Chapter 10

"Ward Number 1." The inscription on the building Konstantin approached. In his hands he held a bag containing juice, several rolls, and Voltaire's Philosophical Tales. He ascended the broad staircase, climbing two flights. Before him stood doors with a glass panel cut into the middle. He pressed the bell on the right.

"Who are you here to see?" came a voice from behind the half-opened door.

"Evidently they take things seriously here," thought Kostya. "I'm here for Henry From. I was told I could find him here."

"And who are you to him?" The voice began to irritate Kostya slightly.

"I'm his brother. May I come in?"

"Yes, of course." The door opened. Kostya entered the corridor of the ward. The corridor was not large. The main corridor could accommodate only an old table, three stools beside it, and a sofa against the wall. If one proceeded straight from the entrance, the corridor narrowed. There, on either side, two white doors were positioned. The right wall of the main corridor was marked by only a single door.

"Wait here, I'll call him now," interrupted a woman in white, cutting short his examination of the premises, and she entered through the sole right-hand door. After several minutes she emerged with Henry. Henry, wearing only a shirt and athletic trousers, began to smile as he approached. The woman left them, returning through the door.

For some reason, at this very moment Konstantin recalled his first meeting with Henry. Elizabeth had introduced them. Henry had been the boyfriend of her friend Yulia. Once, Liza had invited Kostya for a walk. To say that he had awaited this walk would be to say nothing at all. He awaited each subsequent one just the same. Perhaps he awaits them still. During this walk they had stopped at a café where several of Liza's friends were gathered. It was then that Kostya met Henry. Why she had introduced him to her friends at that time, he did not know. Kostya had been rather unsociable then; in essence, he remained so to this day.

"So how did you end up here?" Kostya broke the silence.

"You know, I myself didn't quite understand. I said that I felt oppressed, that for several days I'd been in a depressive state, that I was somewhat anxious at work. One doctor listened to me. Then another, and after the third, two fellows approached and said, 'Come with us.' That's the whole story," Henry concluded.

"Your appearance, to be honest, is rather poor. How long do they intend to keep you? You didn't, I hope, speak of misanthropy or Nietzsche's philosophy?" asked Konstantin.

"Perhaps I did... who knows, it all happened so quickly, I didn't really understand anything. They said I'd stay for a couple of weeks, and then we'll see." Henry moved to the table. "The sofa is somehow uncomfortable."

"Here, by the way, I brought you something." Kostya handed the bag to Henry and sat at the other end of the table, facing the sofa where he had just been sitting. "In short, don't philosophize too much here anymore. Don't speak to them about Nietzsche, or about the Aryan race, don't mention misanthropy, depression," Kostya instructed Henry.

"I've already realized there's no one to talk to here. Psychiatry is a fiction; it never helps," Henry concluded.

"And why is there only one nurse here, and where are all the madmen?" asked Kostya, attempting somehow to dilute the rather unpleasant situation.

"They're all in there. There's a large space inside, despite this small corridor, and all the doctors are home—today is a day off. They usually sit in there." Henry pointed toward the narrow continuation of the corridor. Kostya turned around. Now he could see the inscription "Reception" on the doors. Henry was saying something more about the inhabitants of this place. Kostya did not particularly delve into the essence of his words. His gaze was arrested by two or three sheets of paper beneath the low sofa on which they had been sitting. "What rubbish is this? It doesn't seem to have been there before. Or did I not notice it at first? They're covered in writing? Hmm... and what might madmen write?"

"Kostya, when will you come again?" asked Henry.

Without taking his eyes from the papers, Kostya replied, "I don't know, perhaps next week, after work. I'm thinking of calling Liza. Surely she cannot be so indifferent—you are, after all, in such a predicament. Perhaps we'll even come together."

"All right then." Henry seemed about to say something more but stopped. "I'll call the attendant so she can open the door for you." Henry disappeared behind the door from which he had recently emerged.

Kostya stood up. He stood alone in the corridor. Thirty seconds passed; nothing happened. He bent down sharply, retrieved the papers he had noticed, crumpled them, and thrust them into the pocket of his jacket. No sooner had he accomplished this than the nurse appeared in the doorway. With quick steps she reached the entrance door, opened it, and said goodbye.

Kostya crossed the threshold of his home. Without removing his jacket, he proceeded to the kitchen. He brewed himself some coffee. "I wonder, will Elizabeth agree to visit Henry with me next time? Although why would she need that? The times of our friendship were confined to those three years." He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, immediately realizing he still had not removed it. He extracted the recently discovered papers from the madhouse. "How far I've sunk, shoving all manner of rubbish into my pockets." He smoothed out the papers; now in his hands lay four sheets, covered with writing on both sides. "And why did I pick them up? Found something to read, so to speak—reading material straight from the asylum. Oh, Kostya, Kostya. Although, I must admit, it feels as though one is holding some kind of treasure. True, I've never held treasure in my hands, not counting my books, of course," Konstantin continued to jest mentally. He had no conception of how close to the truth he was. All his irony, all his sarcasm vanished the moment his gaze touched upon the first words of the parchment.