Cancer Ward by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Page A

make a bi-ig mistake.”
    â€œWet blanket!” Zoya shook her head from side to side. Then she put her hand in the big orange bag and brought out a piece of embroidery, which she unfolded. It was just a small piece, drawn across a frame. A green crane was already stitched in; a fox and tankard were outlined.
    Kostoglotov looked at it as if it was something miraculous.
    â€œYou do embroidery ?”
    â€œWhat’s so surprising?”
    â€œI never imagined a modern medical student would do that sort of handwork.”
    â€œYou’ve never watched girls doing embroidery?”
    â€œOnly when I was a child perhaps, during the twenties. Even then people thought it was bourgeois. You’d have got such a drubbing at the Young Communists’ meeting.”
    â€œIt’s very popular these days. Haven’t you seen it?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œYou disapprove?”
    â€œNo; why should I? It’s nice, gives you a comfortable feeling. I admire it.” She stitched away, while he looked on admiringly. She watched her work, he watched her. In the yellow light of the lamp her golden eyelashes glimmered, and the little open corner of her dress shone golden too.
    â€œTeddy bear with the golden hair,” he whispered.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Still bent over her work, she raised her eyebrows.
    He repeated it.
    â€œOh yes?” Zoya seemed to have expected more of a compliment than that. “If nobody embroiders where you come from, I suppose they have masses of moulinet in the stores?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œ Moulinet. These threads here—green, blue, red, yellow. They’re very hard to come by here.”
    â€œ Moulinet. I’ll remember to ask. If there’s any I’ll send you some without fail. Or if it turns out we have limited supplies, perhaps it would be simpler for you to move out there?”
    â€œWhere’s that? Where do you live?”
    â€œI suppose you could say—in the virgin lands.”
    â€œSo, you’re a virgin-lander?”
    â€œI mean, when I went there, nobody thought they were the virgin lands. But now it seems they are and virgin-landers come out to us. When you graduate, why don’t you apply to come out? I shouldn’t think they’ll refuse. They wouldn’t refuse anyone who applied to join us.”
    â€œIs it that bad?”
    â€œNot at all. Only people have distorted ideas about what’s good and what’s bad. To live in a five-story cage, with people banging about and walking to and fro above your head and the radio blaring on all sides, is considered good. But to live as a hardworking tiller of the soil in a mud hut on the edge of the steppe—that’s considered the height of misfortune.”
    He wasn’t joking at all, his words had the weary conviction of people who have no desire to strengthen their argument even by raising their voice.
    â€œBut is it steppe or desert?”
    â€œSteppe. No sand dunes. But there’s a bit of grass. Zhantak grows there, camel thorn, you know. It’s thorn, but in July it produces pinkish flowers and even a very delicate smell. The Kazakhs make a hundred medicines out of it.”
    â€œIt’s in Kazakhstan, then?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWhat’s it called?”
    â€œUsh-Terek.”
    â€œIs it an aul? ” *
    â€œYes, if you like, an aul, or a regional administrative center. There’s a hospital. Only there aren’t enough doctors. Do come.”
    He narrowed his eyes.
    â€œDoesn’t anything else grow there?”
    â€œOh yes, there’s agriculture, but under irrigation. Beets, maize. In the kitchen gardens there’s everything you could wish for. Only you have to work hard, with the bucket. In the bazaar the Greeks always have fresh milk, the Kurds have mutton, and the Germans pork. ** They’re such picturesque bazaars, you should see them! Everyone wears national dress,