Dr Margulis looked out of the window. It was now snowing nicely. He decided to close his surgery early and rush over to his colleague Rosenberg’s establishment, to see how the wounded man was doing. It was his duty. He was one of those physicians who felt a responsibility towards those they consult, even after they left their care. For Dr Margulis, the best school was applied medicine at the patient’s bedside, hour-by-hour supervision, in other words – hospital. Unfortunately, he had given up hospital work, after an unfortunate misunderstanding with a colleague, preferring to open his own surgery and to be independent. He would have very much liked to build and organize his own hospital, but that was but a dream, only possible if perhaps he won the grand prize in the New Year lottery. Without his family’s knowledge, he had entered the lottery with that sole aim. He took the ticket from his pocket and looked at the numbers yet again: 12, 21, and 42: the ages of little Jacob, Iulia and Agatha. He carefully folded the ticket, put it back in the hidden pocket of his portefeuille, and then placed the portefeuille in the hidden pocket of his coat. He picked up his large, heavy, brown leather bag, in which his instruments were arranged in separate compartments, and climbed the steps of the alleyway to the cab station in front of the National Theatre. Three cabs rushed over all at once at his signal, but the doctor climbed aboard Yevdoshka’s, not because he knew he was poor and needy, but because he knew he was a talker. The doctor himself was rather taciturn, and so he liked to listen.
‘To Rosenberg’s, at the Hospice of Health!’
*
Yevdoshka cussed blood-curdlingly from time to time, and his reedy eunuch’s voice was out of keeping with his words. It was amusing to hear such a childlike voice mention such things. Like everybody else, the doctor knew that the cabmen belonged to a Russian sect in which the men willingly castrated themselves, some while still young men, the majority only after they had sired two children. But Yevdoshka had told him many more stories, namely that last century there lived a holy man, Selivanov, from the Tula region, who had a revelation about St Matthew the Apostle’s verses about eunuchs, the ones that conclude with: ‘He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.’ That man, already renowned for the goodness with which he answered evil and for the other cheek that he turned when slapped, had at first not been able to understand a word of it, but afterward his mind was illumined and he understood that he must castrate himself. The heresy he preached spread much farther than you would have thought, and Catherine II, worried that her Russians would gradually end up incapable of multiplying sufficiently, tried to put a stop to it. Selivanov had been captured, bound, and beaten with the knout; molten wax had been poured over his head. Exiled to Siberia, he had remained there until Tsar Alexander pardoned him.
He spent his final years in reclusion, in a monastery. But the persecution had had the expected effect: thenceforth the people regarded him as a martyr and a saint, and they willingly gave themselves up to the nastavnik, who rid them of the key to hell. The women too sometimes cut off their nipples, so that they would no longer be able to breastfeed and as a sign that they would bear no more children. After that, the men and the women lived without meat, without wine, without tobacco, without carnal sin, and they worshipped the icon of their saint. Yevdoshka had a little icon of St Selivanov at his house on Strada Birjarilor. But he had not relinquished foul language; he sinned with his tongue worse than those whose bodies held the key to hell. Leon Margulis also knew that fortunately his own key was in very good working order, and Agatha had no reason for complaint.
They were making slow progress; there was a traffic jam and the horses moved at a walk, while the cabmen chatted among themselves, side by side, pulling on the reins without looking ahead. If the snow had not already deteriorated into filth, many passengers would have rather walked. Those who had taken the horse-drawn tram were at an advantage, since it had a separate lane, and Dr Margulis was sorry he had not chosen that mode of transport. But it was almost inappropriate for a doctor to take the tram: what would his patients say?
The whole of Bucharest had come into town today, on Strada Batiștei he espied the young Livezeanu coming in the opposite direction, in his open carriage, despite the snow outside. His hat was white with snowflakes, but he did not seem to care. He was driving the horse by himself, faster than would have been advisable in such a crowd, and overtaking everything in his path. God forbid there be an accident! More and more young men were causing or falling victims to accidents these days. In the last year, four had been brought to his surgery. But somehow he had arrived safely at Strada Teilor. He took note of the splendid houses at the intersection with Strada Sfântul Spiridon, knowing that they had been renovating them for a long time: now, having been completed, they looked dazzling. Inside there were lit chandeliers and through the windows could be seen a throng of people. At that moment, a young man with a slinky, undulating gait emerged from the courtyard and quickly hopped onto the tram whose horses had stopped at the station.
‘Here we are, sir!’ announced Yevdoshka, and his customer placed his foot on the small iron rung that served as a step. Margulis remembered that on Saturdays Rosenberg did not come to the Hospice of Health, and so he asked at reception after the unknown young man who had been brought from the Police Station the day before and a nurse wearing a white apron and a white headscarf knotted at the back conducted him to a rather narrow room with four iron beds, of which only two were occupied. The air was stale and smelled of sweat and disinfectant. In one of the beds he recognized the young, blond man; his eyes were closed, as they had been when he saw him the previous day. The doctor was downcast to ascertain that the patient’s chances were slim. Should he have accompanied him yesterday, or perhaps the injection of oil of camphor had been a mistake? Sometimes, alas, medicine is not a science, but more a case of trial and error. Perhaps in a hundred years the sick would no longer suffer and a panacea other than death would be discovered, he pondered.
In the other bed dozed a sturdy, ruddy-cheeked young man with his leg in plaster. As he had been about to enter the room, a corpulent rather uncouth man in uniform had rushed through the door in front of him, and the doctor, although he was the elder one, had politely stepped aside.
‘I’m from the Police,’ said the man brusquely, ‘wait outside!’
The doctor felt the blood rise to his face, but restrained himself and answered in an even voice: ‘I don’t know what police station you are from, maybe you are a night watchman from Ciorogârla, but in any event I kindly ask that you wait outside until I finish consulting with my patient.’
Taken by surprise, the man glared biliously at the intruder and just as he was about to yell, he recognized him. All of a sudden he became ingratiating.
‘Forgive me, doctor, sir, I’m sergeant Budacu, Mr Costache from the Prefecture of Police sent me to see how this young man is and ordered me to come back with an answer as quick as I can.’ He then added, lowering his voice and with a complicit air: ‘My wife is waiting for me to come back and slaughter the pig. I’m more afraid of her than I am of the boss. You know what it’s like when you have a bad-tempered wife.’
‘Before we do anything else, I have to have a look at the patient’s condition,’ said the doctor, rather grudgingly. ‘I don’t think he can talk.’
The young man with the broken leg was listening to them with interest. He was the type of person who respects the winner in a fight, no matter who it might be, and consequently he addressed Margulis: ‘After they brought him he kept groaning, until just now, but nobody paid any attention to him. You could be dying and nobody would come. She gave him some water –’ here he pointed at the woman with the white headscarf ‘– but he couldn’t drink it, and it spilled down his chin and on the bed.’
The doctor twisted the little wheel to turn up the gas lamp, took the moribund man’s left wrist, took the watch out of his waistcoat pocket, and began to count.
‘His pulse is irregular. I think we are going to lose him. Tell Mr Costache Boerescu from me that he should come straight away,’ he said to the policeman. ‘Usually a patient in his death throes will have a moment of lucidity. But let him know