Cancer Ward by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Page A

been in the rain?” She gazed at him sympathetically. “Take off your coat. It’s warm in there in the corridor. You aren’t feverish? You don’t have a temperature?” His forehead was completely covered by the wretched tight black hat, its fur flaps hanging, so she laid her fingers on his cheek instead.
    One touch was enough to tell her that he did have a temperature.
    â€œAre you taking anything?”
    The look he gave her was rather different this time. It did not express such utter alienation.
    â€œAnalgin.”
    â€œHave you any?”
    â€œUm-m.”
    â€œShall I bring you some sleeping pills?”
    â€œIf you can.”
    â€œOh yes.” She remembered suddenly. “Can I see your admission card?”
    Perhaps he smiled, or perhaps his lips moved in obedience to some spasm of pain. “If I don’t have the paper, it’s back out into the rain, is that it?” He undid the top hooks on his greatcoat and pulled the card from the pocket of the army shirt that showed underneath. It actually had been issued that morning in the outpatients’ department. She looked at it: he was one of her patients, a radiotherapy patient. She took the card and went off to get the sleeping pills. “I’ll go and get them now. Come and lie down.”
    â€œWait a minute, wait a minute.” He suddenly came to life. “Give me back that paper. I know these tricks.”
    â€œWhat are you afraid of?” She turned round, offended. “Don’t you trust me?”
    He looked at her doubtfully and grunted, “Why should I trust you? You and I haven’t drunk from the same bowl of soup.…” He went and lay down.
    Suddenly she was annoyed. She didn’t come back to see him, instead she sent an orderly with the sleeping pills and the admission card. She wrote “urgent” at the top of the card, underlined it and put an exclamation mark.
    It was night when next she came past him. He was asleep. The bench was quite good for sleeping on, he couldn’t fall off it. The curved back formed a half-trough with the curve of the seat. He had taken off his wet coat, but he’d spread it out on top of him, one side over his legs and the other over his shoulders. The soles of his boots hung over the edge of the bench. There wasn’t a single sound inch on them. They were patched all over with bits of black and red leather. There were metal caps on the toes and small horseshoes on the heels.
    In the morning Vera Kornilyevna mentioned him to the matron, who then put him on the upper landing.
    *   *   *
    After that first day Kostoglotov had never been rude to Gangart again. When he spoke to her it was politely and in his normal urbane manner. He was the first to say good morning, and would even greet her with a friendly smile. But she always had the feeling that he might do something a bit strange.
    And sure enough, the day before yesterday she’d summoned him for a test to determine his blood group. She prepared an empty syringe to take blood from his vein, and immediately he rolled down his sleeve again and announced firmly, “I’m very sorry, Vera Kornilyevna, but you’ll have to get along without the sample.”
    â€œFor goodness’ sake, why?”
    â€œThey’ve drunk enough of my blood already. I don’t want to give any more. Someone else can give it, someone who’s got plenty of blood.”
    â€œYou ought to be ashamed of yourself! You’re a man, aren’t you?” She looked at him with that well-known feminine mockery that men cannot endure. “I’ll only take three cubic centimeters.”
    â€œThree! Cc.’s? What do you need it for?”
    â€œWe’ll determine your blood group with a compatibility reaction, and if we have the right kind of blood we’ll give you 250 cc.’s.”
    â€œMe? Blood transfusion? God forbid! What do I need someone