Now that she knew the cause of Petya’s suffering, she saw dust traps everywhere, in every cushion, in the window curtains, in the tablecloths. From now on, she’d sweep the floors and wipe off the windowsills every day and dust the radiators once a week. How wonderful it was that her boy was not terribly sick but only allergic; she felt capable of overcoming his affliction by dint of her own efforts, and it was a good feeling. She curled up her legs and intertwined them with Petya’s little calves. From the kitchen came the breathy murmur of her father’s whispering:
He ended up a thousand versts deep into foreign territory,
Where a bullet struck him down.
Anna was surprised at how much there was to know about dust. For example, she’d discovered that dust wasn’t as dry as it was reputed to be; in fact, dust mite larvae throve best in a moist atmosphere. She’d learned that dust was indifferent as to whether it lay on cheap or costly material, but that expensive velvet welcomed dust and therefore dust mites, whereas cheaper synthetic fabrics hindered the proliferation of the little beasts. Leather was an enemy of dust, and wool offered itself as a hatchery. In winter, the mites procreated more slowly, because the air was so dry. Soon, however, when the temperatures were rising and water returning to its liquid form everywhere, breeding season for the dust creatures would begin.
The next afternoon, Anna incurred her father’s displeasure by opening the window in the living room for several minutes. “Stale air can lead to mildew formation,” she declared, repeating a principle enunciated in the book that Doctor Shchedrin had given her.
Not for the first time, Viktor Ipalyevich watched loose pages of his poetry fluttering around the room and sent Petya chasing after them. He was putting up with the dismantling of his familiar surroundings, but in his view, the comfortable living room had already been stripped bare. At the moment, his daughter was cleaning the back side of the radiator; she’d tied a brush to a long stick and was on her knees, stubbornly scrubbing away. After her return from the early shift, she’d taken an old toothbrush to the spaces between the floorboards, removed the newspaper from the broken window panes, and covered them with plastic film. Now, as she was about to take down the wall rug, he voiced his objection: “That’s enough!”
“I’m going to put it in the cellar.”
He pointed to the homely piece and asked, “How long does it have to stay in exile?”
“Until Petya moves out of here,” she answered vaguely.
“I gave you that rug as a wedding present. The pattern of interlocking circles was supposed to be a symbol of your enduring love.” Viktor Ipalyevich insisted that the rug should remain where it was until a substitute wall adornment could be found.
Showing that she was ready to discuss the matter, Anna asked, “A picture, a map, a poster?”
“Something beautiful! There’s nothing left in this apartment worth looking at!” With outspread arms, he gestured toward the dust-free wasteland around him.
“I’ll think of something,” Anna said. Then she turned her attention to pulling out the first of the nails that fastened the rug to the wall.
“The rug stays there.”
“For Petya’s health!” she cried out.
“Petya’s temperature is back to normal, and his eyes are clear.” Anna’s father took up a position in front of the wall rug, as though he meant to defend it. “By the time the spring’s over, he’ll be playing soccer!”
Anna decided not to defy his prohibition. After all, he was right: Shchedrin’s diagnosis was proving to be accurate, the medicine was starting to work; she simply couldn’t believe in Petya’s miraculous transformation, not yet. She’d become cautious insofar as good luck was concerned. Anna put her tools in a box and stowed it under the kitchen sink. In the living room, her father turned on the television.
“… The crucial aspect of matter is not its materiality, but the fact that it consists of a number of miniature processes that stand in mutual reciprocity with one another.”
Anna straightened herself and pricked up her ears; she knew that voice.
“Matter does not ‘be’—it happens.”
Where had she heard that sneering inflection before? She was in the living room in two steps—and she hadn’t been wrong. The program was The Open Ear, the woman who hosted the show was moving slips of paper about, and across from her sat Nikolai Lyushin, casually dressed in a suit but no tie. Anna stretched