of generosity, swept his arm like a fan to offer him the view:
“Someday all this will be yours, musically speaking. Our dear Russian countryside still hasn’t yet found the one to express it . . .”
With a low constant buzz, a greenish-blue fly dances in the air. A second later, as it moves away, a hummingbird gobbles it up. The silence lacks semitones. Graphically, a dead fly is worth only an eighth note on the fragile music paper of life, in any case too saturated with circumstantial notes. “But even flies have children,” thought Frantisek, and shivered: “That will be devoured by spiders.”
“. . . if you feel like it, of course.”
“Feel like eating flies?” Immediately Frantisek realized that Propolski was still following his own fanciful train of thought. Polite, he tried to make an effort to remember what the other had been saying. “Someday . . .” Ah, yes.
“If I feel like composing,” he said. “And have time to do it.”
“Time? Time?” Propolski’s hands fluttered, another proof that in his previous incarnation he’d been a flamenco dancer or master pastry chef. “Time, my dear friend, is composed of a series of unstable units, infinitely reducible or expandable; it’s the will that matters. I guarantee you that in possession of a firm will, every temporal unity dilates like a bubble until it creates the shape of eternity itself—a limited eternity, of course. Do you know how old I am?”
“No,” admitted Frantisek.
“Nor do I, because I’m not the age I look. And who, at this stage in civilization, believes what the calendar says? To sum up: a balanced diet works miracles. Naturally, mine isn’t a religious commentary. Just the opposite. Do you know how to recognize a Jew? You ask, ‘Are you a Jew?’ and the other answers: ‘I reckon so.’ Is this a joke? It is! One of the best I know, and I’ve just invented it. Another version. You ask the same question, and the other answers: ‘Are you?’ Very good, and it’s mine too! But . . . you have a sour face, my friend. Lajt is lebn, laughter is life. Joy, joy!”
“If only I could feel it . . .” murmured my great-great-grandfather.
“What’s the matter, are you against jokes, or do you happen to belong to the tribe of Abraham, and get a little nervous laughing at yourself? Have you got the traditional moishe thin skin? But don’t confuse me, eh. In religious terms, my program for the circumcised isn’t the pogrom, just indifference. Having said that, I am against Christianity, which turns the simplistic story of resurrection into hope, minimizing the value of every true cure and thus discrediting the achievements of my profession. That belief (I refuse to call it religion) is pure psychic blackmail. Who could believe that a sacrifice, the slaughter of a rabbi on the cross, could produce the salvation of all humanity? Eh? What does one thing have to do with another? What is born from the copulation of a donkey and a glass of wormwood? Who could believe that one person can take on the fate of the rest? If you’re killed by a hunter’s shot . . . how would I be guilty?”
“That’s just it, what’s the matter with me?” Frantisek thought of asking, but Propolski had already moved on:
“. . . naturally, if a miraculous formula were the rule and not the exception the story invents, faith would be called medicine, this world would be taken for Paradise, and our name for God would be the Great Hippocrates . . . Anyway, I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. My stomach is rumbling. Have you got an appetite? Nearby we have Krasnaya Matryoshka, the inn of Ludmila Orlova, a friend of mine who whips up the typical and atypical plates of this country like a god. You can enjoy lunch and dinner in an agreeable and intimate environment, a gallery with a view of the surrounding landscape, all included in the price of the meal . . . Give me your arm because the path is on a slope and at my age, I’m no longer what I used to be, something true at every moment, unfortunately . . .”
On a peak, after a goat path, a small hut. Propolski’s eyes lit up. Frantisek turned his head, looking for some sign of what had been promised, which didn’t exist save for some tamped-down land and a slope on which there balanced a few wood tables, straw chairs with and without backs, and wobbly stools made by one-armed carpenters.
“This dive’s a little neglected,” admitted Propolski, carefully accommodating his bulges. “But simple pleasures are the last refuge of sophisticated men.”
Not from the swish of the steps, but from a slight breeze behind him, Frantisek realized that the waiter had appeared.
“Kvass? Beer? Vodka? Water?” said Propolski. “Kvass is going to affect the gallbladder, beer is diuretic but ferments, and you have a delicate stomach; as far as vodka goes, it’s not worth going into its harmful effect on the nervous system in general, and the liver in particular. Without a doubt, water is your best bet, to drain the stones and other calcifications lodged in your kidneys. Water for the gentleman and kvass for me, dorogoy drug. As for the solids . . . is the herring fresh?”
“Just scooped from the barrel,” said the waiter. “Nationality?”
“Norwegian.”
“And civil state: hooked.” Propolski laughed at his own joke. Then, in a sudden transformation meant to surprise and delight his interlocutor, he wrinkled his forehead, bent over like a hunchbacked old beggar lady, and squinted his eyes so his cheeks rose up like a mantle, a raised curtain of astuteness: “Without bones?”
“I pulled them out myself, one by one,” said the waiter, and abstained from adding, “with my teeth.”
“Excellent!” Propolski dropped his imitation of a greasy medieval gargoyle and rubbed his cheeks. “Let’s begin with a little appetizer of selyodka pod shuboy, with the onion cut fine and a well-whisked mayonnaise, accompanied by a little ovoshnoy salad, so long as the cream is of a suitable acidity . . .”
“Don’t worry, doctor. In this heat, milk curdles as soon as it’s left the cow’s udder. The cream will be like yogurt,” said the waiter.
“Good. In that case, add salt. Cut the gherkins thick, and bring the tomato without its peel, which isn’t easily digested”—to Frantisek: “He who doesn’t peel tomatoes spreads hemorrhoids”—to the waiter: “And so that my distinguished friend here doesn’t take me for a xenophobe, let’s fill out the previous small selection of entrées with a salad of French origin, the Olivier, provided the meat is fresh . . .”
“If you gentlemen prick up your ears, in a couple of minutes you’ll hear the shrieks of the pig beheaded by a saber, an inheritance from my grandfather, once stained in Turkish blood and garlanded by the entrails of janissaries.”
“A patriot!” cried out Propolski, and without the slightest caution, he leaned toward my great-great-grandfather and said, in a voice so loud as to make his crude feint of discretion useless: “This one pretends to be a pure white Russian, but with the almond shape of his eyes, the black of those prickly bristles on his head, cheeks and forehead, and his skin’s sulfur tone, he looks more Tartar than Genghis Khan.” Then he sat up straight and, turning back toward the object of his commentary, he added: “A blade with a good edge prevents the meat from coming apart and the bone from shedding mass, both of which damage the flavor and consistency of the final product. At least this is how it was explained to me by a cannibal whom I had the opportunity to visit in the prison of Smolensk. Now, let’s go on with the aperitifs . . . How are the liver and potato pirozhkis?”
“They’re finger-licking good, if you’ll allow me, doctor.”
“Whose fingers?” the joker burst out, and turned back to Frantisek: “How hungry I am, Lord! I’d eat a raw slug, a sick snail. Bring on the pirozhkis, with more garlic than pepper! Or the opposite. And a slew of satiny mushroom soups, the famous solyanka, steaming with fruits of the undergrowth, plus a couple of cold okroshkas. And naturally I expect a complete experience from the classic and irreplaceable little borsch, brimming with grated radish and parsley, good and hot, so the red vapor rises up to our faces like incense. And it wouldn’t be unpleasant to evaluate the consistency of a few gribi v smetane . . . As far as main courses go, you know what I’ll say: veal stroganoff, kotleti po-kievski and tsyplionok tabaka with a lot of chopped parsley, along with the fragrant green stems, to awaken the passions of women! And some shashlik on the grill, the meat well-cooked but the baby onions juicy, and some pelmenis along with a few varenikis, and of course if there are golubtsis, so much the better. Would you also like some antrikot, dorogoy Deliuskin?”
“No. Actually, I doubt . . .”
“You needn’t say another word. I’m your doctor. These days I’m sure your stomach only tolerates curd, yes? Yes. In that case, a minor intestinal infection must be irritating those parts. Let’s set aside water, by definition innocuous, and drink pure vodka, which either kills or cures.”
“Should I get the order started, sir?” asked the waiter.
“Please,” Propolski made a sweeping gesture of contempt: “The word belongs partly to the one who pronounces it, and partly to the one who listens, my dear friend. No doubt this shmutzik has forgotten half of what I ordered, and to cover the lapse will bring us whatever he feels like.” Having said this, he leaned back in his chair; my great-great-grandfather waited with cold satisfaction to witness the scene of the fall. It occurred to him that even at the very moment of collapse, Propolski would find a way to keep spouting poppycock. “Let’s see now . . .” said the doctor and leaned back even further, breathing in deeply. The back legs of his chair floated over seventy degrees from the horizontal ground, his nostrils inhaled the fragrance of an intimate evocation, and then, with a knock of spiritual decisiveness, everything fell back into place and Propolski didn’t take any tumble, except into the understanding of something: “The question is: Will Ludmila Orlova be here or not? What do you think, Frantisek? Will she have forgiven me, or will I have to forgive her (obviously it will be the latter . . .)? Will we have left behind our mutual offenses? Should I choose to greet her, or is it she who ought to appear? Would it be advisable to make a foray through the service entrance at the side, or through the main door? Will Ludmila be alone or not?”
“Who knows,” said my great-great-grandfather.
“True, very true,” approved Propolski. “Heaven isn’t a petticoat lifted for the benefit of prudes. I’ll be back in two minutes, three. Don’t wait up.”
Propolski stood up, straightened his back, sucked in his belly, puffed out his chest, arranged his hair and launched himself toward the side door. My great-great-grandfather saw him disappear, vanishing into the shadow amid pots of soup stock. He thought of taking advantage of the moment to flee, but didn’t. The briefest list of his illnesses kept him anchored to his chair: stabbing pains like blows to his kidneys, dark urine, a confused wild stampede of earthy colors spraying the porcelain of the toilet bowl at his moment of greatest privacy. Not to speak of those moments at night when he was short of breath, his heart seemed to want to burst from his chest and plunge over a cliff, and he felt acidic pinpricks between his ribs . . . “What could Andrei be doing at this moment?” he wondered. “Might he be pinned to his mother’s breast? What is the mental world of a baby? Is it words that sound like music, the memory of tastes and smells? Does he know that I exist?” In a shudder of love, he felt the terrible injustice of distance and the violence of time, which would make his son grow up and at some point tear them apart for eternity. This was the clear pain of a belated father, cradling the fierce and anxious dream of tirelessly loving the yield of his seed before he disappeared. And a murmur came to his ears, different from everything else, like a voice speaking to him.
“No,” it said.
Could it be—my great-great-grandfather asked himself—that despite the aggregate of sufferings that had led him to tolerate this idiot (Propolski), something objective and superhuman was responding? Was this something providing a response to his unrealized prayers, granting him an extension of his given time?
“No . . .” said the voice, and it was the voice of a woman. “No . . . Not here . . . Take . . . It’s not the pla . . . You ungrate . . . No . . . Yes . . . No . . . Yes . . . No . . . Ou . . .”
Sound of pans and other items, something like a bellow from the kitchen—the waiter’s grandfather’s saber slitting the throat of a cow?—and all at once a voice was heard: “Careful with the hot wat . . .” before seconds later, the classic scalded cat shot out the side door with a meow. “Oy vey, Alexei.”
By means of speculation, my great-great-grandfather tried to figure out how he could measure the silence between two moments of time when they formed part of a single unity, desolation. He hadn’t reached any conclusion when first the triumphant yet lightly trembling hand, then the rest of the disheveled Propolski’s body appeared in the doorframe, resting against it for a few seconds. After these seconds of divine immobility, the doctor put on his best conspiratorial face and approached the table, somewhat unkempt from his efforts and doing up his trouser buttons.
“There’s nothing new under the sun, but how many old things there are we don’t fully know!” he sighed, plopping into the chair and confidentially leaning his elbow on the table: “The number of tricks Ludmila has learned in the months we haven’t seen each other! I can’t decide whether I’m happy or getting jealous. How long has it been since I left you?”
“Don’t know; I haven’t got a watch on me,” said my great-great-grandfather.
“Let me be completely honest with you, my dear Frantisek: I have nothing against the idea that pleasure can accumulate and extend with duration, but I swear to you there are intensities directly related to awkwardness, lack and brevity. Do me a favor, check and see there’s no sign left on me of those gateways to the little treasure, a spiral whorl of hair or Venusian curlicue adorning my mustache? There isn’t? I, if I may put it this way, can still smell the dew, still feel on my lips the sly tingle of those ringlets of happiness . . . What’s the matter? You don’t see it, or don’t want to see? I assume that with you, certain topics . . . how can I put it? Ah, the food! All the better. I’m worn out. Ludmila is a true she-vampire. Lickety-split she drained me of the very last drop of . . . Eh, don’t tilt the tray, animal!”
