Plastika

Leaving the house, she felt like a spy heading out on a secret mission. The air was cold and sharp, but it was invigorating. She walked with a fast, confident step, honed by years of Moscow life. But today, that step had a special purpose.

The «Esteticus» clinic was located on a quiet side street in the center of Moscow, in a restored old mansion. No flashy signs, just a modest bronze plaque by a massive oak door. The door was opened by a silent, elegant doorman in livery.

Inside, it smelled of expensive perfume, fresh flowers, and sterile cleanliness. The silence was absolute, broken only by the quiet chime of the elevator. The interior was minimalist: light wood, white marble, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the snow-dusted crowns of century-old linden trees. It looked less like a medical facility and more like a luxury hotel boutique or a gallery of modern art. Even the air seemed filtered and paid for.

An administrator – an impeccable woman in a perfectly fitting white coat over a business dress – approached her immediately. The smile on her face was as polished and sterile as everything around her.

«Svetlana Orlova? Welcome. Please, come to the waiting area. The doctor will be with you shortly.»

She was led to a small, cozy lounge with ivory-colored sofas and a low table holding fresh magazines and a carafe of water with lemon slices. Svetlana sat down but didn’t drink or flip through the magazines. She sat with a straight back, her cold fingers clasped on her knees, and waited.

A few minutes later, the same administrator returned.

«Dr. Ignatov is ready to see you now. Please follow me.»

Svetlana’s heart gave a momentary lurch, but she immediately pulled herself together. She walked along the silent corridor, on soft carpet, past closed doors behind which miracles of transformation were presumably taking place.

The door to the doctor’s office was open. The administrator ushered her in and quietly withdrew, closing the door.

The office was spacious and bright. A huge window, with soft snow falling outside, filled the room with a cold northern light. Shelves with medical literature, diplomas in strict frames, a computer desk. And in the center – a massive table, resembling a jeweler’s workbench, behind which he sat.

Dr. Arseny Vladimirovich Ignatov.

He looked up at her. In the internet photos, he had seemed cold and arrogant. In person, his face was more detached, focused on his inner world. He was around fifty; his own face – with correct, sharp features – was an impeccable example of his work. He didn’t smile, just gave a slight nod, gesturing for her to sit in the chair opposite.

«Svetlana Orlova?» His voice was even, velvety, devoid of any emotional note. A voice that could cut glass.

«Yes,» her own voice sounded slightly hoarse, and she cleared her throat again. «Hello, Doctor.»

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His gaze, that same penetrating and cold one, swept over her face not as the face of a living person, but as a map on which he needed to find landmarks.

«So, what brings you to me? „What are your wishes?“» he asked, dispensing with formalities.

Svetlana felt everything inside her clench. She had rehearsed the answer to this question in front of the mirror dozens of times. But now all the memorized phrases seemed stupid and contrived.

«I… I want to change the shape of my nose,» she exhaled, feeling her face burn. «Remove the hump. Make it… straighter. Neater.»

Dr. Ignatov silently stood up and approached her. He picked up a thin metal spatula from the table.

«May I?» He didn’t wait for an answer; his fingers were already touching her face.

His touch was impersonal, precise, like a mechanic inspecting an engine. He gently turned her head, studying her profile, full face, three-quarter view. He measured the proportions with his eyes, the distance between her eyes, the width of the bridge, the length of the tip. He was so close she could see the finest wrinkles around his eyes and smell a faint scent of antiseptic and expensive cologne.

«Hmm,» he uttered something unintelligible, stepping back and sitting down at the desk again. «Anatomically, there are no complex obstacles. The cartilage is pliable, the bone is thin. Technically, the task is feasible.»

He said it as if they were discussing watch repair, not the replacement of her face. His impassivity was depressing. She had expected some acknowledgment of her pain, an understanding that this wasn’t a whim but a deeply suffered decision. But he saw only anatomy.

«I… I’ve been thinking about this for years,» she began, feeling she had to explain herself, justify her presence here. «It’s… it’s tormented me my whole life. Even in school…»

He raised a hand, gently but firmly stopping her.

«I don’t need your history, Svetlana Vladimirovna,» he said, and for the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible weariness sounded in his voice. «My job is to correct what you don’t like, from the point of view of aesthetics and harmony. Your psychological reasons are not my area of expertise. I am not a psychotherapist. I am a surgeon.»