“We Are Sorry To Report…”

An office- an architect drafter’s office at that- reveals a desk. Chaotically strewn are piles of crinkled drafts, notes, and the odd collection of blown-glass ashtrays well brimmed with squashed cigarettes. 

This fellow’s an avid smoker, and in fact, right now, he takes a terse drag in vexation of his glowing cigarette. His supervisor is a bellowing dictator, demanding the impossible from nothing, the drafter silently fumes. 

He sighs, the smoke huffs from his widened nostrils. He picks his pencil again, smooths a new paper over a small space he’s cleared off on this organized mess of a desk. 

Before his lead scratches on the paper, his phone rings- “Another nuisance! Damn them all!” he wordlessly curses. He picks up the receiver. “This is Novokshonov-what is it?” He answers gruffly. His only goal is to complete that damned draft for his supervisor today. All else can wait.

A solid voice, though crackled by the faulty connection, answers back- “Is this Matvei Andreyevich?”

“Yes. With whom am I speaking to?”

The caller pauses a moment, as though steeling himself. “This is Dr. Mirin from ******* Hospital in Novocherkassk.” A brief pause. An inhale, the doctor asks-

“Was your father Andrei Danilovich Novokshonov?” 

A sigh breaks the cryptic introduction. 

The drafter, now known as Matvei Andreyevich, raises a brow of puzzled concern. “Yes…he IS.” The use of “was” alarms Matvei. His father is still alive. Isn’t he?

Before Matvei can protest, the doctor continues.

“We regret to inform you that your father…died of a stroke at the Railway Station. He passed this late morning. We are sorry, Matvei Andreyevich.”

Matvei’s mind cannot comprehend this announcement. As though a great clenching grip has seized his throat, he gulps, and inhales frantically. “Are you sure? This is the same Andrei Danilovich Novokshonov?”

“Yes, Comrade Novokshonov- the authorities found your business card in his wallet- and there’s few people with such a surname.”

Matvei silently protests at this confirmation- he remembered giving his father his business card, as Matvei is “married” to his work, and his office is his “home”. 

“A stroke! What was he doing at the Railway?” Matvei demands. He’d prefer anger to mask the thunderbolt of grief that wracks him. He cannot comprehend that spry bull of his father, though grey-haired, dead. And a stroke of all things. 

“I cannot tell you, Comrade!  I only regret being the messenger here. But please be assured, we did try to make his last moments peaceful, and he died in unconsciousness. That is the best way to go, you must know.”

Matvei grips the phone with an iron strength, as though wrenching the receiver will make the reality vanish and the call never occurred. 

He bites his lip. “Thank you, doctor.” He manages to utter. A litany of regrets and fond memories only heightened his shock and grief.

“Of course. You and his relations will make the arrangements for him?”

Matvei recalls his brother and sister, Mishatka and Pelusya- their numbers weren’t on his father, no doubt. They’re disorganized that way. 

“Yes, we’ll take care of Dad.” Matvei hangs up. He picks the receiver and swipes the numbers on the rotary.