Reading Chekhov

Everything was now in slow motion. The young man, ignorant of the occasion, could hear someone laboring dreadfully for breath in the other room. He found a place for the tray and glasses and tried discreetly to find somewhere to put the ice-bucket. The doctor, a big ponderous man with a dense moustache, gave him a tip and he went through the door as if dazed.

Schwohrer, not given to displays of emotion, opened the champagne bottle with his usual quiet efficiency. And perhaps because he thought it unseemly he eased the cork out so as to minimize the loud pop. He poured three glasses and replaced the cork. Olga freed her fingers for a moment from Chekhov's burning hand. She rearranged his pillow and put the cool glass of champagne against his palm.

As I read these paragraphs, I marveled at the specificity of the new details-the telephone in the alcove, the doctor's "quiet efficiency," the cut-crystal glasses, the sleepy young porter with the half-buttoned jacket. Could Callow have stumbled upon a cache of new primary material in a Moscow attic? I looked for notes at the back of his book and found none. Then something stirred in my memory. I began to feel that I had met the sleepy young porter before. I went to the bookcase and got out a collection of Raymond Carver's stories, Where I'm Calling From (1989). In a story entitled "Errand" I read: CheidlOV was hallucinating, talking about sailors, and there were snatches of something about the Japanese. "You don't put ice on an empty stomach," he said when she tried to place an ice pack on his chest…

[Dr. Schwohrer] went over to an alcove where there was a telephone on the wall. He read the instructions for using the device He picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, and did as the instructions told him. When someone finally answered, Dr. Schwohrer ordered a bottle of the hotel's best champagne. "How many glasses?" he was asked. "Three glasses!" the doctor shouted into the mouthpiece. "And hurry, do you hear?"…

The champagne was brought to the door by a tired-looking young man whose blond hair was standing up. The trousers of his uniform were wrinkled, the creases gone, and in his haste he'd missed a loop while buttoning his jacket…

The young man entered the room carrying a silver ice bucket with the champagne in it and a silver tray with three cut-crystal glasses. He found a place on the table for the bucket and glasses, all the while craning his neck, trying to see into the other room, where someone panted ferociously for breath. It was a dreadful, harrowing sound…

Methodically, the way he did everything, the doctor went about the business of working the cork out of the bottle. He did it in such a way as to minimize, as much as possible, the festive explosion. He poured three glasses and, out of habit, pushed the cork back into the neck of the bottle… Olga momentarily released her grip on Chekhov's hand-a hand, she said later, that burned her fingers. She arranged another pillow behind his head. Then she put the cool glass of champagne against Chekhov's palm…