He was dying, most probably, just like me, without anyone's help, lying on his back, all entangled with wires and tubes, penetrating even his bladder, he was dying not in the least concerned about metabolism, with a horse's dose of narcotic in his blood, with burns and bumps on the back of his head from the electrodes to awaken the heart the moment it is restarted.
I remember Akhliman in the ward watching me share out the pomegranate. He smiled his broad, kindly smile and said:
“I don't know why – I'm very, very sad.”
“What? Be a man!” I tried to reassure him. But looking into his eyes, I was horrified: in his eyes, dark as currants, the grief of death was already concentrated. I could not help being frightened. I looked in horror at Akhliman, as if at Satan choosing himself a destiny.
