The Kukotsky Enigma: A Novel

5

SKINHEAD WAS HAVING A DIFFICULT TIME NOW. MANIKIN barely moved, stopping dead in its tracks at times, falling asleep on its feet, and then Skinhead would have to fling it over his shoulder like a sack and haul it on his back, which cost him no small effort. The Judean offered to help several times, but Skinhead shook his spherical head with its few short bristles and harrumphed him off.

“It seems to me that you did your share of hauling back then.” And he lugged on. Their rests became more frequent, apparently because of Manikin. After bathing in the sun for a while, it revived a bit and even walked on its own for a time. Once, when they were alongside each other during a rest, the Newling, taking a closer look at it, realized that its mouth was not cut properly and had only the folds of lips, its ears also were not drawn properly, its rudimentary eyebrows were barely traced on, and the eyes beneath them were weak-sighted. The Judean caught her gaze and said, as if offering advice: “Well, it looks like we’re not going to be able to make it presentable on our own. We’ll have to get help from above.”

Skinhead, who stood nearby—at this juncture the Newling understood that the Judean had been talking to him, not to her—kneeled in front of Manikin, touched the back of its wrist, put two thick fingers to its neck, and attempted to raise one of its eyelids, which were stuck shut, but could not.

“Yes, probably,” Skinhead agreed thoroughly morosely.

“We’ll have to take a detour.” The Judean drew a sweeping sign in the air.

They set off, as always, in their boring line through the boring sand, and they walked, as always, for a long time, always in the same—it seemed—uncertain direction; only the air seemed fresher, and it grew cooler, and the hills became higher, and the sand at first was harder and then replaced entirely by brown earth where here and there green plants poked through—like wormwood, nothing special, but the travelers were happy to see even this sickly greenery. The hills grew into foothills.

When it had become quite cold, a structure resembling a large shed suddenly appeared over one of the rises. In their amazement they all stopped in their tracks. It had been so long since they had last seen a human dwelling that a marble palace could not have impressed them more.

The Judean walked confidently ahead, while Skinhead had long ago fallen behind, lugging the heavy Manikin for the larger part of their journey. Even Limper had overtaken him.

Closer up, the shed more resembled some antiquated structure. The doors were high and hinged at both sides, like a gate, with timber-framing along the top. Entering, they were surprised once again: the enormous space resembled a dormitory, a sleeping area for schoolchildren, or a well-appointed barracks, with dozens of beds instead of barracks’ bunks, standing headboard to the wall and covered with something white—either coarse sheets or thin blankets. The left wall was occupied by a huge stove with bluish-white ceramic tiles, obviously of Dutch origin, while the middle of the room was entirely taken up by a wooden table. In the left wall were two doors: one with a sign that read 00, while the other displayed a showerhead dripping dotted-line streams of water . . .

With amazement Newling studied the universally understood door signs. Only now it dawned on her that it had been a long time since she had washed or visited a toilet, even to urinate. How could it be that she had completely forgotten about these basic human needs? She immediately felt that her bladder was full and pushed the door of the WC. There was a white toilet, a sink, and a terry-cloth towel hanging on a metal hook. It also smelled strongly of soap.

“How many things have I forgotten!” she thought with horror and sat down on the toilet. The whole procedure went off without a hitch, and there was even an unopened roll of toilet paper at her service. She flushed, went over to the sink, and searched with her eyes for a mirror. There was none. But there should be one. She turned the old-fashioned brass handle, and water flowed out. She splashed her hands in the hard stream. The water was so strong and so heavy, and the sensation of the water was so powerful that tears trickled from Newling’s eyes.

“How could I have gone all this time and never thought of water or of the fact that I’m a human being, who requires a toilet from time to time? Or about water, which is absolutely essential, yet, it turns out, one can do without? It never even occurred to me!”

She scooped a handful of water. It seemed heavy. She lowered her face into it: bliss . . . She splashed herself again and again. How good it would be to take a shower . . .

Newling left the lavatory. Skinhead had already laid out Manikin on one of the beds, and it moved its hands slightly. The others stood at the table, obviously confused. The Judean said something to them that she did not hear at first.

“. . . we’ll spend the night. We haven’t slept for a long time, and today we’re going to sleep here.”

Newling looked around: now she wanted to go to the shower room. But there was no shower room anymore. In addition, the WC was gone too. Now in the place where there had been two doors there was nothing at all. An empty wall. She sat down in confusion on the nearest bed.

“I have to ask. I will definitely ask.” Before she managed to think this strange incident through, the Judean approached and whispered in her ear.

“I’ll explain later. It was an oversight on the part of the administration. There’s not supposed to be a shower or a toilet in here. A slight mess-up.” He smiled his thin-lipped smile.

Why is his face so familiar? Maybe because we’ve been walking together for so long . . . She felt that she was falling asleep. No sooner had she stretched out on the firm white bed than everything disappeared. “How nice” was the last thing she managed to think . . .

In the place where she was there were talking half-plants, half-people, and a fascinating plot was unraveling, of which she seemed to be the star. Carefully laid out on a large white canvas, she felt as if she herself were part of that canvas, and light hands were doing something with her, as if embroidering her—whatever it was, she felt the pricks of tiny needles, and the pricking was pleasant. She figured out in her sleep that what was happening with her had some connection to her life and death, but that there was something much more important behind it all, and it was connected with an incipient revelation of some ultimate truth more important than life itself.

She opened her eyes. Her back, legs, arms, and the back of her head felt hard and white. Her body felt good: it delighted in the bones of her arms hidden deep inside their muscles, in the bare heels of her feet touching against the sheet. Her heart delighted on its own, as did her lungs, and the happiest point in her entire body was the spot just above her stomach. She felt even better than she had near the campfire. But she did not want to open her eyes. Familiar male voices were carrying on an unhurried conversation that had begun long ago, at some point beyond the reaches of her memory.

“I’m completely unprepared,” said one. That was Skinhead. “I don’t know anything. What’s more, something unpredictable keeps happening all the time.”

“Nothing is predictable here. It’s always an improvisation,” answered the Judean. “When we dragged Manikin here, I didn’t know that everyone was going to get worked on. Everyone’s moved to the next level. Each to his own.”

“Are you sure you have to leave?”

“Yes, I’ve finished everything here.”

“Right away?” Skinhead was disappointed.

“In a little bit.” There was the sound of glass ringing, as if glasses had been clinked.

“All right. So as the curtain drops tell me everything about Ilya Iosifovich,” Skinhead asked.

The Judean chuckled.

“Doctor, you’re a smart man and you made the diagnosis yourself long ago: ‘a good head on a fool’s shoulders.’”

“I’ve never been interested in climbing administrative ladders. You know that’s not my sin. But why are so many things open to you? I say that without malice or envy.”

“I know that. You see, great strength can accumulate through honest errors. And when released, the effect is meteoric. That’s how I took off. Although the explosion itself was rather painful, even if instantaneous. You’ve always stood closer to intrinsic truths. What did they used to say: ‘the truth is concrete’?” They both laughed. “Your path is slow, but true. Do you think being a saint is easy?”

Skinhead smirked: “Who here is a saint?”

“What do you mean who?” the Judean answered in complete seriousness. “You and I, and all the others . . .”

“What are you saying? I, a nonbeliever, and Manikin, and the monstrous Fat Lady? I don’t understand.”

“You’re too much in a hurry. Don’t rush. Remember how Ilya Iosifovich used to work like a madman, how it always seemed to him that just a bit more, just try a little harder, and he’d get the Nobel Prize for saving humankind? Now, as you see, I’m not rushing anywhere. You’ll figure it out eventually . . . The amazing thing is that I had read everything. I knew everything. The necessary and the sufficient . . . Through a glass darkly. Never to the bottom, always in a hurry.”

Something tinkled again.

“They’re definitely drinking,” guessed the Newling, who listened to their conversation with inexplicable excitement and a certain awkwardness. She even wanted to contribute, to make her presence known, but could not. Her body was as if switched off—she could not move a finger or use her voice . . .

“Yes,” sighed Skinhead. “There’s no reason for me to hurry. Especially now when she’s here . . . Everything is so incredible.”

“And unpredictable?” his interlocutor remarked with a certain acrimony.

“And that too . . . What strange medicine . . . Methodologically it’s very much like ours . . . They even do sutures the way we do: double surgical knots . . . Even the needle, I thought, looked round . . .”

“And what did you think? The Spasokukotsky method of surgical scrubbing, Boehm trepanation, Bekhterev mixture . . . All our techniques came from there . . .”

“What’s amazing is that they worked separately with the bone tissue, the blood vessels, and the nerves . . . I’m not sure I took it all in.”

“You can be sure you didn’t. Not all at once. All right, it’s time. One more, and we’re off. You’ll see me off.”

They distinctly clinked glasses.

“And what about them? Are we going to leave them here like this?” Skinhead was concerned.

“Doctor, Doctor,” laughed the Judean. “Let them rest. Get their postoperative sleep.”

The Newling was delighted even: she did not have to open her eyes and could sleep a bit. She immediately fell into a pure, transparent sleep in which the air fluttered not as usual, but musically, with a light radiance that coincided with the music. The vision nurtured and quenched her like food and water . . .