by Elena Garton
Translated by Elena Leonoff
Mark Fedotych was dying. He was an old émigré and lay in a refugee camp hospital. He was dying and he knew it, there was no saving him, the dropsy had won out, his stomach was swollen, huge and glassy. And when it reached his heart, it would all be over. He knew it and his wife, Maria Ivanovna, knew it too, she was crying at his bedside. Everyone knew it: doctors, nurses, and his best friend, Semyon Semyonych. Everyone pitied him and awaited his death.