Finally Ivan decided: "All right! I'll go there. It's pretty much on my way in any case. I'll do the right thing. I'll go see her. I'll say thank you to her one more time. I'll explain to her: 'Look, this is how it is…' " And he decided to think about "this" on the journey.

When he walked into the hospital ward he did not notice her right away. Knowing she was seriously wounded, he pictured her lying there, swathed in bandages, unmoving. It had not occurred to him that the news was two months old.

"There she is, your Tatyana Averina," said the nurse who showed him in. "Don't stay too long. The meal's in half an hour. You can go into the little garden."

Tatyana was standing at the window; her hand hung at her side, holding a book.

"Good day, Tatyana," he said in rather too jovial a voice, offering her his hand.

She did not stir. Then she put the book down on the windowsill and clumsily offered him her left hand. Her right arm was bandaged. From all the beds curious stares focused on them. They went down into the dusty little garden and sat on a bench with peeling paint.

"So. How's your health? How are you? Tell me," he said in the same overly cheerful voice.

"What's there to tell? You can see. I was hit just toward the end."

"Hit, hit you say… but that's nothing at all. And there was that nurse talking about a serious wound! I thought you…"

He lost his composure and fell silent. She gave him a long look.

"I've got a piece of shrapnel lodged under my fifth rib, Vanya. They don't dare touch it. The doctor says the shrapnel's of no account – a cobbler's nail. But if they begin tinkering with it, there's a risk it could make things worse. If they leave it alone maybe it'll give no trouble."