I got stuck on that last chapter: I think it started in the wrong place. In the meantime, here's a short one.
Chapter 21
Lodged in the doorway between the corridor and her ward, Vita looked the agitated stranger up and down.
“My wife,” he said, “how is she?”
He was a short, slightly-built man with greying, unruly hair, aged between 40 and 45. In the dim hallway of Maternity Clinic No. 6, against walls of pale mint-green, Vita could make out the signs of controlled strain on his patchily stubbled face. He had the grin, she thought, of an ingratiating wolf.
With one arm behind her, one on the handle of the ward’s swing-doors, it was as if she thought he might try to force his way in past her. It had been a busy afternoon and she'd been run off her feet (though, because of staff shortages, she’d be on duty for a couple more hours yet), and had only meant to dash out for a drink from the canteen, when the visitor, who was waiting for news on the condition of his pregnant wife, had pounced on her before she'd emerged fully from the ward entrance. A strong whiff of freshly smoked tobacco suffused the fabric of his dark-blue suit. He had on a denim-blue shirt and a grey tie, which he had roughly loosened.
“Look, I’ve been here for two, no, more than three hours, and no one will tell me a thing.” His pale, apprehensive face loomed out of the semi-darkness disconcertingly like an unattached balloon. “Is she alright?" he said. "I came as soon as I heard. You see, she's never been very strong.” Then he tapped nervously on the glass cover of his watch, which looked expensive. “How is she?" he added after a pause. "Can I go in?”
“No visitors at this stage,” replied the nurse, confident in the authority of her white staff coat. “It is not permitted.”
At this, the visitor hopped awkwardly, as if he suddenly felt prickly all over—as if the walls of the hospital had trapped him in a role he was unused to, draining him of his strength. He seemed to wobble between attack and retreat. Finally, the visitor managed to master himself—calculating, perhaps, that a friendly approach on this occasion might be more fruitful. As he prepared for this change of tack, the little man tugged at the woollen lapels of the jacket draped over his shoulders against the chill of the dark corridor, where not even the famous late summer heat of the Black Sea Steppe could penetrate.
“It’s just that she’s not very strong,” he repeated, with greater reticence than before. “With our last child, she was in a lot of pain. The doctor said they were lucky to survive—though both did, thank God.” As he blessed himself, he coughed violently into the clenched fist of his free hand.
“You must let us do our job,” said Vita. “Look, she’ll be fine. We’re just waiting until the contractions become more regular.”
The man nodded, unable to speak through his coughing fit. He pulled a hanky from his inside jacket pocket and phlegmed into it vehemently. For as long as he had been there, he had eaten nothing, drank nothing, and the sly self-assurance of his face, which seemed to have become etched in it, had taken on a waxen translucence. He popped out onto a stairwell to smoke a panatella, blowing the smoke out of a window hatch in a glass wall that looked out over a Spartan car park two stories below, where, on the pavement approach, under the shade of some ailing poplars, motionless invalids in wheelchairs had been parked up, out of the way. On a wall above a notice board beside him, an old cardboard sign read, “Children are the future of the State.” He shuddered, imagining the children of Beslan running through the flames of the burning school-building, mown down in the crossfire (the incident had happened almost a year before). Then he thought about his own children—two boys and a girl, all below the age of eight. Perhaps he would call work. Flicking open a mobile, he was soon back in a world he knew, berating an unfortunate subordinate on the other end.
“My wife,” he said, “how is she?”
He was a short, slightly-built man with greying, unruly hair, aged between 40 and 45. In the dim hallway of Maternity Clinic No. 6, against walls of pale mint-green, Vita could make out the signs of controlled strain on his patchily stubbled face. He had the grin, she thought, of an ingratiating wolf.
With one arm behind her, one on the handle of the ward’s swing-doors, it was as if she thought he might try to force his way in past her. It had been a busy afternoon and she'd been run off her feet (though, because of staff shortages, she’d be on duty for a couple more hours yet), and had only meant to dash out for a drink from the canteen, when the visitor, who was waiting for news on the condition of his pregnant wife, had pounced on her before she'd emerged fully from the ward entrance. A strong whiff of freshly smoked tobacco suffused the fabric of his dark-blue suit. He had on a denim-blue shirt and a grey tie, which he had roughly loosened.
“Look, I’ve been here for two, no, more than three hours, and no one will tell me a thing.” His pale, apprehensive face loomed out of the semi-darkness disconcertingly like an unattached balloon. “Is she alright?" he said. "I came as soon as I heard. You see, she's never been very strong.” Then he tapped nervously on the glass cover of his watch, which looked expensive. “How is she?" he added after a pause. "Can I go in?”
“No visitors at this stage,” replied the nurse, confident in the authority of her white staff coat. “It is not permitted.”
At this, the visitor hopped awkwardly, as if he suddenly felt prickly all over—as if the walls of the hospital had trapped him in a role he was unused to, draining him of his strength. He seemed to wobble between attack and retreat. Finally, the visitor managed to master himself—calculating, perhaps, that a friendly approach on this occasion might be more fruitful. As he prepared for this change of tack, the little man tugged at the woollen lapels of the jacket draped over his shoulders against the chill of the dark corridor, where not even the famous late summer heat of the Black Sea Steppe could penetrate.
“It’s just that she’s not very strong,” he repeated, with greater reticence than before. “With our last child, she was in a lot of pain. The doctor said they were lucky to survive—though both did, thank God.” As he blessed himself, he coughed violently into the clenched fist of his free hand.
“You must let us do our job,” said Vita. “Look, she’ll be fine. We’re just waiting until the contractions become more regular.”
The man nodded, unable to speak through his coughing fit. He pulled a hanky from his inside jacket pocket and phlegmed into it vehemently. For as long as he had been there, he had eaten nothing, drank nothing, and the sly self-assurance of his face, which seemed to have become etched in it, had taken on a waxen translucence. He popped out onto a stairwell to smoke a panatella, blowing the smoke out of a window hatch in a glass wall that looked out over a Spartan car park two stories below, where, on the pavement approach, under the shade of some ailing poplars, motionless invalids in wheelchairs had been parked up, out of the way. On a wall above a notice board beside him, an old cardboard sign read, “Children are the future of the State.” He shuddered, imagining the children of Beslan running through the flames of the burning school-building, mown down in the crossfire (the incident had happened almost a year before). Then he thought about his own children—two boys and a girl, all below the age of eight. Perhaps he would call work. Flicking open a mobile, he was soon back in a world he knew, berating an unfortunate subordinate on the other end.
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