the frequent attacks of dizziness and weakness; then, starting a few months previously, the coughing; and now, for the past several weeks, the constant fever. By way of ending her account, Anna started to repeat the diagnosis pronounced by the doctor in the polyclinic, but Shchedrin stopped her with a wave of his hand and swung Petya up onto the examination table. He did not ask the boy to stick out his tongue, nor did he have him undress; Doctor Shchedrin merely examined Petya’s eyes, pulled his eyelids down, and told him to look in all directions. Finally, he took hold of Petya at the point where his spine joined his skull. As he did so, he asked Anna, “Has he ever been tested for allergies?”
“We’ve always been told it was a cold, a catarrh,” Anna stammered, as though she’d committed a sin of omission. “Is it bad?”
“Not yet.” The doctor reached behind him and handed Petya some brightly wrapped candy. “In any case, until a year ago, he would have been too little to have the tests.”
“Tests? Does that mean a serious illness?”
“First we have to find out Petya’s secret,” Shchedrin answered. “Then we’ll do something about it. And after that, I promise you, Comrade, your boy will be considerably better.”
She felt such a sense of relief that she stood up and strode toward the doctor, but instead of falling on his neck, she embraced Petya. “Did you hear that? You’re going to be well soon!” The boy nodded.
Shchedrin leaned toward the intercom. “I need a full blood count.” He turned around. “You look like a brave boy.”
Petya darted a look at his mother. “Why?”
The doctor took out a case and opened it. It contained many little bottles, all of which looked the same. “Lay your arm on this cushion,” he said, pushing it under the boy. “Now I’m going to make thirty-three marks on your arm. And then we’ll see what happens.”
“Marks that hurt?”
“You know how it feels in the summer, when you get a mosquito bite, don’t you?” Shchedrin smiled. “It itches a little, right? But it doesn’t hurt.”
“A wasp stung me once. That hurt a lot.”
“Compared to a wasp sting, this is nothing.” The doctor took out an indelible pencil. “I have to number the marks so I can tell them apart later.” He began to write little numerals on Petya’s arms, one to twenty on the left and twenty-one to thirty-three on the right; next he opened a sterile package and extracted a tiny knife. Then, taking the first vial out of the case, he said, “And now we start.” Holding Petya’s arm still with one hand, he sought out a spot above the wrist and made a scratch in the skin. Petya’s eyelids twitched, but he made no sound.
“Was that bad?” The doctor daubed a drop from the little bottle onto the wound.
“What kind of allergy could it be?” Anna asked, watching as her son’s arm was covered with precisely placed drops.
“There are many possibilities, almost as many as the marks I’m going to make.” Shchedrin threw the small knife into the trash basket and pulled out a new knife. “Grasses, flowers, dust mites. Moscow air isn’t good for our lungs. It’s particularly hard on children.”
Anna had never heard anyone say openly what everyone knew: that the air pollution in the capital was harmful to your health.
“I can’t change the air,” Shchedrin went on, “but we should make sure that Petya doesn’t come into contact with irritants. In addition, there’s a new medication available. If the tests show what I think they will, I’ll give him a prescription for it.”
Anna gazed at the doctor with warmth that bordered on affection. Medicine that really helped? It was too good, too rare, to be true. Her gratitude extended to the man who had made this happiness possible, to A. I. Kamarovsky, who’d done nothing but write a note.
A nurse brought the instruments for the blood test. Before she left, she asked Anna, “Would you perhaps like some tea, Comrade?”
Anna nodded gratefully. Doctor Shchedrin took the next little bottle out of the case.
FIVE
The earflaps of Anna’s fur hat were down as she approached the six-story building. She had left Petya with his grandfather and set out on her search, beginning behind Red Square. After a whole day of thawing, sleet had fallen that morning, and pedestrians were stalking along the walkways as if they had artificial limbs, slipping and sliding, clinging to walls and traffic signposts. Anna