“But he only has one arm.”

“But he really wants to learn. He’s embarrassed by his arm so he’ll refuse at first. But you need to be persistent.”

“I can be persistent,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“My father says persistence is a polite way of being annoying.”

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

With a slight smile, she acknowledged her considerable expertise. But the smile he had worked for wilted when the trauma doors swung open and Sonja walked in. Each step produced a rattle from her bleached-white scrubs. Pink veins cobwebbed her eyes. “You’re late,” Sonja snapped, completely oblivious to the important work happening there, on the waiting-room chairs, between them.

He raised his eyebrows to Havaa and then followed Sonja into a corridor cloaked in curtains of pungent ammonia. She turned into the staff canteen, where, in the corner, the notorious ice machine brooded. Sheets and towels draped from clotheslines and silver instruments shifted in pots of boiling water. Duct tape covered the windowpanes and the overhead emergency lights cast a dull blue glow across the walls. Even in war conditions he had expected Hospital No. 6 to be more glamorous than this.

“Was everything all right with Havaa last night?” he asked.

Sonja didn’t turn to him. “Let’s say she’s an inexperienced house-guest,” she said, and felt the hanging sheets for moisture. She handed him scrub tops from the farthest clothesline. Still damp.

“What about the ones I wore yesterday?” he asked. “I left them in a cupboard down the corridor.”

“No, they need to be clean. And just as important, they need to be white.”

“Why white?”

She leaned against the wall and slid her hands into the cavernous pockets of her scrub bottoms. He concentrated on her face as if preparing to draw her portrait — the angles, ratios and proportions of her features — all so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes.

“Our appearance is as important as anything we do. Our patients need to believe we operate no differently from a hospital in Omsk,” she said, and, elbow deep, pulled a cigarette from her pocket.

“So the perception of professionalism is more important than being professional?” It was an idea he could stand behind.

She raised her chin and blew a line of smoke at the ceiling. “We’re three people running a hospital that requires a staff of five hundred. We need to appear to be consummate professionals because it’s the only way we’ll fool anyone into thinking we are.”

“So, right now, because you’re smoking a cigarette and I’m not, I’m the more professional of us two?”

Her laughter rang more pleasantly now that it wasn’t at his expense, and he watched with satisfaction as she dipped the ember into a puddle collecting beneath the clothesline, and flicked the butt into the waste-basket. “You’re walking two steps ahead of your shadow.”

“About that, I was thinking that since this is my first day, it might be better if I didn’t begin working one-on-one with patients immediately.”

“That might be the best idea you’ve ever had,” she said, and handed him the rest of the scrubs. When he began to undress, she took her time looking away.

Patients funneled into the trauma ward — a young man with a deep tubercular cough, an elderly woman whose hair had caught on fire, two teenagers who had beaten away half their faces as they negotiated the ownership of a supposedly lucky rooster’s claw — and Akhmed, thankful, attended to none of them. It might feel good to be back between the earpieces of a stethoscope, but it felt much better to be in the canteen, where no calamity greater than a cross word from Deshi befell him. He spent the morning following her, nodding politely as she denounced the Russians for various earthly ills, and a few — volcanoes, winter, her arthritic hips — that fell within God’s jurisdiction.

“If we could, we’d blame constipation on the Russians,” he said.

“I already do. Roughage is so rare.” She picked a pair of brown trousers from the pile on the floor and emptied its pockets on the counter. A scatter of folded paper, loose change, keys, plastic cards, and lint fell out. She slid all but the identity card and loose change into the trash.

“Anything good in this one?” he asked. It was the fourteenth pair of trousers Deshi had laid on the counter that morning, the fourteenth she had searched for money, cigarettes, whatever else the dead man hadn’t thought to use before he went on his way. “Maybe a plane ticket?”

“A plane ticket.” She waved her hand to dismiss the very breath that carried so stupid a question. “Where would he go, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Grozny.”

“Grozny?” She gaped at him. Every Saturday from 1976 through 1978 Deshi had met the seventh of her twelve great loves, an oil geologist, in the suite of the Grozny Intourist Hotel, until the Saturday night she walked in to find him occupied with another nurse; she would never forgive the city for harboring that man. “Is he serious?”

“I’ve never been to Grozny,” Akhmed said.

“If he could go anywhere, he’d choose Grozny?”

“I’ve never been there before,” he said softly. In the decade and a half since he’d left medical school, he’d forgotten just how wide the world stretched beyond his village, just how provincial and unremarkable his little life was when compared with nearly anything. Deshi, who, judging from her tone of disapproval, would be impressed with nothing short of a circumnavigation of the globe, was quick to remind him.

“Unbelievable,” she sighed, and turned her back to him. She glanced at the identity card to see if the trousers belonged to an acquaintance, then tossed it into a shoebox filled with several dozen others. It was a simple gesture, no more than a flick of her fingers, performed without malice or contempt, but with complete disinterest, and it cut through Akhmed like a fin through water. In her indifference he saw the truth of a world he didn’t want to believe in, one in which a human being could be discarded as easily as pocket lint. But Deshi was no longer paying attention to him. “Grozny,” she muttered. “Small-minded and an idiot doctor. He’d probably prescribe kalina berries for pneumonia. And that gargoyle squatting where his nose should be. Long enough to keep the tips of his toes dry in a rain shower.”

She turned the trouser legs inside out and spread them on the counter; a pouch protruded from the inseam, just below the knee, where it was sewn in with black thread. She ran a razor blade across the stitching, and removed a few crumpled bills and a folded sheet of notepaper. Akhmed’s stomach clenched as she reached toward the trash can with the note. “Wait,” he said. He knew what was written on it, knew the time had passed to provide for any final request, but asked anyway. “What does the note say?”

Deshi frowned. “ ‘90 October the 25th Road, Shali,’ ” she read. “ ‘Return me for burial.’ Too late, my friend. You should have stitched your note to the outside of your trousers.”

“Where is the body?”

“Already in the clouds. It’s sacrilege, I know, but they burn nearly every body that isn’t claimed. Can’t come by a body bag these days. The Feds requisition them to make field banyas while on patrol. The strangest thing I’ve ever seen, three hundred soldiers, naked as the day they were born, huddled within black plastic bags that trapped the steam of cold water poured over stone fires. Only a Russian could find pleasure inside a body bag.”

As she refolded the note and dropped it into the trash can, he wanted to reach out, to snatch the tumbling rectangle before it landed and was lost among the last words of two dozen others who died far from their villages, who were pitched by strangers into furnaces, who were buried in cloud cover and wouldn’t return home until the next snowfall. Akhmed’s own address was written on a slip of folded paper and stitched into his left trouser leg, where with every step it chafed against his leg, awaiting the decent soul that would one day carry him, should he die away from home.