Translation of Caroline Walton
The monitor above the door lit up: ‘Alexander Krasnoslavovich, the doctor will see you now.’ Sinyakov rose from the orange Ikea sofa, sighed and pushed open the door into the surgery.
The doctor on duty was an otolaryngologist, or in plain language – ‘ear, nose and throat.’ To him she was simply "Lor." Her head was adorned with the indispensable attribute of the profession - a round shining crown with a hole in it. "It looks like a reflector,” thought Sinyakov irrelevantly.
- What’s the trouble? - asked Lor in a friendly manner, without breaking off from her keyboard. Sinyakov swallowed and whispered, jabbing at his throat:
I’ve lost my voice, Doctor.
- Open your mouth please.
Lor moved the disc of the mirror towards her face and firmly probed his mouth with a rough spatula. The eye in the hole was blue and cheerful.
- Say Aaaaaaa!
- Uuuugh- the patient lowed.
The doctor thoughtfully threw the stick into a bucket with the inscription ‘For second class clinical waste.’ Turning the mirror upwards, for the first time she looked at the patient with interest.
- Alexander ... er ... Krasnoslavovich, you have torn vocal chords! Severe bruising! – The doomed patient nodded.
- Where did you shout so much?
- At a Putin rally - Sinyakov confessed.
The merry twinkle in the doctor's eyes clouded over with doubt and pity. The pause dragged out. Sinyakov tried to explain, but his throat was constricted by pain. He just waved his hand.
- You mustn’t talk! – Lor took the matter into her own hands – You will have to remain silent for a week. Register for the procedures and come back tomorrow, - she smiled encouragingly. -We'll cure you.
For the whole of the following week Alexander Sinyakov conscientiously visited Lor’s office. With the thick curved needle of a large syringe, the Aesculapius scrupulously squirted peach oil and some sort of antibiotic onto his vocal chords. Gradually his voice returned.
At first in a soft and fluty voice, and then in a stronger one, the patient told the doctor the story of his illness.
Alexander Krasnoslavovich Sinyakov, until recently a brave fire fighter, had in the past few years been working peacefully at a large metallurgical company. His job was to check all purchase contracts for the supply of ore and other raw materials for Siberian plants, where the metal was hammered day and night by stern Siberian metallurgists. Sinyakov himself had never been further than the ‘hundred and first kilometre’ outside Moscow, where his mother-in-law had a dacha, but these metallurgical giants of the Soviet five-year plans were beautifully portrayed in photos, and the foundry workers highly praised from far and wide. Like him, they worked with fire!
Elections were taking place in March. The board of directors appointed Sinyakov responsible for meeting a group of Ural workers who had volunteered to take their holidays and come to Moscow to participate in a rally on the occasion of the presidential elections. The day before, the Ural group leader reported that they had all arrived safely in Belokamennaya and checked into the Alpha hotel in Izmailovo.
Towards evening Sinyakov dressed. He pulled on some thermal underwear, a ski suit and a ski cap with fleece lining and went to the meeting place near Revolution Square metro station. A torrent of people with flushed faces and neatly-made placards and banners surged all around him along Tverskaya Street, spilling into the road, and along Mokhovaya towards Manege Square. By the clothes and weather-beaten faces he could guess they were not from Moscow and that they were working people. A small stage had been erected in front of the Manege, right at the intersection. "Combat battalion commander! Father commander!!..." blared from loudspeakers. Sinyakov’s mobile rang; a voice asked: - Krasnoslavich! Where should we go? There are shitloads of people here... - the call was cut off. Sinyakov called back. He could not get through. Finally he managed to connect. The din of voices and music grew louder. Sinyakov shouted into his phone: - Where are you?! Which station?!! – but he could not hear the reply. His face was flushed; he wiped the sweat from his cap. People walked around him, laughing. The frosty air hummed.
He stopped shouting when he could no longer get through. He thrust the mobile deep into his inner pocket. Pressed from all sides, he was carried right up to the stage. There, Kolya Rastorguyev stopped singing and began to shake hands with some guys in jeans. Sinyakov suddenly began to see clearly. He recognized them. Ten metres in front of him Putin and Medvedev had modestly climbed onto the platform next to Rastorguyev. The crowd exploded with cries of "Hurrah! Hurrah!!" They all waved their flags. And right by the stage Alexander Krasnoslavovich caught sight of the Polevskoy Cryolite Workers’ banner. His nose twitched: "My comrades. Lads after my own heart.”
Putin took the microphone: “We will never surrender,” - he began in a ringing voice, “our victory to anyone!” And everyone shouted: “Never surrender!” Sinyakov did not shout. Snaking his way through the crowd, he burst through to where his comrades from the Urals stood. He clapped the shoulders of all those within reach. He could no longer speak; he had lost his voice.
The President paused, his eyes shining like spotlights, and Sinyakov saw a tear roll down the leader's broad cheek. It was understandable; Sinyakov’s own face was wet and his nose had been dripping for a long time.
The next morning news shots of Putin’s tears flew around the globe, while Sinyakov went to hospital