Read Cancer Ward for Free Online Page B

conferences.
    She had left quite a lot of work unfinished; the spittoons had not been cleaned and the landing floor could have done with a wash, but Zoya restrained herself, watching her large back disappear. Zoya had not been working there long, but already she was beginning to understand the annoying principle that the one who doesn’t pull her weight is not asked to pull, while the one who does, pulls for two. Elizaveta Anatolyevna would be in in the morning. She’d do the cleaning and washing for Nellya and for herself.
    Sibgatov, now alone, uncovered his sacrum and lowered himself uncomfortably onto the bowl on the floor beside his bed. He sat there very quietly. Any careless movement jarred his pelvis. The searing sensation caused by anything touching the injured spot, even the constant contact of his underwear, was agonizing. And of course he tried to avoid lying on his back. Exactly what it was he had on his back he had never actually seen, only groped at occasionally with his fingers. Two years ago he had been brought into the clinic on a stretcher, unable to stand or move his legs. Several doctors had examined him then, but it was always Ludmila Afanasyevna who had treated him. And in four months the pain had gone completely! He could walk and bend freely and had nothing to complain of. When they discharged him Ludmila Afanasyevna had warned him as he kissed her hands, “Be careful, Sharaf! Don’t leap about or knock yourself.” But he hadn’t been able to find the right sort of work and had to become a delivery man again. And as a delivery man could he avoid jumping down from the back of the van on to the ground? Or stand by without helping the loader or driver? Everything had been all right until one day a drum had rolled down off the van and struck Sharaf right on his bad spot. The wound had festered and refused to heal, and from that time on Sibgatov had become chained to the cancer clinic.
    It was with a lingering feeling of annoyance that Zoya sat down at her table to check once more that everyone had been given his treatment, and to finish the already blurred lines of her notes with pen strokes that blurred on the poor-quality paper even as she wrote. It would be useless to report her, and against Zoya’s nature. She would have to deal with her herself, yet that was just what she could not do with Nellya. There was nothing wrong with having a nap. When she had a good orderly, Zoya would go to sleep for half the night herself. But now she’d have to sit up.
    She was sitting looking at her notes when she heard a man come up and stand beside her. She raised her head. It was Kostoglotov, with his gangling frame, his unkempt coal-black hair, and his large hands which hardly fitted into the little side pockets of his hospital jacket.
    â€œYou should have been asleep ages ago,” Zoya chided him. “What are you doing, walking around?”
    â€œGood morning, Zoyenka,” said Kostoglotov as gently as he could, almost singing the words.
    â€œGood night.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “It was ‘good evening’ when I was running after you with the thermometer.”
    â€œThat was when you were on duty, you mustn’t blame me. But now I’m your guest.”
    â€œIs that so?” (She didn’t consciously flutter her lashes or open her eyes wide. It just happened.) “What gave you the idea I’m receiving guests?”
    â€œWell, every night duty you’ve always had your nose to the grindstone. But today I can’t see any textbooks. Have you passed your last exam?”
    â€œYou’re observant. Yes, I have.”
    â€œWhat mark did you get? Not that it matters.”
    â€œI got four out of five. Why doesn’t it matter?”
    â€œI thought you might only have got three and not want to talk about it. So now you’re on holiday?”
    She winked with light gaiety. And as she winked, it suddenly struck her: what