Ivan Bormental

The city had been wrapped in a cold, grey haze since morning.

October had settled over Moscow like a heavy wool blanket, filling the streets with damp air and a peculiar silence that appeared between the rattling of tramcars and the distant growl of engines. The sky hung low above the rooftops, swollen with clouds the colour of lead, and a fine mist drifted lazily through the streets, neither rain nor fog.

Ivan Arnoldovich Bormental walked briskly along the pavement, his dark shoes striking the wet stones with measured precision.

It had been a long day.

Since dawn he had been at a medical conference held on the opposite side of the city, listening to endless reports from surgeons and physicians eager to present their newest methods and discoveries. Under ordinary circumstances Ivan would have enjoyed such discussions immensely; medicine was one of the few subjects capable of awakening a truly boyish enthusiasm in him. Yet after nearly ten hours spent in crowded halls and overheated lecture rooms, even his remarkable patience had begun to wear thin.

His grey jacket sat perfectly on his broad shoulders despite the long day, and not a single crease disturbed the black vest beneath it. The knot of his dark tie remained neat, as though he had only just left home. Such attention to appearance had become second nature long ago.

A gust of wind swept along the street, carrying a handful of yellow leaves across his path.

Ivan lifted his eyes toward the darkening sky.

“Rain before midnight,” he murmured to himself.

His voice was calm and low.

The young surgeon’s face bore its usual serious expression, thoughtful and composed. Yet his wide grey-blue eyes remained lively, constantly observing the world around him. Those who knew him often remarked that his gaze betrayed his youth far more than his features did. Even the faint, almost invisible moustache above his lip failed to lend him any real severity.

As he turned onto a quieter street, his thoughts drifted naturally toward Professor Philip Philipovich Preobrazhensky.

A faint smile appeared.

The professor would almost certainly be sitting in his study by now, surrounded by books and papers, perhaps grumbling at some article he disagreed with. Ivan could practically hear the familiar voice already.

“Nonsense, dear doctor. Absolute nonsense. If people spent half as much effort studying as they do talking, medicine would have progressed twice as far.”

The smile lingered.

Philip Philipovich had taught him much more than surgery. During his university years, the professor had shaped him in ways that extended far beyond medicine. Manners, discipline, dignity, respect—all had been lessons as valuable as anatomy and physiology.

Ivan remembered those years fondly.

Others had spent their evenings chasing romances, attending dances, or creating scandals that spread through the student dormitories by morning. Ivan had done none of those things. He had studied relentlessly, often under the professor’s demanding eye, driven by a determination that bordered on stubbornness.

And somehow Philip Philipovich had always known exactly how much more he was capable of achieving.

The wind strengthened again