the carbon monoxide pollution in the capital, but that alone wouldn’t account for his most recent symptoms. Petya’s suffering from a very strong reaction to a particular allergen.”
Since the muscular structure of the bronchi in children is not yet fully developed, Shchedrin explained, asthmatic symptoms can arise, and he would give Petya medicine to remedy those; it was more important, however, to identify what was triggering the boy’s attacks. “In your son’s case, it’s a question of dust allergens, so it may be difficult to restrict his contact with them.”
“How do you mean?” Anna asked. She was sitting on a stool and holding Petya on her lap.
“Dust is an integral part of daily life.” Having searched the cabinet in vain for a clean glass, Shchedrin rinsed out a used one and poured himself some tea. “Do you have rugs on the wall at home?” he asked. Anna nodded. “Take them down,” he said, wrapping his aristocratic-looking fingers around the hot glass. “Pictures, knickknacks, mementos are all dust collectors. Keep them away from Petya. How about books?”
“My father …” She interrupted herself, thinking it unnecessary to mention that she lived with a writer. “We have many books.”
“Put them in the cellar. Along with stacks of newspapers, decorative cushions, horsehair mattresses, embroidered tablecloths, and woolen blankets.”
She was surprised to hear him describe her apartment so precisely.
“Even if it means a big change for you, get yourself some smooth, synthetic materials. They aren’t very popular with dust mites.” Shchedrin drank and grimaced. “When will they finally learn to make tea in this place?”
Anna considered how she ought to inform her father that his four walls, the very walls within which he’d so generously welcomed her and her family, were partly responsible for Petya’s illness.
“Still, there has to be something else,” Shchedrin said, pouring the rest of his tea into the sink. “You told me that Petya’s condition gets worse when he’s asleep. There must be an allergen source in the immediate vicinity of his bed. Do you have down pillows or duvets?”
What he meant was suddenly clear to her. “A year ago, we … my father, Petya, and I sleep in the same room. For the sake of privacy, we’ve hung a velvet curtain in front of the sleeping alcove.”
“Velvet!” Shchedrin exclaimed, laughing. “The dust mite’s paradise, the allergy sufferer’s hell!”
Petya understood that the conversation was about him but gradually lost interest in it; Anna looked around for something he could play with. Shchedrin showed the boy into the children’s waiting room and stepped out into the corridor with Anna. He announced that he would start treating Petya’s asthma with medication to dilate his respiratory passages. No medicine could cure the dust allergy itself, he explained, and therefore a gradual desensitization would be necessary, which Shchedrin would initiate with allergen injections.
While he was explaining his diagnosis and the treatment he proposed, Anna became increasingly aware of a nagging discrepancy. On the one hand, merely gaining access to such methods had to be considered practically miraculous; on the other, it entailed a new dependence. “Doctor,” she began. Through the open door, she could see her son. “I don’t know how I can pay for all these things.”
“That’s the least of your problems.” He nodded to a nurse who was calling him to the telephone.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s already taken care of.” The nurse held out the receiver to him. “Everything’s been arranged.”
Observing the doctor’s composure as he spoke on the telephone, Anna wondered what kind of agreement Kamarovsky and Shchedrin had reached. A little later, as she and Petya were heading for the exit, she had the Colonel’s image before her eyes. Despite Anna’s confidence in the physician, Kamarovsky’s involvement in Petya’s recovery filled her with anxiety.
On the way home, she considered how she should reveal to her sensitive father the special privilege Kamarovsky was granting him. Father and daughter’s pact of silence, Viktor Ipalyevich’s resolute overlooking of the obvious, required a complex ritual, with whose help he was able to justify to himself his double way of thinking. Anna bought meat, vegetables, and—even though it exceeded her household budget—a can of peaches in syrup.
“I have a pork shank for us,” she called out when she entered the apartment. “I’m going to cook it to celebrate this day.” She went into the kitchen and set about putting her words into action.
Although Viktor Ipalyevich had contempt for the economy of privilege in a state whose foundation was equality, he accepted Anna’s privileges, through which he