The Far Arena

by Richard Ben Sapir

  'If you think your patient has a chance with all the facts out in the open for every bureaucrat to protect his job with, with every political whim washing around his discovery and resurrection, if you think he will survive, then tell everyone everything,' said Lew.

  'It is very risky,' said Semyon.

  Lew shrugged. Sister Olav remained like gracious marble. The big kitchen knife stuck up before the three of them in the wooden floor. The patient had certainly put it in there forcefully. All the motor functions had been brought to normal. Better than normal. While the incident in the kitchen had been horrifying, the skill with which Semyon's little patient had done it now gave him a guilty sense of satisfaction. But when he thought about what Lew had suggested, he shook his head.

  'It can't work,' said Semyon. 'If it could work, I would feel obliged to join. I would join. I would lead. But can it work? Are we guaranteed success? We must ask ourselves why send more ruined lives into a disaster, eh?'

  'Why won't it work ?' asked Lew.

  'You should remember, Lewus,' said Sister Olav, 'that Semyonus's government feels itself in a state of constant siege and has imposed severe penalties for what might be considered lesser crimes in our countries. You can't expect Semyonus to go riding off like some knight on a horse. You have your reasons for what you do. Perhaps he has reasons why he is afraid. Maybe this is too big for him.'

  Semyon had leaned forward at this point and steadfastly announced that he was willing to take the risk. The risk was not the problem. All life was risk, he said.

  'The problem is, Lew, they already know Eugeni is a gladiator whom I brought to total function from a frozen state. They know that, at my embassy.'

  'How do they know that ?' asked Lew.

  'Because I told them.'

  'How did you know that ?'

  'Because I know. Because I did it.'

  'Did you ? Who told you he was Roman ?'

  'I listen. I read the reports. I observe.'

  'I know you're fluent in several languages, Semyon. Is Latin one of them ? Specifically, classical Latin ?'

  'No,' said Semyon, and he was beginning to understand.

  'I told you. Sister Olav told you. And by the time you must do what you must do, I will have made everything you say most believable.'

  'And so will I,' said Sister Olava.

  They will think of you as a liability, not a criminal,' said Lew. 'And I think if we brought Eugeni back into this conversation, he would tell you they would not inflict a severe punishment on you because it would do them no good. Your government has its own self-interest. It's not your parents. It's not in the punishment business to improve your attitude, Semyon.'

  'I will do it, if you will do it. He is my patient, you know,' Semyon had said.

  And on that they had another glass of wine, and of course late into the night he and Lew drank and sang, and now Semyon was awake, looking at the grains in the wood near his pillow, his mouth dry, and his body drained. He looked very closely at the wood, noticing even the fibres, without moving his head.

  The only thing he thought at that moment was that if Dr Lewellyn McCardle had not left yet, then that would mean everything was off, and there was no obligation for Semyon to do whatever he had to do. He could phone his embassy and tell the entire truth. He hadn't done anything wrong. Yet.

  And with that thought, he was able to move out of his bed quickly.

  Lew was not in the main room. The patient in clean clothes, those dark, penetrating eyes so sad, sat silently on a footstool, so still, so stonelike.

  'Lewus. Lewus,' called out Semyon Petrovitch, but there was no answer.

  The patient pointed to the door. Semyon saw through the window that the car was gone. The American was going to do it. Just as he said he would, he was going to do it.

  Dr Semyon Petrovitch sighed. All right, he thought, he is going to do it. And if he does it, then I will do what I promised.

  And it was still possible the American would show cowardice.

  On that bit of hope, Semyon Petrovitch prepared breakfast. The patient watched the eggs boil and made big circular motions with his hands, apparently indicating big. Dr Petrovitch put three, then four eggs, into the boiling water, and when the patient shook his head, Dr Petrovitch realized he referred to the size of the egg and not a desire for more.

  The patient was amazed by the cans and recognized pictures on the labels of cans. He also wanted to sniff bottles, and he opened jars.

  Thus Semyon found himself mashing sardines, clam broth, a pepper liquid that was red, garlic powder into what had to be a rancid paste.

  'Garum. Garum,' said the patient. He poured it over his eggs and made exaggerated lip-smacking sounds to show he was pleased. Dr Petrovitch caught its odour and, nauseated, offered his own breakfast eggs, which the patient ate. Petrovitch ate crackers and fruit.

  Sister Olav slept, and for such a beautiful woman, snored like dive bombers racing through flak. Semyon waited for her to awake.

  He knew the digestive tract that was receiving the food, knew the kidneys, and how they processed out poisonous elements, knew the liver, and knew the heart, and he had put that blood into that body so that it could manufacture its own blood when it was ready.

  He had taken that body out of its almost death, perhaps the closest to death, element by element. And in that process was the sum total of knowledge of his civilization in medicine.

  Even twenty years before, man did not possess this knowledge, and one hundred years before there was not even the suspicion of all that Semyon Petrovitch had accomplished. He had done it. His civilization had done it.

  Its scientists had done it. The Russian people had done it. From the storming of the Winter Palace to the defeat of the White armies in Siberia, the Russian people had done it. For Semyon Petrovitch would have shovelled manure, like his grandfather, steaming manure on cold days; he would have shovelled until his life had been shovelled into the ground for the leisure time of the aristocracy, were it not for the Communist party, Semyon was sure.

  In that patient eating away to end all famine was the victory of the Russian people combined with the scientific achievements of the West and even the East and possibly some early discoveries in the patient's very own time. Knowledge belonged to everyone.

  Semyon heard mumblings from Sister Olav's room and wondered whom she was talking to. When he opened the door a crack, he saw her on her knees, praying. He shut the door and listened to her clean her face and prepare herself for the day. She had been beautiful praying, too.

  She said good morning to the patient and to Semyon, both nodding like young boys.

  'Well, so. Today is the day,' she said.

  'Yes,' said Semyon. 'Very much.'

  'Should we turn on the television to see if Lewus has done his part?'

  'It might be a shock to the patient. Let's wait.' 'For what?'

  'Wait. Wait to phone. In ten minutes, not now. Who knows when he will appear on television, if everything has worked out?' said Semyon.

  'Good,' said Sister Olav.

  The patient was talking a mile a minute, and Semyon was glad to hear him and Sister Olav talk. They could talk all day. He would wait. He would wait happily.

  The probabilities were not that bad, Semyon knew. They were not going to waste his talent, and all that would probably happen would be going home to his wife, who was more dead to him living than a Hebrew slave was in the mind of the patient, the living mind carrying a love nineteen hundred years, undiminished.

  The body of that woman had been totally recycled into this earth's system, yet she was individual and alive, while Semyon's wife's organs functioned perfectly, and all Semyon remembered clearly was how the sweat collected on a mole adjacent to her left ear when she fornicated in the summer.

  But most of all, Semyon remembered his wife whining. She was a symphony of whines. Aggressive whines, wheedling whines, whining whines, demanding whines, crying whines.

  The woman whined when
she asked for salt at breakfast!

  So why was he afraid? Tedium and annoyance, he told himself. And in return for what ? For himself, he said. And he knew he was right.

  Still, it was frightening.

  'Well,' said Sister Olav. 'Shall I phone the television studio?’

  'Why not?' said Semyon, and there was a flare to his answer, a cockiness of bold spirit. And it was entirely fraudulent.

  He watched the patient absorbing all the details of Sister Olav dialling a telephone. She talked to him as she did so. He appeared deeply impressed. But these moments of awareness, of healthy appetite, Dr Petrovitch knew, could be replaced in an instant with the patient seeking his own death.

  Sister Olav asked questions of the station, waited, asked more questions, then hung up.

  'He did it,'she said.

  'Oh,' said Semyon. 'Well. All right. That's it. I will go now into the nearby town. Now. I will do it now.' 'Do you know what to say ?' Sister Olav asked. 'Yes. Did Lew give you money for everything?' 'Yes.'

  ‘Well. That's it,'he said. ‘That's it,'she said.

  ‘I guess I should go now,' he said, even now more enamoured of her exquisite pale beauty, knowing that if he touched her, he would again be ashamed, knowing more that now he was afraid of the future for himself.

  'What I am doing is not against the Soviet people or the party, even though they will think that, perhaps. But I want you to know it. This is consonant with building socialism in the best sense. 1 want you to know that.'

  'It is a good ideal. As old as the Hippocratic oath,' she said. 'Eugeni will know, too.' 'Yes. Well, I guess the time has come.'

  'They won't throw you in a prison or concentration camp, will they?'

  'No. No. Not at all. Those are the old days. They exaggerate. I am just going home. That's all. I am a doctor. I represent the sweat and the energy of the Soviet people. In their name I do this,' and he knew that if he didn't leave that moment, if he stopped for anything, he would not be able to walk out the door, but would break down, phoning his embassy with everything.

  He felt her hand on his arm as he reached the door. She pulled him to herself and kissed him on the cheek. And likewise he bent down and kissed her on the cheek also, holding himself back, stiff and gallant.

  'You are a beautiful man, Semyon Petrovitch,' she said. And she smiled. 'God bless you.'

  'Madame,' he said, as though he were some British gentleman out for an afternoon's trot, 'it has been my pleasure and my joy. And tell the patient, we will some day regularly achieve suspended animation. What was achieved by accident shall be done on purpose by us.'

  'He will respect the Soviet Union. I will not defame your system to him.'

  'No. Us. The Soviet Union. America. Norway. Africa. Asia. We of the twentieth century shall conquer this thing.'

  He didn't know why he did it, and he felt very foolish, but he had already talked in such a grandiose manner, and to kiss Sister Olav's hand seemed most natural. He saw the Roman smile, and in that recognition of the mind - using the eyesight first - and the reaction of the smile, that smile on that face reminded Dr Semyon Fyodor Petrovitch that he had done it. He had brought it to life. Yes, life.

  He kept his own brave smile on his face long after he could be seen from the house as he walked with brisk stride and purposeful resolution. He waved without looking back at the cabin, and when he was on the neat, paved road, behind a big stand of pine, he vomited up his breakfast and tried to spit the taste of his bile and fear out of his mouth.

  It did not go. So he sat a while, on the ground, seeing how neat this countryside was, how naturally manicured it was, and realized that these people were in advance of his own country materially because it took energy and time, which was money, to make roads neat.

  But he was not Norwegian. He was Russian. So why did he fear to go home? Home was not what made him frightened. Any possible punishment, which rationally had its limits, did not make him frightened.

  What sent weakness through his belly that morning was that Semyon Petrovitch was not a good liar. He had early on in life realized this by being caught so often and had abandoned lying. Especially when the truth seemed always to work out better. It was definitely easier. He had one cigarette left, and he smoked it. A car stopped to offer him a ride. He refused it.

  He reminded himself of what Lew, the American, who generally seemed to know what was going on, said. Semyon's authorities would not care that he was lying; it was not in their self-interest to detect him in a lie.

  ‘Now, Semyon,' he said to himself, scolding as his father had scolded. They are simple lies. You will do it well. Don't worry. They are simple and they will work.'

  He remembered what Lew had said and how clear it was and how rational it was. Very logical.

  The American had told him there were only three diversions from the truth. One, that the patient suffered a deep gash across the nose during the killing in the kitchen; two, he was five feet five and a half; and three, Sister Olav had left with Lew.

  'But if we are going to misdirect, why not describe the patient as six feet tall ? And blond ?'

  'Because there were enough people who saw him. We could never get away with that. We will get away with this. They will look for a man with a scar, travelling alone, of just about normal size. They will think Sister Olav has left to meet me, stricken with love, my love partner, who of course was in on deceiving you. It will work because it is just the kind of thing they know. It is what they will believe. You only have to worry as if you were trying to convince them of grace, not sin.'

  'I am surprised at those words,' said Sister Olav. 'From you.'

  'Yes, aren't you ?' said Lew angrily.

  'I'm sorry,' said Sister Olav. 'I apologize.'

  So the lies were simple. And they would work, and there was no reason for Semyon to keep delaying on the side of the road.

  So he continued walking, and as he approached town he haunted himself with improbable variations of what could happen and go wrong, and when he phoned his embassy in Oslo from a store in the town, he was told to wait.

  By the time the car from the embassy arrived in the town, Semyon was numb with fear and could hardly move, and he wondered if he could even remember the three lies. There would be many times he would have to tell them, he knew. He didn't want them to vary.

  An older man, with very thick glasses and a very bookish attitude, was the first from his embassy to reach him. He drove up with two others and quickly asked him what had happened, and Semyon started at the beginning, but the man wanted to know what had happened in the hospital with the killing.

  Semyon, smoking continuously even though his throat couldn't take much more, described the killing in the kitchen, answered as to why the match was set up, and was told the story didn't make sense.

  'Dr Petrovitch, that is blatantly stupid,' said the man in Russian. And Semyon knew he had been met by a security officer, KGB. Semyon started to fall over his words, but the man insisted on details about what happened after the killing. Where did they find the patient? Was the knife bloody? Why did they let him keep the weapon? They all seemed to get along. And he did not speak the language of the patient, correct ?

  Semyon nodded, Semyon explained, Semyon tried to follow where the man was leading. He was taken to the embassy compound and not allowed to change or shave.

  'You will tell the Norwegian police what you have told me, but leave out what the American and the nun told you about the patient you saved. That is too stupid of you even to mention.'

  The Norwegian police inspector was somewhat softer and more concilliatory, but got around to basically the same questions. And a few others.

  'Five feet five and a half. Wasn't your patient shorter ?'

  'No,' said Petrovitch, feeling as though electricity ripped through his flesh. They know, he thought. They know everything. They'll find out everything. They know. You can't fool them.

  'We've heard from people at the hospital that the man we're
looking for is five feet two, five feet three or so.'

  'No,' said Petrovitch. He did not breathe.

  'Yes. Of course. Standing next to the six feet three and one-half inch American, he would look shorter. That's logical. He would look like a midget by comparison. And the nun, a citizen of our country, was five feet eight, making him look even shorter, because one expects women to be shorter. Yes.'

  'A point,' said Petrovitch, breathing again. 'Good point.’

  it's important that we know exactly how tall he is. We need a good description. And for that we thank you. He is dangerous.'

  There were other questions.

  Had Semyon noticed any affection between Dr Lewellyn McCardle and the nun, Sister Olav ?

  Semyon thought a moment and then remembered what Lew had cautioned. Tell the truth except for the key lies.

  'No. I was not aware they were having an affair. Were they ?'

  The Norwegian inspector looked to the Russian security officer.

  'According to my colleague here, you said Sister Olav left with Dr McCardle.' ‘I said they were not there when I woke up.' 'The patient was there, correct?' 'Yes.’

  'We found the cabin,' said the inspector. 'By the description my colleague and member of your embassy gave us, we found the cabin almost immediately. The phone was working. Why didn't you use it, instead of walking away ?'

  ‘I didn't think. I didn't know. I just fled.'

  'Yes. I can see that. Do you know what kind of car the patient fled in?'

  'No. I just left him there. You didn't find anyone?' 'Not yet.'

  'You should ask the American. He knows. Dr McCardle knows everything.'