The Orphanage

by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler

  “What are you holding him for?” he says peevishly, yet quietly, seemingly saving his strength for an impending outburst. “Put him down.”

  “Where?” Everyone’s confused.

  “On the tables, that’s where!” Sir finally explodes. His nerves aren’t made of steel, after all.

  “On the tables?” one guy—short, fat, gray crewcut on his big skull—asks, perplexed. “What about the operating room?”

  “There’s a two-day wait for the operating room,” Sir replies coldly. He’s already regained his composure. “I said put him down.”

  They move two tables together and carefully lower the soldier onto them. Then a nurse runs into the cafeteria, holding some sheets and a metal medical thingy. The soldier is lifted carefully and a sheet is spread underneath him. Sir produces a pair of scissors and begins snipping through his sweater from his throat to his stomach, like he’s making construction-paper art. At one point, he stops, looks up at the fat guy, then at his buddy, and finally at Pasha. His eyes settle on Pasha.

  “You,” he says firmly and dryly, seemingly delivering an unpleasant, yet inevitable message. “You, hold this.”

  And he points at the sweater. Pasha grips the sweater, pulls it toward himself.

  “Easy, there,” the doctor advises. “The blood’s dry. This is gonna hurt.”

  He says that to Pasha, not the wounded guy, as if Pasha will be the one in pain. He keeps cutting. Then he tears the sweater out of the wound—abruptly, quickly. The soldier shrieks and jolts up.

  “Hold him!” Sir yells at Pasha. “Make sure he doesn’t fall off.”

  Pasha grips the soldier’s hand and tries to avert his eyes so as not to see the dried blood and torn flesh.

  “Wake up!” Sir shouts. “Hold him tighter!”

  Pasha has to look then, whether he likes it or not. The soldier’s just a boy, probably still in his teens. Shaved skull, nicked chin—must have been shaving in the dark. Sharp nose, dark eyes, shut in pain. Striped sleeveless undershirt beneath his sweater. Heavy military belt, camo pants, combat boots. And a wound just below the neck. He coughs violently, and blood soaks the undershirt. So he’s holding his breath, like he’s about to go underwater. But he bursts into coughing each time he exhales, expelling blood. And Pasha looks at the blood, mesmerized, transfixed, looks at the tender raspberry drops that seep into the fabric, looks at the dark, dry crust around the wound, at the cut flesh, as life escapes from the soldier.

  “Cut his shirt,” says Sir. “Get cutting!”

  He gives him the scissors, takes out a syringe and some vials, starts doing something with them. Pasha clasps the fabric hesitantly, doesn’t know where to start. He freezes up.

  “Cut it,” Sir orders dryly.

  And he cuts it. Shreds the undershirt all the way down to his stomach. The soldier’s skin is white, wintry. Hardly any chest hair. His body makes the pink blood look very bright. And there’s more and more of it. The soldier laboriously swallows air. He’s clearly having a hard time breathing; his eyes roll back, his hand grasps at emptiness. Pasha intercepts his hand, squeezes it. C’mon, c’mon, just a little longer, c’mon. Sir swings around, syringe in hand, leans in, drives the needle into his body. The soldier trembles, tries to break free.

  “Hold him!” Sir yells angrily. “Hold him down.”

  Pasha throws his body on the soldier, yet tries not to put too much pressure on him. Sir begins working his magic on the wound, treating it with something, which makes the soldier tremble again and begin crying loudly. Pasha presses his whole body down on him, averts his eyes, looks to the side so he doesn’t have to see the blood flowing out of his body. The soldier jerks. He begins pleading. Don’t, don’t touch that, don’t. But then he bursts out coughing again. Pasha can feel how much the soldier’s chest has tightened up, but he keeps holding him, not letting go. The fat guy and his buddy avert their eyes, too. They can’t take it anymore. They turn around, disappear into the hallway. Sir whispers something to the nurse. She takes out a metal box, opens it, takes out some forceps, hands them to the doctor. He accepts them without even looking. He works with automatic precision, like a gardener pruning flowers. He isn’t rushing, he isn’t worrying. It’s as if he’s sure that everything will be fine, that there’s a happy ending to this. His confidence should put Pasha at ease, but for some reason it doesn’t. Pasha’s shaking, he’s freezing, and the smell of blood becomes more distinct, more intrusive. He gulps down some air, breathes deeply, and tries to calm himself.

  “What’s wrong?” Sir asks as he digs around in bloody flesh with the forceps.

  “I’m fine,” Pasha replies curtly.

  “You sure?” Sir doesn’t believe him.

  “Yeah,” Pasha assures him.

  “Well, that’s good,” Sir says, and thrusts the forceps right into the shredded mush.

  The soldier shrieks and tries breaking out of Pasha’s embrace. Pasha squeezes him, realizing that he won’t be able to hang on much longer. But then the soldier slumps back down, like the spirit has gone out of him.

  “Sir!” Pasha yells, turning toward the doctor. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing,” Sir answers. “Guess he’s feeling better now.”

  “What should we do now?” Pasha’s confused.

  “Well, nothing,” Sir replies, irritated. “Just let him lie here.”

  “Is he gonna live?” Pasha continues his line of questioning.

  “Who the hell knows?” Sir answers bluntly. “Yeah, he will,” he adds, after a moment’s thought.

  Then he gets a call. Sir reaches his bloody hand into the pocket of his coat, takes out an iPhone. He drags a finger across the screen, leaving a streak of blood, starts listening.

  “Yeah,” he says. “And?” he asks. “Is he in bad shape? Can’t you do without me? All right, I’ll be right there.”

  So he begins putting his instruments away, tossing each one into the box with a cold, metallic bang.

  “Where are you going, Sir?” Pasha asks.

  “To the operating room,” Sir answers imperturbably.

  “What about him?” Pasha starts panicking.

  “Hold him,” Sir advises. “So he doesn’t fall off. Just hold him. I’ll come back when I’m done and take a look at him.” He points at the wounded guy.

  He leaves. The nurse leaves, too, without even promising to come back. Pasha stands over the soldier, holding his hand, not knowing what to do. Out in the hallway, people screaming, running around. In here, there’s the dusky light, the smell of the cafeteria, and this kid on the table. He’s quieted down, not saying anything. The fresh bandage on his neck is soaked with blood.

  Pasha scans the room. Tiled floor, whitewashed walls. Just like a morgue. And there’s a faucet on the wall, wrapped in a rag, like a finger with a band-aid on it. And the water, drop after drop, dropping into the sink. Resonantly and rhythmically. Irritating, infuriating. Echoing somewhere in his skull. Pasha tries to focus on something else, but he can’t. It feels like the drops are trying to drill a hole in his skull. Drop after drop, drop after drop. Methodical and deathly. Knock it off! Pasha can’t take it anymore, and he jolts toward the faucet. But at that very moment, the soldier grabs Pasha’s hand. His grip is firm and predatory.

  “Hold on.” He struggles to move his lips. “Wait, don’t go.”

  He wants to say something else, but then he bursts out coughing, gasping for air.

  “Wait,” he says to Pasha after he’s finally caught his breath. “Who are you?”

  He’s speaking Ukrainian, not mixing the languages at all. He’s probably a student.

  “A teacher,” Pasha explains.

  “From around here?”

  It’s hard for him to speak, but he keeps talking, straining.

  “From the Station.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Gotcha,” the wounded guy says, even though he clearly doesn’t get it. “S
o, Teach, what’s your name?”

  “Pasha,” Pasha answers.

  “So, Pasha, my phone’s around here somewhere. Call my family.”

  “What for?” Pasha’s confused.

  “Tell them I’m doing all right.”

  “You tell ’em,” Pasha suggests.

  “Are you a complete idiot or what?” the wounded guy asks him sharply, and has another coughing fit.

  He coughs hoarsely and deeply, as though his heart is lodged in his throat. Pasha holds him by the elbow, waits. The soldier catches his breath, looks Pasha right in the eye.

  “Are you a complete idiot?” He repeats his question. “How’m I supposed to talk to them with my voice like this?”

  “Well, just tell them you’re at the hospital.”

  “Are you for real?” the wounded guy asks, aggrieved. “They don’t even know I’m here. You have a family?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” Pasha answers. “A nephew.”

  “Okay, then,” the wounded guy replies. “C’mon, call ’em.”

  Pasha hesitates, but the soldier’s looking at him firmly. And he’s holding Pasha’s hand firmly, too, not letting go. Then Pasha reaches into his pants pocket and actually finds a basic Nokia right away.

  “What’s the number?” he asks.

  “The last one I dialed,” the soldier answers. “Called them right before we got hit. C’mon already.”

  He keeps holding Pasha’s hand, but Pasha can tell that his grip is loosening—running out of strength, eyes rolling back, labored, choppy breathing. “Just don’t die on me,” Pasha thinks. “Where’d that doctor go?” Pasha anxiously finds the last number—“Home.” That’s it. He goes for it, thinks about what to say, but doesn’t come up with anything, so he just presses the button.

  The soldier tenses up, listens. It keeps ringing and ringing, ringing for an eternity. Well, c’mon—Pasha encourages someone, who knows who, though—c’mon, pick up. Well, where are you? C’mon, he’s gonna croak any second now. Pick up the phone, c’mon.

  “No one’s picking up,” he says to the soldier, somewhat relieved.

  “Well, what would I’ve told them anyway?” he thinks. “Would’ve had to make something up. They aren’t answering, that’s on them,” he thinks and places the phone on the table, next to the soldier. But he squeezes Pasha’s hand once again.

  “Wait,” he says. “Hold on, Teach.”

  He catches his breath, musters his strength.

  “Try. One more time.”

  “They aren’t picking up.”

  “It’s my grandma,” the wounded guy explains. “She’s almost deaf. She just didn’t hear it. C’mon, just call.”

  All Pasha can do is make the call. He presses the button, listens. And he notices that the soldier is also listening, tensing up, and it’s getting harder and harder for him to keep listening. Well, and it’s getting harder and harder for Pasha, too. He wants to sit down and relax. Not look at anyone, not see anything. Forget all the sounds and smells. Forget the train station, forget the bus, the crumbling road, the moonlit landscapes out the window, the hapless travelers trudging through the January fields, the black, scorched forest, the dark houses, the frightened voices, the lifeless windows, the intersections where death may be waiting for you. And all of that is sitting inside him like lead—heavy and cold, dragging him down to the bottom, making him unwieldy and vulnerable. And the drops—the drops are hitting him right on the head, echoing in his mind, drop by drop, as if someone’s mocking him, as if someone’s standing nearby and watching him, laughing at him, seeing him struggle, yet not doing anything about it, not rushing to help, not rushing to pick up the phone. Well, c’mon, c’mon, let’s go already. Well, where are you? But nobody’s answering. And the wounded guy’s fading, closing his eyes, not saying anything. He merely squeezes Pasha’s hand, squeezes, seemingly pleading. C’mon, one more time, Teach, c’mon. Pasha keeps calling and begins counting the drops as they smash coldly. He counts, loses track, starts counting again, skips around, starts all over, stubbornly, insistently, feeling that the metal spring isn’t letting him breathe. It’s pushing his heart out of his chest, not letting his heart beat, jabbing into it—sharply and implacably. Well, why aren’t you picking up, huh? Why? C’mon, pick up while he’s still here, while he’s still alive, pick up while he can still hear you, before it’s too late. C’mon already. He’s about to pass, right here, right now, close his eyes, and that’ll be it—you won’t hear him ever again, he won’t say anything ever again, he’ll be here a few more minutes, you can still say something to him, he can’t pass without hearing you talk—pass like this, on these two lunch tables moved together, with a slit throat.

  Pasha suddenly feels someone else’s presence alongside him—someone invisible, someone standing there and waiting persistently. Like someone’s transparent silhouette is standing there, watching, plotting. Who’s it waiting for? And who has it come for? “For me, clearly,” Pasha surmises. “Clearly. It’s what’s been on my heels for three days now, it’s what reeks so much of wet dog, it’s what’s been hunting me, aiming at me. And now is the perfect moment—we’re here all alone, this kid won’t notice anything, he doesn’t notice anything anymore. Yeah, right now,” Pasha thinks resignedly. “Right here.”

  Then the soldier squeezes his hand again. C’mon, don’t give up, keep calling. And Pasha feels the silhouette behind him tense up and finally start paying attention to the kid, to its new victim, scrutinizing, considering. And as soon as he shuts his eyes, as soon as he drifts off, as soon as he releases Pasha’s hand, there’ll be no saving him. “Hold on,” Pasha says. “This can’t be, you came for me, what’s he got to do with this? Hold on.” And he presses the green button again. “C’mon,” he repeats in despair. “C’mon, where’d you all go? Pick up. Someone just pick up! Why isn’t anyone answering? Where’d you all go? Anyone there? Anyone at all? Where are you? Anyone out there? Can’t hear anyone. No pity for anyone. Anyone,” Pasha repeats, mouthing the words. “No pity for anyone. No pity for anyone, anyone at all.” He can feel death retreating, sidestepping him, moving on to someone else. The ringing dissolves, time flows out, the air thins. There’s no fixing anything, there’s no saving anyone. The main road stretches out, just a series of snowy fields. There’s so much white all around. It’s as if all the other colors have disappeared and only white remains. It stretches as far as the eye can see, never-ending white, deep and unmoving, all the way out to the horizon. White fields and the black thawed streak of the road that he’s following as he tries to escape, the road that ought to save him. He’s running, shielding his eyes from the blinding, white mist all around, running, dragging all his fatigue, all his drenched torment. Just don’t stop, don’t stop no matter what. You’ll make it, you will, you’ll break free, you’ll slip through. You’ll pull it off, you will. Just a little more, a little bit more. Footsteps. The asphalt echoes hollowly. Snowy fields approach, like the sea at high tide. The white, white surface of life. The white, white space where no one can help. And then he spots some movement. The white canvas sways ever so slightly; his retinas respond to a nearly imperceptible quivering. Black dots—one, two, three, four, five—emerge distinctly on the horizon, expand, move toward him, and in all this movement, he suddenly senses some sort of danger, something irreparable, something that will usher in the end of this, something that he has to escape—as fast as possible, as far as possible. And he’s running, on the brink of exhaustion, down the black channel of the road. He runs and catches the cadenced, contentious movement of black dots on the white canvas, sees them expanding, throbbing, charging toward him, seemingly reacting to his body heat. “Don’t look,” he says to himself. “Don’t look, don’t, just run, run as fast as you can, until you drop, until you’re out of time, run and don’t look,” he orders himself. And he looks. And he clearly makes out dark dogs on the white backdrop: their heavy chests sinking into the icy expanse, their paws churning scraps of snow, their throats wailing a
s the warm smell of their victim reaches them more and more sharply. Closer and closer, more furiously, more consumed with the hunt, realizing that their victim won’t be able to escape, that he isn’t going anywhere, that he’s up ahead, a few strong spurts away. Almost there, one more second, and they can pounce, sink their teeth into his neck, but he’s trying to escape, trying to trick fate. He’s already picking up that wet dog smell, hearing the snowy crust crunch under heavy paws, deafened by their hoarse barking that shreds the surrounding silence. “How many of them are there?” he thinks. “How many?” One, two, three, four, five—he jerks forward, runs, his eyes trying to latch on to anything that could save him or simply delay his death. But the space is empty, rarified, and there’s just the white light that’s burning his eyes, and there’s so much of this light—nothing else, nothing at all, just light, that’s it, nothing more. And all he can do is run—don’t stop, don’t turn around—until he drops, until he’s out of time. How much time does he have left? “How much?” he asks himself and begins counting:

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  There’s more and more light; it floods everything all around. There’s just so much of it; it fills up everything. It’s as if life consists solely of light, as if, in this light, there’s no place for death.

  I’ve been sitting in the hallway for over an hour now—just waiting at first, then walking around, reading the posters on the wall. That gets old pretty fast, so I take out my phone. Finally have service. I think about who I should call. Nina. I can’t get through, obviously. I send her a text, just in case. I’m doing fine, don’t worry. But is she worried? Maybe. She’s always worried about everyone. I think that’s why nobody likes her.

  Pasha shows up sometime around midnight. Tired, pale. He sees me, sits down on the floor, shakes his head. “No pity for anyone. No pity for anyone,” he repeats. I don’t really get what he means. I sit down next to him.