Sergei crouched down to face the boy. “Now, Vladimir, I’m going to leave you with my friend Markus. He just wants to talk to you for a while, to see if there’s anything he can do to help your condition. Is that okay?”
Young Vlad watched Markus heave his way through a painful-looking, phlegm-induced cough. He shook his head, stood up from the couch and moved to Sergei’s side. Vladimir positioned Sergei as a barrier between him and the creature.
“I promise that Markus won’t hurt you,” Sergei said. “Don’t be afraid.”
Vladimir shot Sergei an angry look. “Don’t leave me,” he said.
“Please,” Sergei said, “do this for me.”
Vladimir’s eyes drifted toward the doorway. Before Sergei knew what was happening, Vladimir turned around and bolted for the door. The boy made it farther than he might have expected; he even grasped the door handle in his small hands before Sergei grabbed him by the waist and tugged him away from the exit. A struggle broke out between the two of them in which the child disobeyed his doctor for the first time. Vladimir kicked and screamed, flailing his arms frantically. Unable to reach anything bolted down, he grabbed an empty Armenian urn from a side table and struck Sergei several times on the head. Sergei, for his part, struggled valiantly to control the child. Markus had taken a step back when the mêlée began and was waiting patiently for it to end.
And end it did. Nearly twenty minutes later, after Sergei had left nursing a budding bruise on his temple and the glass urn lay in ruins on the waiting-room floor, Vladimir was finally alone with Markus in the man’s office. The two of them — afflicted child and impurely bred kobold — sat directly across from one another in non-matching leather chairs. Vladimir, suddenly temperamental for the first time since his affliction began, shot Markus a loathsome glare.
“Has Sergei told you what I do for a living?” Markus said.
Vladimir stared straight ahead, hiccupping every 3.7 seconds. He refused to acknowledge his captor.
“I’m a doctor,” Markus said. “But not in the way Sergei is a doctor. I’m a practitioner of the mind. A brain scientist, if you will. Sergei thought it might be beneficial for you to talk to me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my brain,” Vladimir said.
“I’m not suggesting there is,” Markus said. “But unless we delve deep into the recesses of your mind and actually see what’s in there that makes you tick, we’ll never know for sure. I want to know what’s going on inside your head, Vladimir. Let’s start with something simple. Tell me, what makes you angry? What makes you sad?”
Vladimir didn’t answer. When Sergei came back for Vladimir an hour later, the child had still not responded to his interrogator. Markus had tried in vain to elicit a response by asking nearly every probing question in his repertoire, from the straightforward and factual “How old are you?” to the thought-provoking “What do you think your mother is doing right now?” Nothing worked. The child steadfastly refused to speak. This went on for four whole sessions, totaling nearly five hours over the span of a week. Markus would lob question upon question into the air while young Vlad stared back at him with a look of disdain.
“What’s your favorite flower?
“Would you rather own a cat or a dog?
“Can a socialist state truly protect the rights of the individual?”
Vladimir struggled with Sergei before each session. He would refuse to get into the vehicle on the way to Markus’s office. Once they arrived, he’d refuse to leave the vehicle. After the first two visits, young Vlad stopped making a scene in the waiting room but he would always plead with his eyes for Sergei to stay, and as soon as his doctor returned at the end of the visit, Vladimir would run up and grab hold of his leg, anxious to return to the hospital where Sergei would be forced to administer the numbing drugs that allowed his patient to sleep at night.
In the tenth minute of the fifth session, Markus was busy inventing more questions when suddenly Vladimir’s eyes perked. He sat at attention in his chair. “What is it?” Markus said.
Young Vlad seemed unsure whether he should speak.
“Was it something I said?” Markus’s excitement grew. “Let me see, what was I going on about? I asked you about trains. Then I asked you about wool socks. No, that’s not right. I asked you about cotton socks, layered cotton socks. Was that it?”
Vladimir stared blankly and hiccupped in Markus’s direction.
“No, it probably wasn’t the socks. Oh, I know. I asked you about love. Have you ever been in love, Vladimir?”
“Yes,” the boy said.
Markus leaned back. His uneven teeth formed an optimistic smile. “So, the hiccupping child does speak,” he said. “I was beginning to think you would never talk again. Tell me, who did you love?”
“Ileana, a girl in my class.”
“And you loved her?”
“Very much.”
Markus felt a nervous orange energy in his stomach. He was finally getting through to the boy. “Do you still love her now?”
Vladimir leaned forward, and when he did, his eyes possessed a grave intent far beyond his years. “No,” he said.
The orange energy in Markus’s stomach, which inspired elation only a physician of the mind can feel the moment a patient displays the initial signs of a breakthrough — and not just manageable therapeutic advancement in this case but rather the very first sign of the apparent and credible mental amelioration of a disquieted, grief-panged soul — transformed instantly into a sickening brown sludge that threatened to expel itself at any moment. Vladimir’s tone conveyed such wrath, such piercing intent, that Markus’s jovial expression immediately fled and was replaced by pure, unbridled fear.
“Why don’t you love her anymore?” Markus said.
“Because . . .” Vladimir started talking. And for the next hour he didn’t stop.
“Never again, my friend, never again,” Markus said.
Just three minutes before, Sergei had popped his head into Markus’s office, an unsuspecting expression on his face. Without hesitation Vladimir hopped off his chair, walked over and stood beside his doctor. Sergei patted the boy on the head and asked Markus if they were still scheduled to meet again at the same time on Monday. Markus, who for the past hour had gripped his canes tighter and tighter until he felt a numbing, wistful ache in his hands, stood up, precariously at first, his canes quivering in wide, haphazard shakes, and fled the room, knocking over a stack of papers on his way out — anything to evade Vladimir’s penetrating stare. Sergei stood in place, dumbfounded, the hiccupping boy clinging to his pant leg.
Fifteen minutes later, Sergei was watching Vladimir from the window of Markus’s office. He had taken the boy across the street to a café and purchased him a syrniki — cheese and apple pancake — as a treat, then left him outside with strict instructions not to speak to anyone. Sergei was wary of allowing Vladimir to roam free after having spent so much time inside the hospital. From the window, young Vlad appeared to be behaving himself. He was kneeling beside Sergei’s automobile on a patch of lawn the snow had forgotten, absently pulling frozen strands of grass from the ground with one hand as he devoured the pastry in the other.
Sergei offered his friend a cup of coffee from the café. “Lots of sugar with a few drops of milk?” he said with a forced smile. Markus’s tiny misshapen hands reached out with great reluctance and drank down the lukewarm beverage in one swift gulp. Not even the sweet taste of sugar could rid Markus of his dour countenance. Sergei would have to be careful. His old friend had the appearance of a wounded animal ready to attack.
“What happened in here?” he said. “Why the histrionics? Why can’t Vladimir just wait in the next room?”
“The boy is mentally unstable,” Markus said. “That is what happened. You brought me a patient devoid of human emotion, so callous and vile a soul that when he dies the devil himself will be afraid of him.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
Markus burst fro
m his chair, his cheeks flushed red with anger. “I am not exaggerating!”
Sergei spoke as calmly as he could. “Were you able to decipher whether the hiccups are a symptom of some larger mental issue? Is there any chance the boy is faking them?”
“Damn it, Sergei! Forget about the hiccups! Who cares if the boy yelps every four seconds? You can’t see the forest for the trees, old chap. The hiccups aren’t the problem. The boy is a sociopath. That is the problem.”
“What do you mean the boy’s a sociopath?”
Markus howled his response. “A madman! A lunatic! An antisocial, deranged beast! Whatever description you want to use, Vladimir meets all the requirements.”
“But he’s just a boy.”
“He is for now, old chap. But mark my words — one day that boy will grow into a man, and when he does, he will bring pain and suffering to all those around him. And you, Sergei, will find yourself mired in this evil creature’s depraved quagmire.”
“Be reasonable,” Sergei said. “I’ve never seen any evidence of this. The boy doesn’t lash out. He’s never hurt a nurse or an orderly. There’s no overabundance of strangled cats on the hospital grounds. Vladimir has met with dozens of doctors over the past year and a half and none of them have reported anything out of the ordinary. He’s docile and accommodating almost to a fault. What on Earth did he say to make you come to this conclusion?”
Markus sat down and leaned back in his chair. Almost instantly his anger fled and was replaced by a glazed, gaping fear. He slumped forward, looking much older than the man Sergei had seen that morning. For ten more minutes, Sergei implored Markus to reveal what Vladimir had said. Markus kept shaking his head. He refused to divulge what transpired while he was alone with the boy. The two doctors exchanged words. Markus, resolute, kept repeating the same cryptic command — “You must distance yourself from that child.” Eventually, Sergei gave up trying to squeeze blood from a stone. He made his way to leave. Before he shut the door, Markus stood up from his chair.
“This afternoon, I’m going to purchase a pistol,” he said. “And from this day forward, I will carry that pistol with me wherever I go. When I’m awake, I’ll keep it in my breast pocket. And when I’m asleep, I will have my finger coiled around the trigger under my pillow.”
“Whatever for?” Sergei said.
“Because when Vladimir comes for me, and I believe he will, I won’t greet him pleasantly or run away. As Christ is my witness, I’ll shoot him dead as he stands.”
Sergei stood in the doorway with a look of shock on his face. Words escaped him. The doctor Namestikov could only stare at Markus, who returned his gaze with a determined glare of his own. The two old friends remained locked in perpetuity until finally Sergei relented and closed the door. He stood on the other side for a full minute, unsure what to do. Should he apologize to Markus? Should he storm back in and demand an explanation? Sergei didn’t believe either would do any good. Markus had passed judgment on Vladimir, and nothing he said or did would change that. Sergei put his hand up to the office door, held it there, then left the waiting room and walked down the staircase to the outside.
The afternoon sky had started to concede to the purple shadows lurking behind the clouds overhead. Sergei walked under a hazy mist of rain and approached Vladimir as he knelt beside the car. Having long finished the syrniki, Vladimir was on his knees searching the clear patch of grass. He stood up when he saw Sergei approaching. Something was between Vladimir’s fingers. Sergei looked closer to discover a ladybug. Almost immediately, any doubt Sergei had about his charge’s character was put to rest. He saw in front of him what he’d always seen — an innocent nine-year-old boy stricken by an unbearable affliction. Markus must have been out of his mind.
“I’ve named her Kerkira.” Vladimir held the miniature red bug up proudly.
“That’s very nice,” Sergei said. “Now please get in the vehicle. We’re going home.”
As Vladimir walked around to the passenger’s side, Sergei spotted a burgundy candy-bar wrapper protruding from the boy’s back pocket.
“Where did you get that candy?” Sergei said.
Young Vlad didn’t respond.
“Answer me,” Sergei said. “Did Markus give it to you? No? Then where did you get it?”
Vladimir hesitated and then pointed across the street to the café where Sergei had purchased his coffee. Inside an old shopkeeper was sweeping the floor.
“Did you pay for the candy?”
Vladimir shook his head.
“You must pay for things,” Sergei said. “Don’t be angry with me. This is an important lesson every boy must learn. Now please go back and return the candy to the shopkeeper.”
The boy’s blank expression grew tight on his face, his eyes squinting until their whites formed sharp triangles on either side of his irises. Sergei braced himself for an argument when, unexpectedly, Vladimir handed him the ladybug. The good doctor took the little creature on his finger and watched Vladimir march across the street and enter through the café doors.
Sergei climbed inside the automobile and started the engine. He brought the insect up close to inspect it when, from out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed the most peculiar scene through the window of the café. The shopkeeper was standing against the far wall, his hands clutching the sides of his head. Vladimir’s thin shoulders and the back of his small head appeared directly in front of the man. From a distance, it looked as though the shopkeeper was backing away. Sergei watched in stunned silence as his young charge reached out his hand to give back the candy. The shopkeeper waved his hands in short, quick gestures. He wouldn’t take it. His face turned red, the top of his bald head too. They were a good eight meters away, but from inside the running car, Sergei could have sworn he saw in the shopkeeper’s expression the same curvature of the mouth, the same unfastened apprehension in his eyes, the indistinguishable acceleration of breath accompanying heart and lung distress that he’d seen in Markus’s petrified countenance.
The man appeared terrified of young Vladimir.
A few moments passed before Vladimir exited the café and walked back across the street. He rounded the car and took his seat in the passenger’s side. In virtual disbelief, Sergei watched the child shut the car door and look up at him with those expressionless eyes.
“What did you say to that man?” he said.
Vladimir hiccupped. His hollow expression remained unchanged.
“Answer me,” Sergei said.
The boy continued to stare.
Sergei didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t remember a time in his adult life in which he’d been quite so confused.
“Wait here,” he said. Sergei left the vehicle running and walked briskly across the road. He pushed open the café door and a bell rang to signal his entrance. The shopkeeper was madly sweeping the floor, back and forth, over and over again on the same spot. He stopped immediately when Sergei appeared.
“My good sir,” Sergei said, “what did that boy say to you?”
The man didn’t respond. He took two steps backward and shook his head, then scurried behind the counter. When Sergei had purchased coffee here less than thirty minutes earlier, the man had been in good spirits. He even chatted with Sergei about current events and jokingly baited him into banter about the extraordinary success of the local women’s ice-hockey team. Now the shopkeeper’s face was drenched in sweat, his eyes sodden with the beginnings of an incapacitating fear. Sergei stepped forward and, like a prisoner anticipating lashes from the whip, the man trembled, his arms clasped to his chest.
“What did Vladimir say to you?” Sergei said as gently as he could.
“I will ask you to leave my store,” the man said.
“Not until you tell me what the child said.”
The shopkeeper’s yellow teeth dug into his bottom lip.
“Sir, I must insist,” Sergei said.
The man slammed his fist down on the counter. A small teacup and saucer had been
sitting in the exact location on the console where his fist landed, a tiny stream of steam curling its way into the cool air. The shopkeeper’s fist crashed straight into the teacup. Small shards of the fragmented cup scattered across the counter and spilled over onto the floor.
The man paused. He closed his eyes, gathered his faculties and then opened them again. His voice quavered. “Leave my store. Leave my store and never come back!”
Outside the light rain had picked up. Sergei stood in the burgeoning haze, watching the man from outside the shop. Across the street, Vladimir had crawled into the driver’s seat and was leaning against the window. Sergei, who’d been observing this child day and night for well over a year now, noticed something for the first time. For an instant — and only an instant — a wicked gleam formed in young Vlad’s eyes. Sergei saw in Vladimir what Markus had described. He saw not a child but a creature, an evil spirit bathed in malice. In the distance, a crackle of thunder sounded. The rain began to pour. It coated the streets and turned the snow on the ground into sopping-wet piles of slush. The storm enveloped Sergei and his gaping disbelief. He could deny it no longer.
Vladimir, his prized patient and a child not yet ten years of age, was a monster.
six
Sergei spent much of that evening sitting quietly in his study, deep in thought. He brought his grandfather’s pipe out from its casing, dabbed some tobacco in the bowl and lit the pipe for the first time since medical school. There he sat, alone in the dim candlelight, smoking and brooding for hours. Eventually he decided he’d lingered long enough and turned in for the evening at the early hour of 8 p.m.
He knew he’d have trouble falling asleep. Ever since his divorce, Sergei found the process of drifting into unconsciousness a most frustrating experience. Lying quiet and alone in a dark room was an open invitation for sadness and rage to meander into his mind. For a fortnight now, when he placed his head on his soft satin pillow, his ears would ring with the slight laugh his ex-wife had emitted when she saw the slacks he purchased on discount from Slavov’s Men’s Emporium. Over and over again the laugh transformed from girlish and inadvertent to condescending and deliberate. With her cackle drilling a hole in his soul, to the front of his mind soared the evening under moonlight when she refused his embrace. He remembered the indifference in her touch, how she’d moved to avoid his hand against her back. Each night Sergei would eventually grow so frustrated — with his ex-wife, Asenka, and what she’d done to him, but more with himself for not having the fortitude to move past the aching hurt of her abandonment — that he would stand up in a huff and pace his study, knock over random objects in sudden stabs of fury and reminisce about his childhood, a time when sleep flowed like a river, the dreams liquid, the slumber a cage of ecstasis from which he dared not escape.
The Last Hiccup Page 4