(Published. Neva, №9, 2020)
The doctor did everything that a good doctor was supposed to do: he shook his head, stroked a handful of his beard, and dipped his glasses into the cardiogram. He concluded that the prognosis was distressing.
The patient, a man of about fifty-three who, judging by his face, had lived a robust life, responded with a sob. Drops of sweat made their way down his pale face. He brought his clenched fists to his mouth and bit the knuckles of his index fingers. He swayed, leaning his head on his shoulder from side to side.
“Do you feel like you’re going to pass out?” asked the doctor.
A nurse appeared and pressed the patient’s sweaty head to her cozy stomach with her palm.
“Is that better?” the doctor asked.
The patient mumbled.
“Zenaida, let me breathe,” the doctor said.
“Can I…,” the patient whispered exhaustedly.
The doctor frowned.
“Cancel?” the troubled patient whispered even more quietly.
“How do you propose we do that?” the doctor scoffed.
“At least postpone,” said the patient, caving a bit, “for health reasons. Heart murmurs, I’m serious.”
“The only valid reason is death,” the doctor snapped, “I am supposed to change the law for you because you have heart murmurs?”
“Anesthesia?” The patient whispered and, ashamed of his own weakness, added, “Local.” “Can’t do anesthesia,” the doctor reminded him. “It would be totally illogical for this case. Just think about it. Ten lashes. A bull whip. Plus, the intervals prescribed were doubled. You want that with your heart?”
The patient gulped convulsively, and the nurse wiped the moisture from his temples with a paper towel.
“Is there really nothing you can do?” asked the patient. “I’ll pay. You know I will.”
“I know,” the doctor agreed. “Pay strictly according to the price list. If you want, for example, you could get an imported whip or a separate ward afterwards.”
“I’m going to die,” the patient wailed, swaying side to side.
The nurse shifted heavily from one foot to the other behind his back.
“You, my friend, underestimate prison doctors,” the doctor said, annoyed.
“They’ll keep you here for three days. Where are they sending you? To the Southern District? They’ve got excellent executioners there. Ph.D. candidates in science, writers. You aren’t a writer by any chance, are you?”
“Mathematician.”
“That’s a shame. I’d assign you to someone who specializes in modern literature. The ones who make it out of those courses alive get big rewards.”
“Really?” the guest asked.
“What are you really saying?” the doctor snapped back. “Really, actually? What I can do to help? Outside of the law?”
The patient took a deep breathe and buried his head into the nurse’s underbelly. He tried to focus on the bridge of the doctor’s glasses, but his bleary gaze kept slipping back to the greasy gilding of the frame.
“According to the law,” the doctor paused, “you can transfer up to half of your lashes to eligible people. Only individuals, of course.”
Apparently, the last phrase was a joke, as the doctor croaked dryly after it and the patient felt a flutter in the nurse’s stomach. The, however, patient didn’t find it that funny.
“You with us, buddy?” the doctor asked sympathetically.
The patient, looking senselessly around the room, didn’t say a thing.
“Zenaida, add some punch,” the doctor ordered, and a fresh wave of ammonia perked the patient up.
“How does that work? Transferring lashes?” the patient asked again.
“Mutual consent,” the doctor explained. “Give us a list and Zenaida will send out notices.”
“Give a what?” asked the patient.
“The names of the candidates,” the doctor explained. “Any friends who’d take the whip for you. Each one can take one lash. Plus, volunteers get immediate rehab. No health risks, pure adrenaline.”
“I didn’t know you could do that,” the patient perked up. He even tried to sit up strait and moved his head up Zenaida’s stomach a bit higher.
“Give me a day, I’ll definitely find five people. I’ll get to a phone and start looking right away.”
“You also make an announcement,” the doctor said sarcastically, “that you need volunteers.”
“That’s a good idea,” the patient went along with the joke. “They’ll definitely respond to an ad. Some people love that kinda thing. Especially if I toss them a little…
“A little extra, or what?” said the doctor.
“Well, ya,” the patient nodded his head.
“Come on,” the doctor replied. “A lot of you are so smart. You can’t do it for money. And in general, you can’t choose strangers, only good friends. The therapy is knowing that fact. And if a friend takes your lashes, then you owe them some compassion. Otherwise, what’s the point? Understand?”
“I understand,” the patient rushed to agree. “Otherwise there’s no point.”
He froze with a blank face as he tried to remember his friends.
Five people over 50 years of life. That’s not so bad, shouldn’t be a problem. There was that school friend from the boy scouts. The happiest childhood in the world, or so it seemed. And even now. Memory over time is always better than reality.
“I have a name, write it down,” the patient asked. “Actually no, he won’t show up. I think he snitched.”
“You don’t like people, do you?” the doctor poked. “What kind of jargon is that? That’s not the one who notified. Believe me. More names?”[1]
Long lines with tickets. It is not tickets. No guarantees and no work. Infinite joy. We will stand and overcome. Wine, with and without toasts.
“Write down another candidate,” said the patient. “And who notified, may I ask?”
The doctor looked up, adjusted his glasses as if he were aiming at the guest, and calmly said,
“I did.”
“You?” the patient asked again.
After university comes work. An evil time, all for the construction of capitalism.
There is a darkness over the country. Judging by the sounds at night, the the only thing they are trading anymore is gunfire.
On TV they show us footage of public punishment. Not yet with us, but in a temporarily neighboring country. The power has cracked. Time is up and the core has exploded. A brick-red, jagged fracture in unity.
People are wolves to each other. To the co-founders, fierce wolves. To the state, cunning wolves. But wolves need to stay in packs. Gang, firm, union, board, committee. Everyone is shouting at the toastmaster’s words “To our team, hip-hip-hooray!” Who survived? A few, surprisingly. At least in memory.
“Are you writing?”
“Yup, go ahead,” the doctor said, keeping track of the names of former friends on the form.
“I can’t believe you complained,” the patient said.
“And who is supposed to?” the doctor said, staring at the patient. “Medicine should eliminate the causes of disease and social insecurity is the cause of disease. A happy and confident society means healthy and optimistic people. Criticizing the authorities is like a cancer that must be suppressed.”
“You’re our family doctor,” the patient resisted. “You’ve saved so many. Literally from the moment they’re born.”
“We help people from birth,” the doctor confirmed. “With all kinds of things. I didn’t break the Hippocratic oath. The motto is ‘do no harm.’ But not all diseases are treated with milk and honey, are they? The more bitter the medicine, the less chance of relapse. Are you listening to me?”
The patient tried to think of more people to add.
More women. They say a man remembers himself from the age of three, as opposed to women, who remember themselves from thirty. Before that, everything was vivid, acute, painful. But with someone else. The detachment of memory. A mute white-and-white movie. Washed-off film. Interesting, at what age will the fourth decade of life seem not yours? Or has it already in fact become not yours? My wife cheated. She wasn’t wild about the country. She didn’t leave me right away, but what’s the difference who she left for? I had the strength then to try and fix things, but I was scared. She asked me not to bother her, not to even call. So we communicated through lawyers.[2] В тождество «Страна — это мы» кто—то подставил местоимение в третьем лице.[3]
“But you, my friend,” the doctor’s voice tore the patient away from his memories, “you’d tell me if your friend got confused, right? Went down the wrong path?”
“I would…,” the patient shook his head, but noticing that the doctor was preparing to write, he answered simply, “Yes. I’ll definitely let you know.”
The doctor nodded approvingly, made a note in the form, and the memories rushed on.
After forty you’ve got a stable family. The third. There have been blitz weddings before. Short, knockout, not forever. What a woman is given at birth, a man comprehends only in his 50s. The tangible happiness of the verb ‘is’ instead of the illusory hope of ‘maybe.’ At a certain age, men just crawl to the warmth. Become vulnerable. Soft-bellied, like a lobster that has lost its shell. It’s easy to marry people like that if you want to.
The birth of a child opens the door for death. Not the main character yet. A shaggy old woman is having affairs with people her age. You arrive only for the final. In the foreground, a woman with a scythe and a former classmate. You join the chorus of mourners. In the stream of condolences, there is no pity for the deceased, but a dumbfounded, “Was our year OK-ed for the draft?” The spouse and her relatives froze in mournful poses. I wonder if his wife will agree to one lash for him? Unlikely.[4]
“How many more can you write down?” The patient asked as he snapped out of his memories.
“Still a few spots left,” the doctor answered. “You haven’t given me much.”
The patient thought about it.
“Parents are not allowed,” the doctor warned.
“Why?”
“No therapeutic effect. Most children perceive parental sacrifice as a natural act, even mandatory. So the children don’t feel any compassion.”
“Let me think some more,” the patient said.
“People are waiting,” the doctor reminded the patient. “Do you want me to add anyone from the list of donors?”
“From where?” the guest asked again.
“You avoiding donation. Many of them want to do some good if they die, at least by donating organs. Donors can pick a list of recipients.”
“Did someone actually pick me?” the patient was surprised.
“Yup,” the doctor confirmed. “I can’t name names, but it’s women you abandoned. They remember you as a young man and they want to do some good. Victims often dream of dying in the name of their own executioner. Should I send the notice to the donors?”
“Ya, send it.”
“By the way, you don’t want to be a donor yourself?” the doctor asked. “Your liver and spleen could could be used. Executors do spare donor organs as much as possible.”
“I’ll think about it,” the patient mumbled.
“For now, sign this NDA and you can go. Don’t try to skip out either. Otherwise it’ll be worse.”
“You can’t die twice,” the patient objected.
“Believe me, there is a big difference between the fear of death and death as one’s only desire,” the doctor assured.
***
The wife received the summons first. She looked at it with disgust and said, “I warned you, didn’t I, blowhard!”
She walked out and slammed the kitchen door.
Several telegrams arrived. They all basically said, “I’d love to help, but I can’t.” Business trips, vacations, studies… things planned in advance that can’t really be put off.
The college friend promised to send money and take care of the family in the future.
A lot of messages with ads. From funeral services to assistance in patient care.
***
The patient arrived on time for the execution, even got a good night’s sleep. Not because he had nerves of steel, he just didn’t believe they would beat him. They’d started doing that recently, and no one thought that kind of insanity was even possible. Of course, this was coming, but somehow gradually. Without any sharp changes in the exchange rate or reasons to protest. Everyone voted unanimously. The healed were silent. Nobody believed enemy agents. Anyone who didn’t want to believe was considered an agent.
The patient checked in with the attendant and put his things in storage. He put a black wool suit separately on a hanger. The seam had ripped in the back, but who was going to see that anyway? His worn-down shoes went in a bag. His wife wouldn’t let him take the new ones. He had taken a ticket but lost it. He accidentally threw it away with a bunch of sunflower seed shells he had found in his pants pocket but was too shy to take into the execution room.
He went down to the basement and saw the waiting rooms right away with brightly lit cells at the end of the hallway. It was busy inside. Volunteers had been collected ahead of time to measure blood pressure and conduct briefings. A man peered in.
The first cell was full of people, and a lone woman in the other. The other three were empty.
“Which one’s yours?” the man asked.
He fumbled in his pockets for his ticket but there was nothing there. Memory told him that his cell was cell number one. A comfortable room, crowded, but there were a few familiar faces.
The patient hesitated. Can memory be trusted? In general, no.
So he picked up his pace.
Does “we” work here for this set of memories?
Is first person ok here for this set of memories? I, me
На русском идет игра слов, где умышленно непонятно – где про жену, где про страну. То есть, изменили обе. Сan we use just The wife…?
Because wife and country in English are feminine “она”, its really difficult to achieve the same play on words. In russian its perfect, but here it would require more explanation and reworking. That’s why I deleted the section in question lower, as you’ll see.
Are there some other ways to say this in russian?
Страна сделалась чужой.
The country has become a stranger.
I don’t recognize this country anymore.
Does “he” work here as the pronoun for the man in this memory?
В оригинале опять игра слов, оставляя неясным кто изменял – страна или жена.Если невозможно передать идею на английском, то лучше убрать.