A Tale (Part 3 of 3)
“Do you know how many of those I see every night?”
He shook his head.
“On a good night, three or four. On a bad night, ten or twenty. Most of them die within a few hours. Most of them crawl here or are dumped at the door by the police. The morgue is full of them, and most are either very old, or young like this one. Never has a tourist brought me one. Why did you do it?”
“He is my son.”
“He is Russian. He is not your son.”
“He is my father.”
“Are you insane, or are you a poet?”
“Neither.”
“Religious, then. The Good Samaritan?”
“Are you religious, Doctor?”
“Not in the least. Answer my question.”
“I am a father who has lost his child, and he is a son who has lost his parents.”
“Perhaps he has no parents. These street people often don’t. He might have killed you.”
“Well, the risk was mine.”
Scrutinizing him with an expression of disapproval, she said, much to Alex’s surprise, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No thank you. I will return to my hotel. But first may I leave a message for Alyosha?”
“Alyosha, is it?”
“Alexei Andreivich is his name.”
“All right, you can leave it with me. I’ll see that he gets it, if he survives the night.”
While she went to get an envelope, Alex wrote the following on a page in his pocket notebook:
Alexei Andreivich,
You do not know me, and I do not know you. You have a
name that is beautiful in the sight of God, who is your Father.
You have a Father, Alyosha. You are not alone. Though you
say you are dead, you are alive. Though you think you are
destined to fall down into the drain hole of the universe, it is
not true. Do not believe that lie. You are more than you think
you are.
Life demands that we part, but I will not forget you. We are
united in a bond that nothing can break. Take this gift, and
when you have recovered your health, begin again.
Aleksandr Graham
He tore the page from the notebook and folded it around two five-hundred-ruble notes. Examining the rumpled bills that remained in his pocket, he saw that he now had less than a thousand. He kept enough for a taxi ride back to the Rossiya and added the balance to the gift. When the doctor returned, he put the note and money into the envelope she gave him, sealed it, and wrote Alyosha’s name on it.
“You are mad”, she said, shaking her head. “Why do you throw away your money?”
“Will you give it to him?”
“If he lives”, she said without emotion. “But what if he dies?”
“If he dies, give it to someone like him, someone who survives.”
“What about your hat, your coat, and your jacket?” He hesitated only a moment, then bid farewell to his grandfather’s overcoat.
“They are now his.”
“And if he dies?”
“Give them to someone like him.”
Her frown intensified, as if she was deeply offended by all that had occurred.
“Wait here”, she commanded, turning on her heel. A few minutes later she returned bearing a huge old greatcoat of dark blue felt, and a leather cap lined with dirty sheepskin.
“Take this”, she said, thrusting them upon him. “No one needs it.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“I took it off a dead man earlier this evening. A man with no name. He was not diseased. He died of heart failure.”
Alex put on the coat, which fit well and smelled of dried sweat. He wrapped his beloved tartan scarf around his neck.
“Thank you”, he said.
And so he left wearing the garb of the nameless, aware only that he was moving ever closer to the loss of everything, unaware that the doctor stood motionless in the center of the ward watching him go.
~Michael O’Brien (from The Father’s Tale)
He shook his head.
“On a good night, three or four. On a bad night, ten or twenty. Most of them die within a few hours. Most of them crawl here or are dumped at the door by the police. The morgue is full of them, and most are either very old, or young like this one. Never has a tourist brought me one. Why did you do it?”
“He is my son.”
“He is Russian. He is not your son.”
“He is my father.”
“Are you insane, or are you a poet?”
“Neither.”
“Religious, then. The Good Samaritan?”
“Are you religious, Doctor?”
“Not in the least. Answer my question.”
“I am a father who has lost his child, and he is a son who has lost his parents.”
“Perhaps he has no parents. These street people often don’t. He might have killed you.”
“Well, the risk was mine.”
Scrutinizing him with an expression of disapproval, she said, much to Alex’s surprise, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No thank you. I will return to my hotel. But first may I leave a message for Alyosha?”
“Alyosha, is it?”
“Alexei Andreivich is his name.”
“All right, you can leave it with me. I’ll see that he gets it, if he survives the night.”
While she went to get an envelope, Alex wrote the following on a page in his pocket notebook:
Alexei Andreivich,
You do not know me, and I do not know you. You have a
name that is beautiful in the sight of God, who is your Father.
You have a Father, Alyosha. You are not alone. Though you
say you are dead, you are alive. Though you think you are
destined to fall down into the drain hole of the universe, it is
not true. Do not believe that lie. You are more than you think
you are.
Life demands that we part, but I will not forget you. We are
united in a bond that nothing can break. Take this gift, and
when you have recovered your health, begin again.
Aleksandr Graham
He tore the page from the notebook and folded it around two five-hundred-ruble notes. Examining the rumpled bills that remained in his pocket, he saw that he now had less than a thousand. He kept enough for a taxi ride back to the Rossiya and added the balance to the gift. When the doctor returned, he put the note and money into the envelope she gave him, sealed it, and wrote Alyosha’s name on it.
“You are mad”, she said, shaking her head. “Why do you throw away your money?”
“Will you give it to him?”
“If he lives”, she said without emotion. “But what if he dies?”
“If he dies, give it to someone like him, someone who survives.”
“What about your hat, your coat, and your jacket?” He hesitated only a moment, then bid farewell to his grandfather’s overcoat.
“They are now his.”
“And if he dies?”
“Give them to someone like him.”
Her frown intensified, as if she was deeply offended by all that had occurred.
“Wait here”, she commanded, turning on her heel. A few minutes later she returned bearing a huge old greatcoat of dark blue felt, and a leather cap lined with dirty sheepskin.
“Take this”, she said, thrusting them upon him. “No one needs it.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“I took it off a dead man earlier this evening. A man with no name. He was not diseased. He died of heart failure.”
Alex put on the coat, which fit well and smelled of dried sweat. He wrapped his beloved tartan scarf around his neck.
“Thank you”, he said.
And so he left wearing the garb of the nameless, aware only that he was moving ever closer to the loss of everything, unaware that the doctor stood motionless in the center of the ward watching him go.
~Michael O’Brien (from The Father’s Tale)
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