Markus said something else about time, about haste, about having to hurry, but Vladimir couldn’t make out the words. Ilvana was speaking simultaneously and their two voices co-mingled in his ears. Vladimir faltered on his feet. The shadows danced in mesmerizing, rampageous circles on the walls. A loss of balance overcame him. He fell forward, straight into the arms of Markus. The diminutive man tried to catch him but wilted like a fossilized fern, and together they collapsed onto the floor. Vladimir could feel Markus’s breath on his face. A pressure built up in the base of his throat. Vladimir wanted nothing more than to hiccup, to feel the sweet release. He swallowed and pushed the air to the base of his tongue but nothing emerged. Vladimir rolled off Markus and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Ilvana tried to help him up. “You smell like fish,” she said.
“I was on a boat. And then a train,” Vladimir said. “I didn’t have time to take a bath.”
“What happened?” she said. “What’s wrong with you?”
Vladimir looked into her meek eyes, biting her bottom lip in that timid way of hers. He could never expect Ilvana to comprehend how it had felt the moment the hiccups stopped. She’d never understand the cat that tried to murder him, the boat trip down the river or the noises on that train; how Vladimir stole through the streets in a desperate search for Markus’s office; the paralyzing sounds of the appetent Moscow night. Vladimir pulled himself up.
“Doctor Namestikov is in danger,” he said as calmly as he could. “Do you know when he’s scheduled to be executed?”
Ilvana lowered her eyes. “Tonight at 11 p.m.”
“But the time is almost upon us!” He turned to Markus. “What’s our plan?”
“Plan?” Markus said.
“Yes. Our plan to save Doctor Namestikov.”
Markus’s voice was incredulous. “I haven’t had time to devise a plan,” he said. “This isn’t really my realm of expertise, Vladimir. I’m not accustomed to great prison escapes or daring train robberies. I’m a psychologist, not a criminal mastermind.”
“But we have to do something.”
“What can the three of us truly accomplish?”
Vladimir looked at Markus with his stunted legs and his misshapen hands. He appeared to rely on his canes even more heavily than he had twelve years ago. Vladimir’s eyes swung over to Ilvana with her frail arms and mouth cemented in the halfway point of sleep. She was almost out on her feet. He touched his head and the world swirled, glistening as though it were composed of hundreds of thousands of tiny mirrors.
Markus was right. What hope did the three of them have?
“No,” Vladimir said. “I refuse to believe it. The hospital is not a prison. It is a hospital, nothing more. I don’t care if the world is at war. I don’t care if they shoot me like a dog. Doctor Namestikov would do everything in his power to save me if I were in his place. I just know it.” He rushed over to the desk and picked up his bulletless gun. “Where is your weapon?”
Markus tapped the pocket of his jacket.
“How many bullets do you have?”
“Two.”
“Two bullets?” Vladimir said. “That’s all?”
“I bought this gun because of you,” Markus said. “I only ever thought I would need two bullets. One to wound you and the other to deliver the kill shot.”
Vladimir’s mouth opened wide. He had no time to imagine an alternate reality in which he might have stormed into Markus’s office, knife in hand, hiccupping with a deranged look in his eyes and met the barrel of Markus’s gun full on. He tucked his empty Nagant revolver into his jacket.
“How many guards are watching over Doctor Namestikov right now?”
“Three, I believe,” Ilvana said. “As far as I know, the execution squad isn’t scheduled to arrive until eleven. After that, there won’t be much time.”
“Three guards we can handle,” Vladimir said, as though the men watching over Sergei were an abstract concept and not real men with muscles and strength and determination.
“But we only have two bullets.” Markus pointed his cane in the air. “And I don’t intend on murdering anyone tonight. I want to make that perfectly clear.”
“We won’t have to shoot anyone. We’ll just use the threat of force. Ilvana can get us into the hospital. I’ll threaten the guards and Markus can gather the doctor. We’ll be in and out before they know what happened.”
“What will we do afterward? Where will we go? Where will Sergei live?” Markus said.
Vladimir paused. He hadn’t considered any of this. Was it really feasible to take Sergei back to his village to live with him and his mother? How would they traverse the frozen river? What would they do for food and money along the way? A hairline crack formed in the enameled surface of Vladimir’s conviction.
“I can’t answer those questions now,” he said. He pointed at the clock on the wall. “We have less than forty minutes to save our friend.” Vladimir walked toward the door. “Which of you has the courage to come with me?”
twenty-three
“Where’s your driver?” Vladimir said.
Markus walked around to the back of his car and looked down the street. He peered this way and that, the freezing rain blowing sideways in the wind, looked back at Vladimir and Ilvana and then up at the building across the street, where a few illuminated windows were scattered like missing puzzle pieces. He lifted his cane and pointed. “Up there, I presume.”
“You said he was on duty.”
“He is. At least he’s supposed to be,” Markus said.
“Then what’s he doing up there?”
Markus wagged his finger in the air. He spoke directly to the building. “That little street-corner strumpet finally tricked you into her lair, didn’t she? You should be ashamed of yourself, Nikolai. You’re a married man. You have two children. Have you no shame? Have you no sense of decency?” He turned to Vladimir. “I have half a mind to go up there right now and catch him in the act.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Vladimir said. “Can you drive the car yourself?”
Markus shook his head. “I haven’t got a license.”
“That doesn’t matter. Do you know how to drive?”
“Of course I understand the principles of operating a moving vehicle,” Markus said. “But my legs are too short to reach the pedals and I’m barely strong enough to turn the wheel.”
Vladimir turned to Ilvana. She was slumped against the driver’s-side door, her eyes closed, soft intermittent wisps of air seeping through her lips. There was no way Vladimir could let her drive. She would fall asleep as she turned a corner and kill them all.
“What about you?” Markus said.
“I’ve never driven a car.”
“Never?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Vladimir snapped in anger. He was growing frustrated. Time was passing too quickly. They were only five kilometers from the hospital but they might as well have been on the other side of the world. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll drive and you’ll instruct me.”
Vladimir placed Ilvana in the backseat and helped Markus into the passenger’s side. Markus stood straight up on his two feet, his hair barely brushing against the ceiling as he instructed Vladimir on the necessary fundamentals. He told Vladimir which pedal was for acceleration and which operated the brakes. He offered advice on the amount of force required to steer the car from side to side and insisted on helping with the shifting. Vladimir placed his hands on the wheel. He moved his foot from the clutch to the brake and then to the gas and back again. He turned the key in the ignition and the car revved to a start. It hopped forward. Markus bellowed instructions in Vladimir’s ear. Vladimir’s hands gripped tighter on the wheel. The car hopped forward as Markus shifted the vehicle directly into third gear. Vladimir pressed on the gas and they were off. A smile tickled the corners of Vladimir’s mouth. Even in his frantic, disoriented state, the adrenaline rushed through his veins. He turned the car to the left a
nd they lurched down the road with Ilvana asleep in the back. Vladimir yelled out. “Woo!” he screamed again and stepped on the gas.
When it came time to turn right, Vladimir placed his foot down again. Suddenly the car sped up instead of slowing down. Vladimir didn’t know what to do. He pressed down even harder, but in his euphoric state he’d confused the brake pedal and the gas. The car shot through the streets like an out-of-control barrel of apples rolling down a hill. Markus screamed in his native British. Another car — the only other automobile on the road — was directly ahead. Vladimir searched valiantly for the brake with his foot but found the clutch instead. The engine made a hideous gasping noise.
Crash!
The car came to a stop with its front end firmly embedded in the back end of the other vehicle. An enraged man, big and burly, stepped out of the other car, cursing under his breath. Vladimir glanced at his wristwatch. Very little time remained.
“Hand me your gun,” he said.
“I most certainly will not,” Markus said. “What do you plan to do with it?”
Ilvana had woken up with the crash and was talking nonsense in Vladimir’s ear.
The other driver, still fuming, was approaching.
“Hand me your gun,” Vladimir said again, calmly and directly.
This time Markus relented. He reached inside his jacket and handed Vladimir the weapon. Vladimir stepped out of the car. He pointed the gun at the other driver.
“You best be on your way,” Vladimir said.
The other driver froze in place. He stared into the barrel of the gun with a petrified expression on his face. Vladimir raised the weapon in the air and fired a single shot. It was louder than he’d imagined, the force of the gun stronger too. The weapon kicked back in Vladimir’s hand. He gripped the handle tighter and took aim once more.
“I only have one bullet left,” he said to the speechless motorist. “Don’t make me feel like I need to use it.”
The man nodded his head. He apologized and turned around and climbed into his vehicle. At first when he pressed on the gas, his car wouldn’t budge, its back end was so firmly entrenched in the pile of gears and metal. He accelerated harder. His tires skidded in the sleet and then found traction on the pavement. The two vehicles pulled apart with a loud metallic screech. Off down the road the other car hobbled. Vladimir watched it disappear into the Russian night.
He tossed the gun back to Markus.
Markus’s eyes turned wild as the weapon sailed through the air and he let out a shriek before catching it in his hands. “Terrific,” he said. “Now we only have one bullet left.”
Vladimir walked to the front of the car to survey the damage. It looked bad, without a doubt. But it still appeared drivable. The car would get them the short distance they had to travel. He looked back at Markus and Ilvana.
In the distance, sirens sounded. Fast-approaching headlights peppered the horizon.
“We need to work out another arrangement,” he said. “And quickly.”
Markus took a step toward Ilvana. “Do you know how to drive?”
She hesitated.
“My father stopped me from driving when I was eighteen.”
“What happened when you were eighteen?” Vladimir said.
“Yes, what happened?” Markus said.
“I hit a sheep.”
“That’s not so bad,” Markus said.
“And a couple of dogs. But they were only strays. Not a single collar was found in the wreckage.”
“Well . . .”
“Also my grandmother’s wheelchair.”
“Oh.”
“Babooshka was in the chair at the time,” Ilvana said. “When the car struck, it made an awful sound. I’ve never quite forgotten it.”
Ilvana looked to be on the verge of weeping. Vladimir gazed off into the distance. For the first time, an orange-red glow appeared along the horizon. The Germans were advancing. The world was on fire — Moscow might burn to the ground tonight — and Vladimir’s doctor was scheduled to die in mere minutes. He looked at the deserted city streets. There wasn’t a single stray animal or disabled grandmother in sight.
“We’ll have to make do,” he said.
The trio arrived at the hospital gates eight minutes later with Vladimir in the passenger seat and Ilvana driving the car. Markus was sitting square on her lap, helping her steer. He’d propped her chin up with his piecemeal coif of hair, and whenever Ilvana’s concentration started to wane, Vladimir would holler in her ear and Markus would knock her straight on the chin with the back of his head. As they approached the hospital gates, Vladimir saw the same military personnel carrying large guns that he’d seen earlier in the day. Ilvana pulled the car up next to them and Vladimir thought they were doomed for sure. The soldiers would take one look at the car’s smashed front end still steaming in the rain, one look at the narcoleptic nurse’s aide driving with a malformed troll — a foreigner, no less — sitting in her lap and arrest them all on the spot.
Vladimir was shocked to see Ilvana exchange pleasantries with the guards. They appeared to know each other, or at the very least to have spoken before as Ilvana commented on the cold night and made a joke about teaching her diminutive friend to drive. The soldiers hardly listened to her, preoccupied as they were with staring at the orange glow of war pulsing in the distance. They told Ilvana to hurry on her way, and then stepped back to let the car pass.
“Well done!” Markus said once they were out of earshot.
“What now?” Vladimir said.
Ilvana pulled the vehicle around to the side of the building that occupied the mental health ward and parked it against a wall. They stepped out and stood in the rain. It was ten minutes until eleven. Ten minutes until the execution.
“Now we go get your doctor.”
twenty-four
The moment Ilvana inserted her key and opened the door, Vladimir wilted. He could keep himself together no longer. Plagued by terrors since the moment his hiccups stopped, he placed one foot inside the building and felt like he was about to die. The smell was incredible, incurable, inerasable. It wafted toward him. Like humid summer heat, it seeped into his mouth, penetrated his eyes and permeated his every pore. Screams sounded in the distance with the deranged, the retarded and the sick all calling out into the dark. Imprisoned in these bloodstained walls as much as in their fragile minds, their voices comingled to form one long, inescapable moan. Two steps inside the building, Vladimir grasped a handrail on the stairwell. For the first time in his life, he prayed, he prayed to die here, for the dark to overtake him, to not have to walk these halls again.
Markus dropped his cane and grabbed Vladimir’s hand. He helped him up a single stair and then another. Ilvana assisted as well. Inside Vladimir’s brain, angry ravens pecked at his cerebellum. He didn’t know who he was, who he’d been, what he was doing here anymore. The three of them kept climbing stairs until they reached another door. Ilvana pulled a second set of keys from her pocket. They bridged the precipice and entered a giant hall where the lunatics walked freely. Some crept along the floor like animals. Others shuffled their feet and dragged their invisible chains. That night Vladimir spent here all those years ago rushed to the front of his brain. He remembered that first moonstruck schizophrenic who attacked him with a garbage can, the wild brawl that escalated amongst the patients and staff, the fire, the carnage, the beheaded nurse. It all made the trial in the Waterfall of Ion seem like a leisurely bath.
Ilvana and Markus tried to hurry Vladimir along. An old woman, naked from the waist up, grasped at him.
“Hurry, Vladimir. You must move your feet!”
It was Ilvana’s voice. Vladimir looked over at her. How awake she appeared now, how in and of the moment. Vladimir pulled his arm away from the naked woman and kept moving forward. Where were his hiccups? Where was the pressing urge, the hourglass steadily dripping sand that had come to define his life? Together Vladimir, Markus and Ilvana pushed past the unoccupied nurses’ s
tation and through another set of doors. Vladimir recognized this hallway. It was white and windowless like all the others, and he knew it from the uneven number of doorways on either side. The last time he was here, bodies had littered the floor. Where are they now? he wondered. What became of those lost souls?
Ilvana approached a third and final door. To Vladimir’s surprise, Markus already had his pistol drawn, his tiny partial thumb and malformed fingers coiled around the trigger. The door opened and there was Sergei, standing alone, chains around his wrists and ankles.
Markus burst into the room brandishing his weapon with more bravado than Vladimir believed possible. He pointed his gun into all four corners, twirled around, looked at his old friend and then back at Ilvana.
“Where are the guards?” he said.
Ilvana stole a glance back in the hallway. She gave Markus a confused look.
“Vladimir? Markus? Is it really you?” Sergei said.
He was standing in the center of the room, stark naked, his frail bones bulging through his skin. Blue iridescent veins formed spiderwebs on his flesh. Death’s door was upon him and his eyes flickered, twitching and convulsing with each sideways glance. He looked like he hadn’t eaten since Vladimir last saw him. And his hiccups — the ones he’d feigned all along — were gone.
“You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?” he said.
Markus lowered his gun. “Of course not, old friend. We’ve come to save you.”
“They’re coming right now.” Sergei glanced at the open doorway behind him. “The guards took my clothes and left. They told me to wait here for the executioner’s axe.” He shuffled along the floor toward Markus. “I hope they don’t use an axe,” he said. “The very thought of it turns my fingers numb. I can’t feel. I can’t think. I’m not myself anymore.”
“You needn’t worry, old friend,” Markus said. “We’re here to save you.” He reached out to grasp Sergei’s hand when Vladimir fell to the floor and started to scream.
The Last Hiccup Page 19
