It started snowing. Having got out of the endless exhibition maze by a miracle, we wandered about the frosty streets, uselessly peeking in at yards, trudging gloomy back streets. And all the time, I couldn’t get rid of an intrusive feeling that you knew where to go. At last, having come out onto a spacious street, we stopped near a crooked, abandoned lantern.
“It’s late. We need to find a place to spend the night.” You summed it up in a level, calm voice. “We will look for a hospital tomorrow.”
I had seen an unlocked door to a basement. I decided to share all my observations with you.
“Where?” you revived, rubbing your hands together as an expression of joy.
“Round the corner in the backstreet; we passed it not long ago.”
“Can you find the way?”
I nodded. We turned back and set out to search for that much desired lodging where we could spend our first night. I noticed a narrow tunnel that looked like it was leading to the underworld; behind it we could see a playground and the political leader’s bust with a heap of snow on its spacious, bald head. Between two entrances, a hunched basement “crowned” with a withered door with a torn-off lock stuck out like an unnecessary knuckle. Nearby lay empty wooden boxes and broken bricks.
Like inexperienced thieves, we stealthily opened a door and glanced inside. Dampness and the stench of excrement invaded our senses; we saw low steps leading to… pitch darkness. “Feels like in a crypt,” I said, thinking, “It’s scary and unpleasant. I don’t want to descend but I have to”. That’s how hardship and extreme conditions often force you into acting in a way that is completely alien to your usual way of behaving.
“You’d better stick with me,” you whispered. Holding on to the walls, we moved down with extreme caution, literally by touch. Our eyes had adjusted by the time I found the switch and turned it sharply. A dim, unsmiling light illuminated a long corridor with a row of doors on each side, a concrete floor and a scattering of cats.
“Turn it off!” you hissed. “Someone may notice us.”
I turned it off obediently, and the blinding darkness mantled us once again.
“Let’s bring some boxes here and make a bed out of them,” you commanded in a muffled voice.
I nodded and tried to do it to the best of my ability.
We spent the whole night in a half-dream. We turned around, lay down on our backs, and then rose to lie down on our stomachs. Wooden boxes squeaked plaintively and seemed to try to defend themselves from us, sticking iron parts into our bodies. Our night was miserable and dreary. Awakened by the morning light filtering through small windows under the ceiling, I lay on our improvised bed thinking how weirdly this life works, after all. We are sleeping on harsh boxes in a damp and musty basement, and meanwhile somewhere far away from here, people like us, conjoined people, may be living too; they have parents, study at a university, and fall in love, get married or even act in movies. They live a full life and we are fighting for our dishonorable existence, unwanted and rejected by everyone.
After getting up we had a substantial breakfast and immediately left the basement almost running, committed to never coming back. We wanted to forget this place as soon as possible. “It is a pity we didn’t try to ask the champion where we could find a hospital to go to,” I regretted while we were wandering about the well-trodden streets. Despite the cold weather, in many yards, elderly people were sitting on chipped benches or in sloping pavilions and were playing dominoes. With the accuracy of a measuring device, they poured port into glasses and drank it off, turning away as if in embarrassment. Their frozen faces got brighter and brighter pink, and their reputable game was gradually acquiring an ardent tone. We adjusted our blanket and approached an old woman hanging around a low, lopsided bench like a pigeon.
“Excuse me,” you started as politely as possible while I secretly examined her wrinkled face, “could you please tell us where the nearest hospital is?”
“Why, what happened?” she responded, and others nearby looked at us with undisguised curiosity.
“No big deal, my sister’s got a thorn in her hand,” you lied determinedly.
“Oh, you should try to pick it out with a needle; let us take a look.”
“Well, we’ve already tried to do it,” I lied, hoping to save the situation, “but it’s got stuck deep inside. I think we need to see a doctor.”
“Oh, well, as you wish,” the old woman drawled unsympathetically, seeming extremely annoyed at not having the chance to look at the “injury”. “There is a polyclinic nearby. Go out of the yard, then turn left, walk about two hundred meters and you are right there. Do you need somebody to walk with you?”
“No, thank you a lot. There’s no need to bother. We’ll find a way,” I apologized, guiltily staring at the tips of my felt boots. Awkwardly turning around, we went in search of this hospital, providing the old women with a hot topic for conversation.
Once we got out of the backstreet, on the first try we came across the white, three-storied building, a district polyclinic. Everything seemed to be going as well as it could, and all our wishes and dreams soared up in our imaginations once again just like a while ago. We were going to succeed.
We entered the glass door and at that very same second we bumped into the tail of a very long line consisting mainly of elderly people reminiscent rather of delinquent schoolchildren than of patients. They were moving with enthusiasm and passion like young lovebirds doing a slow dance, then stiffening themselves against a small window – for some reason located at waist height – with an inscription which read “Reception Desk”, and finally vanishing into the narrow gut of an ordinary corridor for good. A colorless female voice brought me back to my senses:
“Hey, I’m talking to you! Your first and last names?”
We named ourselves.
The receptionist turned around and started looking for a medical history sheet among numerous racks.
“I can’t find any. Are you sure you have registered?”
“We don’t have a medical record,” I said uncertainly; “we’re here for the first time.”
“Then why are you playing with my head? Give me your passport,” the same voice replied without any intonation.
We had to bend our knees and cave our backs in order to be able to see her, to hear the owner of such an emotionless voice.
“The passport… I’ve lost the passport,” you lied.
“No passport – no record. As soon as you get the passport, you are welcome. Next.” The last word was addressed to the queue standing behind us.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. It seemed to be absolute high-handedness. Was there anybody to stand up for us? Would anybody help us? As time went by, nothing happened. People in the line shuffled forward, paying us no attention whatsoever. Dim, senseless, resigned. Is it so hard to offer your help and sympathy to somebody in grief? It takes a little to take one step, but, in an inexplicable manner, it stretches into thousands of kilometers. All of us are full of empathy and consolation but always prefer to express it from a distance.
“We will go to another hospital,” you declared without hesitation, seizing me by the hand, forcefully bringing me to the bulletin board, pointing your finger at it.
“Do not panic. Here are the addresses of other hospitals; we will visit them all until we find one which will help us.”