Part One – There
(Eastern Hemisphere)
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE – SRITO. THE LAST ATTEMPT
Just during the period when I had emerged in the study of bone regeneration, one incident occurred that would be correct to describe in a medical or even a purely scientific journal. They brought my course mate Victor to SRITO, who was the referee of a fight in the washroom at a military training camp. Once upon a time he got me involved in wrestling and martial arts, and since then we have had friendly relations.
Victor was taken by helicopter from the mountains, where he fell from a great height and crushed his foot. I can’t say how many bones were broken in it, maybe all of them, but the foot looked like a ball-shaped end of a leg, and there was not the slightest hope that Victor would be able to walk normally in the future. Voices were heard suggesting even amputation of this non-functional foot. However, no one has done anything yet. The fragments were fixed with several wires, and the patient was left to improve his general condition.
A couple of days later, when Victor recovered from the first shock, he remembered that he had a friend working here and contacted me. I visited him in his ward.
“Nick, tell me honestly, you understand this better than me. Am I a finished man? No running, no jumping, just trudging around on crutches? Is there anything that can be done?”
I didn’t want to deceive, but to be completely honest with this strong, like Hercules, and courageous guy.
“Oddly enough, you ask the question to the right person at the right time. Six months ago I would not have known what to answer you, and even now I will say little, but essentially. Bones in children are formed under the influence of gravity and loads. For astronauts, without gravity, bones begin to dissolve. Therefore, the only and very small hope is that you can help yourself. But I’m afraid that stepping on broken bones is very painful, and they won’t give you morphine.”
Victor looked at me tensely, pondering what he had heard. It was as if he was trying on a terrible torture and assessing whether he could withstand it and whether it would give the desired result. Then he looked at me decisively and said,
“I will be able… Thank you.”
From that day on, continuous training began. At the first moment, Victor howled and almost lost consciousness from pain. Doctors and medical staff came running; they tried to persuade him to lie down and stop the torture, but it was all useless. He started walking. On a crushed leg. Back and forth along the wide corridor. Tears flowed from his eyes in two streams, but he did not give up. And gradually his injured foot began to take a shape of a human foot. The treatment, or rather the required physical therapy, lasted a long time, but when the wires were removed and an X-ray was taken, the formed bones of the foot caused applause from the radiologists, and then from everyone who compared this X-ray with the initial image.
I think that was the only time when my knowledge of regeneration accidentally and painfully benefited a patient. But after all, that’s not bad, is it?
A little later, in the summer, an international congress on artificial intelligence took place in Tbilisi. SRITO also received invitation cards, and the director received an honorary badge with his name and title, which he gave to me. Many Americans asked to take a souvenir photo with such a young director of a research institute. But when they asked me what the name of this institute was, I answered TRAVMATOLOGY ten times without any hint of understanding on their part. Then I wrote this word in English, and everyone screamed: “Ah! Oh! TRAUMATOLOGY!” This is how I learned that in Russian we write down by sound, and in English we pronounce by spelling (that is, as written down). And when we say “in the beginning was the Word,” we do not at all specify which word – spoken or written one.
I remember several interesting notes about the congress. First of all, due to the breadth of coverage, a lot of stuff was presented on it, from the work of programmers to linguistic research. The most pleasant thing was that many people from all over the world gathered and communicated in a friendly manner as best they could and about whatever they wanted. These were some beginnings of a future free society.
As for the appearance of the participants… a small incident occurred. All foreign guests dressed very simply and modestly for meetings. American summer style dominated: shorts, T-shirts, sneakers and backpacks. Of course, many were wearing shirts and jeans. Our guests from Tbilisi, as well as guests from the capitals, walked around as if at a reception with the Queen of England – in the best suits, shirts and ties. And the guests from central Russia… (there were quite a lot of them) dressed very modestly. All this was understandable and did not cause any problems, but… many of them decided to adopt the simplicity of clothing from the Americans and began to come to meetings in shorts and T-shirts.
But unlike the pretty American ones, which was wear only soviet sportsmen-Olympians, people from mid-Russia used family panty-boxers and T-shirts, and even worse, mesh (fishnet). The hosts of the conference were indignant at heart, but laughed at the people.
And then came the final day and the banquet. The Soviet’s didn’t even bother to change clothes. As they attended conference during the day, they came in the evening. The capital’s people in their best garments, and people from the middle zone of USSR – you couldn’t imagine anything better – in their improvised shorts and T-shirts! But the foreign guests amazed everyone. They, as if on cue, appeared on banquet in tuxedos and evening dresses. Here you have an artificial intelligence!
The Congress and my appearance there with the attributes of a director really hurt feelings of my former boss Roman. He began to ask the director to return to the spot, if not Neiman himself, “who used the knowledge acquired at the laboratory of systems-technique for personal purposes at the congress,” then at least the vacancy of a junior researcher that he occupies.
Chichiko called me and confessed,
“There is news. “Prostitutes are among us!” I convinced him,” he pointed his hand towards the director’s office, “to be a man and to tell you everything himself.”
The director greeted me warmly. He sat me down and suggested cold mineral water “Borjomi”.
“Do you think it’s easy to make decisions?” he said, “Roman is asking for the position back; the pathology lab wants to hire another cytologist, and they physically need the table you’re sitting at. My son successfully fail Russian language exam, and I need to hire a Literature tutor. I can’t fire you as a young professional without reason. Therefore, appreciate – I honestly and nobly confess to you. All these problems will be resolved in a day when we hold a scientific competition. The Academic Council will vote you out, but will accept the literature specialist in. And everything will be decided at once. You will understand me when you have a dunce son and a whole institute of intriguers-troublemakers.”
Hearing an “honest” warning that you will be voted out by secret democratic vote at the direction of yesterday’s patron is much more disgusting than watching Chichiko sucking his thumb at the sight of a pretty woman. Moreover, when everything is ready for you to experiments – implanting batteries, stimulants, sensors into dogs.
Now I would have to give it up and look for a new job.
Although, first of all, I had to check whether there is a catch in the “honest” warning. And I started searching. Remember the talented exploder in the toilets of the All-Union Mathematics Olympiad in Kyiv, Valya Shumeridze? His dad, like Chichiko, was a deputy for science at another medical research institute. I went to see him for a consultation.
Valya’s dad leafed through the collection “Higher School” – a set of laws of educational and research institutes, and discovered:
First, a young specialist can be dismissed by order only if he commits a crime. In other cases, no matter how crap he turns out to be, he needs to be retrained and re-educated, but he cannot be fired.
Secondly, dismissal based on a competition can only be made to someone who was hired for a position through a competition, and I was appointed by order of the director (see first).
Therefore, the director could get rid of me either by persuading me to commit a crime, or by voting in a competition and voting out for the same, but not earlier than a year after the announcement of the competition.
Dad, the deputy director, advised me to keep quiet and let the academic council vote me out and illegally fire me, and then appeal the case to the Ministry of Health. The directors will be punished, and the voting ballots will be made public. Then it will be possible to put pressure on those who threw the black balls, accusing them of dishonest voting. In such cases, members of the academic council, not wanting to spoil their reputations, report that the director forced them to do this. And then he is definitely removed from his position.
It was a short course in socialist court-intrigue. I was very grateful to my mentor, but all this dirt made me sick. I didn’t even understand why there was any need to put on a show, because you can’t inforce love.
The next morning I brought the director the collection “Higher School”, showed the relevant laws and said,
“I don’t need a scandal in the Ministry of Health, I’m not going to stay for a year at an institute where they don’t want me, and so we’ll come to an amicable agreement. I’ll quit of my own free will, not instantly, but after I find a new job and take my summer vacation. I hope to make it before the end of September.”
The director got pale. He understood that, thanks to my action, he had just avoided big trouble. However, he already wanted to bargain.
“Where is the guarantee that you won’t change your mind?”
I was tempted to answer that only pathologists give guarantees, but I was afraid that he would not understand my irony, so I said briefly,
“Chichiko.”
The director called Chichiko to his place and said,
“The Academic Council is canceled for today. You will notify the participants. Nick agrees to resign before October 1 of his own free will. It’s easier. But I need your word that he won’t change his mind.”
And then Chichiko said his best speech, worthy of Cicero,
“Neimans don’t suck!”
I had to look for a new job, but I really didn’t want to throw the work of the last two years into the abyss! But who, like me, could be interested in regeneration research? I thought and decided that academician Gavrila Abramovich Ilizarov could be such a person.
Once upon a time, Dr. Ilizarov noticed that if you do not allow tightly juxtaposed bone fragments to heal completely, but gradually pull them away from each other, you can lengthen the bone. He ordered engineers to design a structure that removes the load (compression) from the fracture site and transmits it along an external truss. This made it possible to immediately use the limb and lengthen it, if necessary, by stretching (distraction) of the fragments. The method is called compression-distraction. But fame came to Ilizarov when he restored Olympic champion Valery Brummel after a serious injury. I have no doubt that the co-author of this phenomenal success was Valery himself, who, like Victor, trained mercilessly and regenerated his broken bones.
But official medicine fought against the new method, gradually losing ground. The doctor’s supporters and journalists advertised the innovator’s work so much that the state built a new center in the city of Kurgan to study the method in detail, and the doctor himself, along with an unexpected co-author (remember Academician A, who timely patented a version of the Ilizarov apparatus?) received the State Prize.
And so, the plane carried me to the Ural city of Sverdlovsk, from where I had to take a train to Kurgan. I have never climbed so deep into Russia before.
I still have some impressions from the long journey: crowds, trunks, sacks, people sitting on the marble floor and eating simple food from newspapers laid out there, the smells of sweat and urine from the open doors of the toilets and the muffled roar of people saying: “F-ck! F-ck! F-ck!”
I wandered around the Sverdlovsk station in the evening, waiting for the night train to Kurgan, and noted with interest the details of local life, which was unusual for me. But it also looked at the newcomer in a yellow suede jacket with the red eyes of homeless people and the shooting glances of local beauties.
A girl who looked like Alyonushka (very modest and pure girl) from Vasnetsov’s painting sat on a bench with a book in her hands, but looked around. We smiled at each other. I stopped and spoke. She was delighted of interlocutor and answered. Half an hour later we were already walking around the station, which was starting to empty. An hour later we were kissing. She met the night train, I was waiting for another one. We had three or four hours, during which a lot of scenes and acts (literally and figuratively) could happen in an erotic novel. But I was young and modest, or maybe just inexperienced. We spent these hours sharing thoughts and feelings about a variety of things and events. In parting, I asked Alyonushka,
“So who are you meeting?”
“My groom. He is returning from service in army,” she moved her eyes down.
I really still didn’t know and didn’t understand a lot in this life…
Kurgan struck me with its poverty. But I saw this later, and at first, having barely washed my face on the train with water that smacked of bleach and disinfection, I rushed to the institute. What internet, what maps? I was one of two in line for a taxi at the station, got into a car and declared,
“To Ilizarov’s place.”
This address was known to everyone here, and soon the car drove me to the white concrete buildings of the medical center. I said that I had come on issues of science, and possibly work, and was directed to the Deputy for Science. He turned out to be an elderly man, a doctor and an old friend of Academician Ilizarov, Valentin Pavlovich Rusovsky, who headed all scientific developments of the center. We started talking. I couldn’t have asked for a better conversation partner. He understood well everything I was talking about, marveling at my thorough knowledge of modern regeneration work.
“I think it was fate that brought you to us,” he said, “Let’s go to the boss right now, he just having appointments with future patients.”
In a spacious hallway with light wood panels, a line of visitors with sticks and crutches sat along the wall. Two of them had stars of heroes of the Soviet Union and one had the Order of Lenin.
“Wait for me here,” said the Deputy for Science and entered Ilizarov’s office without knocking.
The people in the line stared at me with hatred, seeing the alien as a dangerous competitor. Another patient came out and joyfully announced,
“He had accepted me for the surgery!” This added to the emotions, but no one was called in. Finally, my interviewer left the boss.
“I introduced you, Comrade Neiman, come in, meet your new boss, and expect a letter from me in a month, I’m going to the waters to treat a stomach ulcer.”
“Neiman?” shouted one of the visitors with crutches, “They again are ahead of us?”
“Don’t forget Comrade Ivanov where you are,” the secretary reprehended him, “Gavrila Abramovich will not tolerate this!”
At the mention of the idol’s name, even the quiet whispers of the visitors fell silent. I walked inside the huge office and found myself face to face with a celebrity. Up close, his face – an elderly Jew with a slight Sephardic squint – was well known to me from other familiar faces. If you put a mustache on the chemist Izia, he could easily pass for Ilizarov in his younger years. In short, I felt OK and said hello.
“Have a seat,” said Gavrila Abramovich, “What brought you to our wilderness? Anti-Semitism?”
“No, no, Gavrila Abramovich,” I was surprised, “There is no anti-Semitism in Georgia or almost no,” I corrected myself, remembering my admission to the university.
“Maybe you are one of those who believes that it does not exist in the USSR at all?”
“No, I am not one of those. I believe that Jews are treated as adopted in the hardworking family of peoples of the USSR.”
Ilizarov grinned, he liked my pun.
“Valentin Pavlovich told me everything about you. I trust him completely. You can start work in September, when I return from Italy. The topic of the dissertation would be “The influence of electric and magnetic fields on the reparative regeneration of bone tissue.” The leader is Doctor of Medical Sciences, Professor Valentin Pavlovich Rusovsky, this is his diocese – scientific research. I’ve had enough surgeries. You’ll get an apartment in that residential building,” he pointed to one of the white high-rise buildings, “The salary is such and such.”
The academician’s speech was interrupted by a telephone call.
“This is Comrade Petrov, from the regional Party committee,” a secretary voice came from the intercom.
Ilizarov grimaced and picked up the phone,
“Yes, we are operating on Wednesday, as planned. Before Wednesday, it’s impossible without tests! But later – quite possible, don’t doubt it! If the institute doesn’t receive a ton of beef by Wednesday, I’ll postpone the operation, you know me!”
My visit, generally short, was over. The patients in line greeted me with friendly glances – their path to cure was cleared.
I left the institute and went to a mechanical engineering college nearby, the address of which I found out from the secretary. I already had a plan. It was clear that in such a hole as Kurgan you can only work in the evenings. This meant that a second job was needed. Moreover, my mother and sister will be left without my income from tutoring. I no longer had any special hopes for my dad, after my mother’s prophecy came true… And teaching physics would be easy and pleasant for me – it would resemble something of home.
“Hello, do you need a physics teacher in the evenings? I can start in September.”
“Precisely in the evening hours? Did God send you?”
We quickly agreed and exchanged phone numbers. I could return home. But the train to Sverdlovsk did not leave until the evening, and I still had time to walk and have lunch. I went to the center. Only now have I examined in detail the miserable provincial life. The houses like boxes were boring and monotonous. The people – this struck me most – were dressed as if the war had ended only yesterday, although the clothing stores were full of imported clothes. Such Czechoslovak suits, Romanian shoes and Polish ties would be snapped up overnight in my city. I bought a pretty tie for ten rubles and asked the saleswoman,
“Why are there no buyers? Work time?”
She frowned at me.
“Probably not everyone can throw money around like that.”
Yes, it was a completely different life. But people in padded jackets and boots were hurrying somewhere about their joyless business. The faces were gloomy and indifferent. Well, I tagged along with a pretty tall girl in a denim suit.
“May I meet you? I am a guest in the city, I’m leaving in the evening, and I don’t know anyone except Ilizarov. Well, should I invite him for a walk?”
“Why did you decide to get acquainted with me?”
“You will not believe. It’s even awkward to say.”
She was clearly intrigued.
“Look around. You are the only well-dressed person here.”
She blushed slightly.
“You too.”
“But all dress like that in my city.”
“And ours is a working-class city. People are working hard and drinking. As soon as it starts to get dark, the drunkenness comes out like evil spirits, you will see for yourself. There are very few intelligent people, and they feel like in a reservation.”
We had acquainted. Her name was Lyuba. We walked for about an hour. We exchanged phone numbers. Lyuba said that she would be very happy if I came here to write my dissertation. Mutually. We said goodbye…
I thought how many people were already happy about my move. But more people will be upset that I’m leaving.
“Doctor, give me a ruble!” I heard a hoarse voice.
“Why doctor?”
“Who else wears jackets like these here? Only doctors and rich patients. But latter are on crutches and metal constructions. Since you don’t have them, that means you are a doctor.”
I handed him fifty kopeks.
“It’s in exchange for your logic.”
“Why not the ruble?” he asked.
“Because I’m not a doctor.”
“Well, sorry,” he said, “Well, I was wrong. It happens to everyone, isn’t it?” and wandered off on his way.
Lyuba was right; it was starting to get dark. But I still needed to have a dinner.
I passed a couple of cafes or canteens; their smells did not induce appetite. I had to find a restaurant, and soon I identified it by the aroma of fried food. But the line starting from the doors stretched all the way to the corner of the block. Wow! In our city, I don’t remember a time when it was impossible to enter a restaurant because of a line. I wonder if no one buys clothes, how do they have money for restaurants? But I had to somehow get out of the situation or remain without food. I chose the former. I got to the entrance and showed the doorman three rubles. He instantly opened the door in front of me and yelled into the line,
“His seat is reserved!” and to the depths of the hall, “Manya, find a seat for a good man. They are hungry, after work.”
Manya, wearing a white apron and a headdress with her hair combed in the fashion of the 60s, ran out into the foyer and started babbling,
“We have pay in advance! How many of you are there? One? Fine. Can you tolerate one neighbor at the table? Fine. I sit you right away. And I take the order right away. Will you eat fresh salad? Fine. Pork chop with fries? Fine. Of bread? Two slices? Fine. What will you drink? A couple of beers? Fine. Just seven twenty. Ruble – tip.
I handed her a ten.
“Keep the change.”
Manya looked at me as if I were an alien from outer space.
“Welcome, please,” she said, “Sorry that there is no separate table.”
Swinging her hips between the dense situated but almost empty tables, she led me to a place directly at the dance floor, where dozens of couples were shaking and twitching to the thunder of music. I understood why Manya took the order in the lobby. It was impossible to hear a word here. But here, unlike Tbilisi restaurants, people came not to eat and talk, but to drink and dance. I was having my dinner and looking around curiously. Finally the music died down and patrons filled their seats at the tables. A completely disheveled guy in a white shirt over his blue railway uniform trousers was dragging his blue uniform jacket along the floor.
“Ivan,” he introduced himself, barely moving his tongue, and extended his hand.
“Nikolai,” I said, shaking it.
The hand was strong, calloused, but completely wet.
“So you too drink beer?” he asked, “That’s good. Let’s have a drink.”
We poured a full glass each and drank. Before I had time to cut off a piece of chop, Ivan dropped his head into his hands and fell asleep. The new deafening explosion of music did not disturb his sleep. I finished my dinner and got ready to leave. There was no one to say goodbye to; there was no need to pay.
“Come again, we will be glad to see you!” the doorman touched the visor of his admiral’s cap, and I set off on my way back.
The last pause on my way home happened in Sverdlovsk, where the train arrived in the morning and the plane supposed to leave at five or six. The weather was good, the sky was clear. Of course, I did not stay at the station, as on my way to Kurgan, but went to wander around the city. The city turned out to be large, but only the center was interesting, where I took a walk. The shops were closed on the weekend, and with nothing else to do, I followed two pretty young girls. I thought where could they go around noon without the guys? If they were planning to visit friends, no luck. But if they are going to the cinema, they’ll bring me to the movie theater. Maybe I go in and watch something, killing time this way.
The girls actually came around a large movie theater, which was showing such old stuff that neither they nor I had anything to watch. They paused in front of the poster, discussing where to go, and then I approached them. It was interesting for me to meet people, especially pretty girls who were not afraid of an unfamiliar guy (man) and were willing to talk. This was very different from the behavior of girls in our city, who, at best, ignored such attempts.
We got acquainted. The girls introduced themselves: Tanya and Masha said that they work as saleswomen in a department store. Of course, their names could have been fictitious, but they sounded natural; usually the fictitious names were non-Russian and pretentious, but the authenticity of their names worried me little. I also talked about myself, about the meeting with Ilizarov. They had not heard this name, but they liked my story. Then I asked if they had heard the names of Landau, Pasternak, Solzhenitsyn? Nobel laureates were unknown to them. I tried another area (art) – Tarkovsky, Ryazanov, Mikhalkov?
“They read me Mikhalkov’s poem for kids in my childhood,” said Tanya.
“Do you want to play “The Cities names?”
“It’s difficult,” Masha sighed, “We weren’t taught geography well.”
“Then we’ll just take a walk. Where do you usually go?”
“To the shops and to the cinema, but the shops are closed today, so we are relaxing from work, and there is nothing good in the movie theaters.”
“Then let’s go to a cafe, have a snack and drink coffee. Do you want something sweet? Do you like cakes? I’m inviting you.”
They were somehow embarrassed, looked down and… refused,
“We love to, but… we can’t.”
I was amazed. I didn’t understand anything.
“Can you tell me why?”
Here they completely embarrassed and even turned red, but finally squeezed out,
“We have no money.”
Now it was my turn to be embarrassed.
“Sweet girls, I didn’t invite you for your money, but as your friend. You have boyfriends, right? Are they inviting you?”
“Our boys invite us for our money.”
I was amazed. We would have flocks of guys running after such pretty girls and vying with each other to entertain and treat them.
“Then let’s play that you are my guest, and according to our rules, boys take care of girls. Don’t worry, I have money to feast you.”
They cheered up, but apparently were afraid of a prank.
“Why are you doing this?” they asked.
“Well, I immediately liked both of you, and I wanted to hit on you.”
They were clearly very pleased, but apparently feel awkward. We went to some modest cafe that the girls chose. I wanted to take coffee, but my new girlfriends advised against drinking “this”. Then I ordered tea, raisin buns and rum cakes. They tried to refuse from such abundance, but I didn’t want to hear their protests – the whole feast cost three or four rubles.
We had a snack and went outside.
“What are your plans for today? And where, in general, are your cavaliers?”
They burst out laughing at this word.
“Boys? They probably sleep after… drinking. We’re meeting at four today.”
“At the party?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“Dancing?”
“Dancing too.”
“Tell me, eh! May you? How do you spend your time?”
They looked at each other, not knowing for sure whether they could trust me, but apparently I had already earned their trust, and they told me.
“The boys bring vodka and “ink” (that’s what the cheap fortified wine was called). We are drinking. There are no food on the party, we just smoke. If there is music, someone starts dancing, but they don’t want to dance, they want to paw. And then we drink more, and… things happen.”
We walked along the street along the park. I imagined these “things” well. Back in the fifth grade, I drew all this quite well, but my mother found it and destroyed it.
“And how do you spend your time?” asked my companions, “Tell us, otherwise we have to leave soon for the party.”
And I told them. About feasts, and about Georgian dishes, how we drink delicious wine, dance, how we play the guitar and sing songs. When I started talking about charades, Tanya and Masha had tears in their eyes, and then I heard Georgian speech from aside. It was in the park, in the flower row, that they were selling carnations. Huge royal carnations with a subtle spicy aroma.
“Wait a minute,” I told the girls. “I’ll be back right now,” and jumped over the low parapet of the park.
“How much are the flowers?” I asked the seller in Georgian.
“Three rubles each. For you – two rubles each.”
“I need a lot. Two dozen. Will you give me for one ruble a piece?”
“A bandit! Do you want to rob me? OK. Take them, brother.”
The guy wrapped two bouquets at my request. I returned to the girls.
“This is for you,” I said, “Goodbye.”
Both began to sob and clung to me.
“You both are so nice, and I’m so sorry that we live in parallel worlds. But it’s time for me to fly away, and for you to return to your boys.”
The sobs turned into crying in whole voice.
“Why are you, my dears, killing yourself like this?”
“Nobody yet presented us with flowers!”
The girls kissed me as if they were seeing off a loved one to war. And in response I kissed their trembling lips, feeling the bitterness of tears on them and feeling myself as a sadist. A sadist from a parallel world.
A month flew by unnoticed. My sister, Maiya, who wanted to enroll in Foreign Languages, changed her mind thanks to my persuasion. There, as well as at the medical institute, places were sold.
“Who pays for languages?” I said, “Learn them like Izya did. And you need a specialty suitable for any city in any country.”
Maiya decided to enroll in programming at the Polytechnic Institute, but she did not seriously study mathematics and physics at school, and that summer she was not able to get into the institute.
My friends and I gathered at the seaside, and then Denis said,
“Starting September, we will have a position open at the Department of Physics at the Polytechnic University. Are you looking for a job? Or is it no longer necessary – are you moving to Kurgan?”
“I look forward for a response. It should have come a long time ago.”
“Better call. Otherwise, there will be no waiting for a vacancy in the department.”
I listened to his advice and called Valentin Pavlovich. The secretary answered the phone,
“Didn’t you know anything? While he was at waters, he felt worse. The bleeding started from the ulcer. During the operation they discovered cancer… with metastases. In a word, he quit and returned to his family home… to die…”
“Is Gavrila Abramovich at the institute?”
“He’s in Italy for two months, giving lectures, and from there he’ll go to the United States.”
I hung up. I honestly made one last attempt and didn’t know who else to turn to. The most correct thing would be to go to the US Navy Department, which sponsors research on regeneration. I should have thought about this more seriously. In the meantime, on the advice of Denis, I applied for a vacant position at the Polytechnic Institute, and we headed off to our beloved Black Sea.
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