My new friend and I are sitting on the parapet of a worn-out prefabricated nine-story apartment building. We are enjoying the view opening from a height of thirty meters. Only recently the dawn was blazing, and now the beautiful blue sky, only slightly covered with light feather-like clouds, meets the rooftops of the district center in the distance, forming a horizon line.
The city blocks are hidden from us behind a dark wall of a pine grove. Further beyond the forest, somewhere, there should be a river, but it cannot be seen. From the edge of the forest almost all the way to the very building where we are sitting, stretches a mass of private low-rise development. I still remember the times when there was only a small village of ten yards and vegetable gardens with cucumbers and cabbage there.
Now the old wooden houses have been lost among two- and three-story brick mansions. And directly opposite the high-rise residential building is a fenced-off territory of a semi-state medical center with a hospital and a spacious parking lot “for insiders only.” Visitors are “allocated” only a few vacant spots on the dusty roadside along the access road and on the worn-out lawn near the residential concrete monolith.
“Interesting, why did you say ‘semi-state-owned’?” my newly minted companion asked.
“Because the sign outside proudly displays a name made up of several unpronounceable abbreviations, ending with the name of the ministry this medical institution is subordinate to, while they charge for their services like any private clinic. Besides, judging by the number of clients leaving in the isothermal compartment of a white van, the quality of services also corresponds to the state level,” I explain.
It is still too early, but before you know it, the suffering ones will start gathering here. Mostly arriving by cars. Nervously honking horns while trying to squeeze past each other on the already narrow road, additionally blocked by parked cars along the roadside, and arguing with those who managed to arrive earlier and take the coveted spot.
Right now, the morning silence is broken only by the steady scraping of a broom and the endlessly shouting janitor, loudly greeting the incoming medical staff. The man is apparently completely stupid, because in the surrounding buildings most people are still asleep, even those who have to go to work. This Darwin Award holder also likes to start his lawnmower early in the morning, stealing from the locals the last sweet moments of staying in the kingdom of Morpheus. It is hard to count how many people wish him dead every day, despite the fact that his work is useful for society and karma.
In general, this district is quite strange. All because half of its inhabitants are patients. Besides the above-mentioned medical center, just behind my back, slightly diagonally to the right, across a couple of similar nine-story buildings, there is a huge regional hospital complex with a separate polyclinic building, a retirement home for the elderly, a canteen, a morgue, as well as its own boiler house.
And if you consider this small suburb as a closed system of its own, with its own birth and death rates, then the second statistical parameter would simply be off the charts. It is unclear what kind of pleasure there is in living in such a place.
“Maybe because it’s rather quiet here?” my companion interrupts again.
Let’s call him Che, especially since he firmly refused to say his name himself.
“Probably, yes—if you don’t count the janitor and the violent visitors of the center,” I joke in response.
To which my interlocutor reacts with an unpleasantly irritating laugh. The sound turned out to be something between sobbing and cawing. It gave me goosebumps. But since I very rarely manage to talk to someone for more than a minute, I just politely smile and swear to myself not to joke with him again.
It should be said that now, in summer, the Aesculapians are experiencing a relative lull. People mostly prefer to die from their ailments at their dachas or at the seaside. I can basically understand them, because it is much more convenient to deal with health problems by taking time off from an unloved job than to waste precious vacation time on going to the doctor.
In another couple of weeks, driven by the first rains, straight from the rooms of seaside hotels and the wooden summer houses of suburban gardening communities, patients will begin to stream in orderly flocks into the local wards. But for now, those few poor souls who are truly in bad shape while away their time between procedures, occasionally crawling outside to get another dose of nicotine.
And right now, from behind the main building of the clinic, shuffling slippers over dusty asphalt, a trio of hospital guests is making its way. They move slowly, but with purpose. Not old men yet, all of them pot-bellied and with legs bandaged after surgical procedures. Two walk on their own, while the third leans on crutches. Apparently, he is the one slowing the whole procession down.
I have been watching them for several days now. Of course, there are other smokers as well, who should also give up this harmful habit—especially since fate itself seems to be telling them to stop smoking—but for some reason I feel a special sympathy for these three.
A couple of days ago, they were still enjoying the smoke of smoldering tobacco leaves right on the territory of the medical center, over there, on a bench near the main entrance. However, in accordance with some rules, they were expelled beyond the boundaries of the medical institution, here, onto the asphalt path that winds around the residential building.
Well, finally they’ve made it. They’re lighting up. I look down at three tiny figures, positioned neatly between the soles of my dangling feet over the parapet. They are talking about something, even laughing. For them, this is the most peaceful time; during the day they will definitely not be allowed to stand calmly.
At first, old ladies walking their pets will start protesting and threatening all kinds of heavenly punishments. Then children on bicycles and roller skates will be constantly passing by, shouting and ringing the bells attached to their handlebars without end. They will also have to keep giving way to residents’ cars driving through.
After smoking, the trio returns back into the caring claws of the followers of Hippocrates. And here begins my favorite part.
Having collected samples of all kinds of microbes on the soles of their slippers from the street, these three will spread them through the sterile corridors of the clinic, and of course — into their wards. But I am not at all outraged, quite the opposite — I am even glad. Because unlike many, I enjoy working. The most important thing in my activity is observation and the ability to plan.
“I can tell you for sure that by tomorrow morning, out of the three bogatyrs, only two will remain,” I say out loud. “But that’s not a problem, because soon new patients will arrive.”
“The one with crutches?” Che asks.
“Nope! Wrong,” I reply. “That’s the paradox — most often, the ones who survive are the most hopeless cases.”
“Probably because the doctors have already given up on them, and, directing all their enthusiasm at the ‘promising’ ones, end up treating them to death,” my companion suggests.
“Yeah, exactly.”
“You seem to be overly fixated on death, in my opinion,” with these words my interlocutor slightly moves away from me.
“Notice that you were the one who said the word ‘death’ last,” I smile theatrically at him. “But it’s not that far from the truth, my friend. People around me mostly die.”
“But I think that despite all these illnesses, their life is still quite simple and peaceful.”
“What can you do? God prefers playing with people more than with beasts or birds. That’s why he often throws them all kinds of goodies. To earn his favor, these glamorized australopithecines have learned to be both разумными and to behave by imitating other creatures — for example pigs or cows, as well as other livestock. They’re also very good at scavenging, although at the same time they imagine themselves to be wolves or even lions.”
While Che and I were philosophizing, time passed unnoticed. The sun had already risen quite high and was starting to heat up, promising a rather hot day. The air was filled with the smell of ozone. My companion, sitting in my shadow, takes a deep breath with his eyes closed. And on the exhale he exclaims:
“Ah, just like at the sea!”
“Do you miss the sea?”
“No. I’ve never even seen it,” Che replies calmly, without a trace of regret.
“Then how do you know that the air there smells like this in the mornings?”
“I just know. It’s in my blood,” my companion says with pride.
“Still, it’s strange,” I say, finishing the phrase, and also squint my eyes, filtering five hundred cubic centimeters of the purest morning air through my nostrils.
“What’s strange?”
I stay silent. I open my eyes and turn to my companion. In response, he looks at me, occasionally blinking his small yellowish eyes. I begin to say:
“What’s strange is that…”
But then Che interrupts me, not letting me finish:
“Oh, look, the first patients have arrived!”
Below, a man and a woman — no longer young, but still energetic — are moving purposefully toward the main entrance. He is tall and thin, wearing a tight-fitting gray classic suit of a modern cut, the remaining hair on his head styled into a neat hairstyle. The woman is petite, strongly built, but judging by her gait also not timid; she is dressed in a business style as well, in a mottled, closer to pink, skirt suit. Her blonde hair, styled into large curls, springs with every movement. Swiftly running up the steep steps of the main entrance, the couple disappears under the massive canopy.
A few minutes later, another couple or three cars arrived, then more and more. Soon those who were getting here by public transport also began to gather. The excessive number of changing faces in one point of space makes me feel bored. Having finally lost interest in the patients, I want to return to our conversation, but then Che again interrupts me with a shout:
“Look, look, those two who arrived first are already coming out! They recovered pretty quickly.”
And indeed, the lively couple appeared from under the canopy and, pushing in front of them a prehistoric-looking wheelchair equipped with two pairs of tiny wheels, shuffled down the extremely long ramp resembling a snake folded in half. Having rolled the constantly clanking contraption up to their car, parked right by the gate leading into the medical center, the couple began to seat a hefty old woman into it.
The operation of transferring the overfed mass — capable only of shouting obscenities and flailing her obese limbs — from the interior of a far from low-slung SUV onto the sagging oilcloth seat of the medical transport turned into a real performance, by the end of which even the healthy participants had switched to profanity.
Somehow managing to stuff the oversized granny into the wheelchair, the relatives, for a moment, sighed in relief. But a new exciting adventure awaited them — rolling the loaded cart of fleshy antiques over a high curb at the narrow gate entrance.
At first glance, a simple sequence of actions: lift the front wheels, place them on the higher surface, and push. However, to shift the center of gravity onto the rear part of the wheelchair, the man clearly lacks weight. His frail wife hangs uselessly on one of the handles, trying to help him.
Meanwhile, the passenger — an obvious expert in everything under the sun — once again demonstrates her knowledge of the great and mighty not-so-literary language. To which the helper in the almost-pink business suit responds in a roughly similar dialect, managing in a single sentence to mention both her grandmother and mother, who, incidentally, turned out to be the same obese old woman.
This performance could have continued indefinitely, but by then a sufficient number of people wishing to use the gate had gathered on both sides, and the participants had clearly begun to repeat themselves. In the end, several volunteers of sturdy build detached themselves from the crowd and solved the transport problem. And so the caring relatives were already rolling their ancestress toward the hospital building.
It would seem that everyone should be happy: in another couple of minutes, the couple would hand over the scandalous old woman into the care of the medical staff and then go about their business. But that was not the case.
The relief-patterned paving, with its pretensions to antiquity, laid on the territory of the medical center, is completely devoid of functionality and is more suitable for paving squares in front of historical landmarks, in order to emphasize their antiquity and authenticity.
The wheelchair-cart, loaded to its absolute limit, keeps tripping over the stones of the pavement. Have you ever tried to push a trolley full of groceries over such a path, or, for example, over asphalt just cleared of snow with a mechanical brush and turned into ice? At that moment, I would not envy frozen chicken legs or, say, steaks. And even semi-finished products have a hard time, to be honest.
In short, it will be a miracle if the old woman is delivered to the hospital without damage to the few still functioning internal organs.
Here, everyone around finally becomes convinced that although colloquial profanity has a limited vocabulary, when used skillfully and creatively it is capable of creating entire worlds and even galaxies.
We watch the unfortunate clients of the medical center until they disappear behind the main building. We sit in silence for another minute. I want to turn to my companion, but Che is not paying attention to me — his focus is again fixed on the medical institution.
What happened now? Ah, I see: a businesslike couple, quite exhausted, jingling the now-empty wheelchair over the cobblestones, is returning back into the main building. They finished quickly!
“I like working in places like this because it is precisely here that not the last people of the city come face to face with harsh reality. After all, a bad entrance, improperly chosen pavement tiles, and a self-service system are just the beginning,” I say, addressing my companion. “You may be able to afford any procedures, arrange an appointment with a ‘high-class’ specialist, but no one will protect you from inflated reputation, from rigid orthodox views on therapy, from an excessive ego that denies any mistakes, from a formalistic approach, or simply from running into someone’s nepotism-appointed son or daughter.”
Che nods in agreement, and I continue my monologue:
“In the end, you might even be glad that you were only maimed and not killed. Because here, no one is responsible for anything — neither before conscience nor before the law.”
“And I thought death made everyone equal.”
“I see we’ve got a philosopher here,” I tease my companion.
He laughs again with his monstrously creaking laugh. Damn it, the devil really made me run my mouth! Recovering from Che’s cackling, I reply:
“Yes, but it equalizes only in a philosophical sense, because in death there is no suffering—rather, on the contrary, there is liberation. It is only the living who continue to suffer.”
“I see,” my companion makes an affirmative gesture with his pale head, and then turns to me with a new question:
“I just can’t understand, what do you need this thing for?”
Che nods toward the tool leaning between us, with its sharply honed blade. Then he looks back to the left, where over the roof of the house a lawn is visible in front of some municipal building of unclear purpose. From there comes the buzzing of a low-powered petrol motor.
“After all, with modern equipment it’s much easier and faster to maintain lawns.”
“Lawns? Oh, no! I have a slightly different field of activity,” I answer tactfully. “And this thing is more of a symbol—a necessary attribute of an image that has formed over many centuries.”
“I see,” Che says and moves a little further away from me.
“Yes, don’t worry: my jurisdiction does not extend to you,” I reassure my companion.
Che seems to have already forgotten the subject of our conversation — he is again looking toward the clinic. The couple who brought the fat old woman have left the institution and are already coming down the steps. They look so happy and inspired that they are not walking down the stairs but rather floating above them.
Once at the bottom, in front of the entrance gate, they stop. The man gallantly hands the woman the jacket matching the color of her suit. While she is fixing herself up, he forcefully blows a snot out of one nostril, pinching the other with his thumb. Then, with habitual and rather elegant movements, he smears the remaining muconasal secretion across his face.
It’s a pity that this specimen of humanity is still quite far down my list, and the foul-mouthed granny will probably suffer for another five years or so. Only the good ones leave quickly—and of course alcoholics, smokers, and drug addicts too, although, to be honest, even among them there are plenty of innocent souls.
Che becomes active again:
“If you are here, then who takes people in other hospitals—those who die in car accidents and fall on battlefields?”
“I am, for the most part, omnipresent…”
Che looks at me intently, apparently trying to make out a face in the dark void under the hood of my robe. Meanwhile, I continue explaining:
“My three colleagues operate more locally, although they can also be in several places at once. The closest one right now is the one who carries a sword, only about five hundred kilometers to the south.”
My interlocutor is silent. And I still can’t get rid of a thought. I hesitate whether I should even ask:
“Where do you know about wars from? That’s purely a human topic. Besides, sorry, of course, but you’re too stupid to understand something like that.”
“Alone—yes. But we, as you may not have noticed yet,” Che looks upward at a flock of seagulls circling above the roof of the building, “are everywhere. You could say that each member of our kind is a component of a kind of intellectual network, where incoming information is processed and stored for centuries. Unnecessary and outdated data, of course, we dispose of.”
The white bird pauses, clears its throat, and continues with an important air:
“War is always relevant. It means that where people are exterminating each other, it is better not to go—too noisy. On battlefields, only crows thrive. We, however, are more specialists in garbage dumps.”
I have nothing to say to this, and we sit in silence for another couple of minutes.
“Listen,” Che interrupts the pause that has settled between us yet again. “I’ve received information that nearby, in a supermarket dumpster, some spoiled salmon has been thrown out. My guys say that if we want to get ahead of the destitute people, we need to hurry.”
“Yes. Of course. Go on then,” I reply. “If it’s such an important matter.”
But inside I feel uneasy for some reason: we really didn’t sit together for long at all.
“Yes, it is very important,” and then my companion launches into reasoning. “Eating, reproducing, and making noise—that is our purpose in life. Nothing can be done about it—nature. Come on, come with us!”
“I,” it feels pleasant to realize that I am needed by someone just like that, without a higher purpose, “I would gladly. Yes, I have to work.”
“Well then, see you,” Che says, spreading his white wings with black-tipped feathers.
“See you. Tomorrow?” I say, like a girl on a first date. I scold myself, but still ask, “And how will I recognize you?”
Pushing off the dirty galvanized edge of the parapet, the bird replies:
“Be here tomorrow at the same time. I know what you look like.”
Che makes a couple of circles above my head. Then he shouts in his unpleasant little voice:
“Ciao!”
This time the sound doesn’t irritate me. Because now it’s not just a seagull — it’s my friend.
“Goodbye, Che!” I say loudly in return.
Covering my eyes with my hand like a visor where people usually have their forehead, I watch the white dot until it dissolves into the beautiful blue sky.
Then I sweep my gaze across the panorama opening from the parapet of the worn-out nine-story building. I grab the scythe with my left hand and, wrapped in a piece of black fabric, I jump off the sun-warmed roof. Swaying, I glide downward and, as if driven by a powerful gust of wind, I rush toward the medical center.
Without work there is no way. Idleness makes the soul harden, and the mind degrade — and from there it is only a step away from turning into a monster.