Borys Antonenko-Davydovych Behind the Curtain Trans. Yuri Tkach Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Borys Antonenko-Davydovych Behind the Curtain Translated by Yuri Tkach Doncaster, Australia: Bayda Books, 1980 Translation of Za shyrmoiu, first published in Ukraine in 1963 Inputting and proofreading: Tina Xue, Mark Strychar-Bodnar Electronic Formatting: Maxim Tarnawsky Permission to include this translation in the Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature was graciously given by Yuri Tkach. Borys Antonenko-Davydovych (1899-1984) Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature CHAPTER 1 A whole hour remained until the dispensary would be opened. It took no more than three minutes for Doctor Postolovsky to cross the yard from his apartment to the dispensary, which allowed him enough time to do some reading before breakfast. He hesitated whether to start on the latest issue of ‘Soviet Medicine’ or to continue with Chekhov’s ‘The Hunting Party’ which he had been reluctantly forced to put down the previous evening by an unexpected house call. Certainly, as a doctor, he had to be aware of the latest medical developments and it would not be worthwhile to postpone reading ‘Soviet Medicine’ for much longer; but then he wanted to thoroughly explore Chekhov at last. While still a student he had promised himself to study Chekhov in more depth; Chekhov—doctor and author, so often mentioned and so often written about…. Long ago, while still attending high school in Pereyaslav he had enjoyed literature classes, especially poetry, and could recite numerous verses of contemporary Ukrainian poets. But because of the limited school syllabus he was a stranger to prose, especially the classics. After he had graduated from the institute seven years ago, he had surrounded himself with medical literature and rarely touched fiction. It was only recently that he had resolved to study the classics, and first of all—Chekhov. Doctors like lawyers, could not remain in the narrow circle of their profession; being well acquainted with literature, was, so to speak, a requirement of the profession itself. To his own surprise, he was captivated by the plot of the ‘Hunting Party’ and it was difficult to avoid the pleasure of settling down to ‘The Party’ for at least half an hour. As he combed his long hair in front of his wife’s cheval-glass, Doctor Postolovsky, or Alexander Ivanovich as everyone called him, decided on Chekhov. The May Uzbek morning brought no dew or coolness, but neither had it yet developed into the oppressive heat of midday. A set of quick exercises and a glass of icy water made Alexander feel the resilience in his muscles and that habitual vigour in his body return, a feeling so conducive to work. The day had begun well, according to routine, and things would have continued smoothly were it not for breakfast. Breakfast was not ready yet, but above all he was not sure if it ever would be. The fact was that Alexander’s mother, who usually did all the cooking since moving here from Ukraine, had been sick in bed since yesterday evening with a bout of malaria and so his wife had to prepare breakfast. Naturally, he could have gone into the kitchen to ask when breakfast would finally be ready, but Alexander knew how reluctantly his wife, Nina, had crawled out of bed early that morning, how irritated she was pottering about in their tiny narrow kitchen frying the eggs and making the tea. She was annoyed with everything: her mother-in-law’s illness, which she viewed as another show of pretence, the tainted eggs bought hell knows when and hell knows where by the mother-in-law, and the salt which God only knew where the old hag had hidden…. And so he was still without breakfast. Time was moving on. Obviously, he could have read for awhile without waiting for this dubious meal and then left for the dispensary, satisfying his hunger later on, at lunch time, as occasionally happened whenever Alexander was called out early in the morning. His mother might feel well enough during the day to get out of bed; then lunch would be a simpler affair and undoubtedly more delicious. However this would have unnecessarily upset the day’s normal routine and threatened to ruin his mood. To be in a good mood was paramount. It helped him work without tiring, clearing his mind to perceive things Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Borys Antonenko-Davydovych. Behind the Curtain 4 instinctively and intuitively without the aid of x-rays and analyses, enabling him to easily anticipate the possible course of a disease, giving…. No more need be said! The doctor’s skill, as his professor at the institute put it, is not a trade, but true art, creativity, calling…. If so, then inspiration and tenacity were needed, an appropriate zeal and temperament. Moving away from the cheval-glass, he strode into the adjoining room. In their smallish apartment this room served as a study, and at the same time doubled as a bedroom for his mother. Strictly speaking, it was never a bedroom but a place of sleep, for his mother entered the room only at bedtime and whenever she was too ill for her frail legs to support her. She preferred to sit quietly in the kitchen or out in the yard, so as not to upset anything in the rooms her Sashko and daughter-in-law occupied. On his right, hugging the wall and curtained off, stood the bed. The old wooden camp-bed, with its long canvas sack mattress filled with straw long turned to dust, was covered with a patched sheet and an old home-spun bedspread. His mother had brought these with her from distant Pereyaslav after she had finally decided to move in with her only son. Even now Nina could not help laughing when she looked at the shabby curtain of coarse old linen, hung on sticks blackened by time and miraculously held together by rusty hinges. This clumsy creation of a bungling country carpenter, together with the rest of his mother’s belongings, was not worth even a tenth of the money paid for its transport over the thousands of miles to Uzbekistan; but his mother firmly held on to it, just as girls once cherished their dowries. She was especially fond of that quaint curtain which she called a paravent, in the old way. Whether on purpose or because she failed to understand, Nina, in order to ridicule her mother-in-law’s illiteracy, repeated many a time laughing: ‘What ‘caravan’? This is a curtain. Understand, Odarka Pylypivna—a curtain! You’ve got a doctor for a son and yet you talk like a yokel’. In Nina’s opinion the curtain should have been thrown away long ago, sentiments with which Alexander quite agreed, for its very antiquated appearance only served to compromise them. But the local textile industry had as yet to come up with anything even bordering on decency and in the depths of his heart Alexander felt pity for his old mother and her quaintness. And so the curtain remained. Yet whenever guests were invited over, the curtain and the bed were moved outside beforehand and until the guests left his mother had nowhere to sleep, for the mosquitoes gave no peace outside, and it was not fitting for an old woman to stretch out in the yard. When Alexander entered the room, all was quiet behind the curtain. His mother, exhausted by the fever during the night, was probably fast asleep. Closing the door behind him, Alexander tip-toed to his desk so as not to wake his ageing mother and sat down in an armchair. The bed creaked behind the curtain. “Had breakfast yet, Sashko? There’s some cheese and yesterday’s milk, if it hasn’t gone sour, on the bottom shelf of the cupboard....” “The huzapaya is probably damp or else the primus is playing up again,” said Alexander, ignoring his mother’s last words. He knew that in May, when the spring rains ended for good, the thin stalks of the previous season’s cotton plants could never grow damp, and the primus had been repaired only recently, but he had to say something to cover for his wife’s strange lingering. The clock on the table showed twenty to nine. Alexander drew an armchair up to the desk and Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Borys Antonenko-Davydovych. Behind the Curtain 5 opened ‘The Hunting Party’. “The cheese is in the corner, covered with a saucer....” his mother’s soft voice came from behind the curtain once again. Alexander scowled. His mother’s words seemed to hint at Nina’s carelessness and inability to keep house. “Please, mother, don’t worry … You’re not well, you need to rest. We’ll manage,” he growled, without concealing his dissatisfaction. “But you’ll go hungry again....” his mother uttered, as if justifying herself, and sighed heavily. The sigh really exasperated Alexander. He wanted to tell his mother not to interfere in other people’s business, that he and his wife would be able to manage, but at this moment a child’s scream erupted somewhere in the kitchen, reverberating through the house. It subsided, then both halves of the study door were suddenly flung open and Vasia, Alexander’s three-year-old son, burst into the room. One hand outstretched, his small fingers spread out, the youngster choked on his tears and with a patter of little feet made straight for his grandmother, ducking in under the curtain. “Nanna, nanna—sore!” “Don’t cry, Vasylko, don’t cry, my dove....” “Mummy hit Vasia....” the youngster continued to explain.