A Tale (Part 1 of 3)
As he entered one of the stalls, he heard a bestial wail, or a snort, or the gurgle of a cut throat. Leaping back into the center of the room, he turned in every direction but could see no other person. Then the sound came again from the farthest corner, this time followed by groans. Creeping warily along the row of cubicles, Alex stopped suddenly and remained motionless as he stared into the last stall. The scene was so completely beyond his experience and normal categories of thought that he was momentarily paralyzed.
Lying on the wet floor was a young man in fetal position, reeking of alcohol, body fluids, and human befoulment. His shoes were soaked, torn, sockless, laced with string. His thin cloth coat was flung open, revealing a cotton undershirt stained with blood and vomit. But his face was the worst, for it was bruised and lacerated with cuts, scabbed with dried blood. His nose was broken, though this seemed to be an old break that had healed badly. His lips were swollen and cracked, opening and closing with shallow breathing that came from his mouth. His chin was dark with several days’ growth of beard. By what chain of follies he had come to this end, Alex could not begin to guess.
He knelt down and reached out to shake the man’s shoulder, but there was little response, only a resuming of mute cries that seemed to come from the pit of the soul. His glazed eyes managed to swivel toward Alex but could not maintain their focus and returned to a sightless gaze at the floor. His arms were locked in an X across his chest, with large hands clenched tightly. His body convulsed and shook with chills. Alex put his hand on the man’s forehead. It was ice cold.
He now realized that the man was lying across the drain hole and that spray from the water pipe was soaking the entire length of his back. Fighting overwhelming disgust, he grabbed the inert form and dragged it out of the cubicle into the dirty slush of the main section of the washroom. An empty vodka bottle skidded out with him and spun in circles. Alex closed the front of the coat over the man’s chest and bound it with strings that were knotted in the buttonholes. After a quick search, he found a weak heat source farther along the wall, the ventilation shaft out of which warm air was rising, accompanied by the faint roar of the subway many meters below. He dragged the man’s body over to it and propped it up in sitting position.
Removing his own scarf, Alex soaked it in the water spurting from one of the nearby sinks, then used it to clean the man’s face and hands. The rest of his body was in a condition that was beyond any help he could offer.
The man’s eyes opened and tried to focus again.
“Little brother,” Alex said in a low voice, “what has happened to you?”
The answering groan was an attempt at articulation, but it failed.
“What is your name?” Alex said.
“No name”, slurred the voice.
“You have a name”, Alex said firmly.
“No name”, the voice cried with sudden volume. The head lurched sideways, the eyes rolling.
Alex removed his fur hat and put it onto the man’s head, pulling down the flaps about the ears.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“No live, no place, no live, no place, no nothing, no . . .”
The chorus of nyet, nyet went on for some time until the man’s eyes glazed over and his teeth began to chatter violently.
“But you must live someplace. Tell me, where? I will take you there.”
The eyes struggled to focus again. The blue lips parted to reveal an insane grin.
“Live here. Die here. Live, die, live, die—”
“You cannot stay here. You will die if you stay.”
“I am dead. I live in the drain hole—”
“You must try to get up!”
“—the drain hole of the universe.”
“That’s not true! You must get up!”
“I die in the hole. I am the hole. I am the nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet. . .”
Alex’s face went hot with shame and pity. He seized the man’s coat lapels tightly, pulling his loathsome body, trying to lift him. But it was no use. The man’s head flopped back and banged against the wall. Alex put his hand on the back of the man’s skull, sticky with blood and the detritus of the hole of the universe.
“Fifty rubles for me”, the man babbled. The eyes wept and laughed. “Cheap.”
“What is your name?”
“A bottle. A needle.”
“Your name?” Alex shook him.
“One sip.”
“You must remember. Try to remember.”
“No name.”
“Tell me your name!” Alex cried.
“I . . . I . . .”
Now the man’s mad mouth fell slack, and the laughing-weeping eyes turned to pure weeping.
“I once was Alexei”, he sobbed.
“Alexei? Your name is Alexei?”
“Alexei Andreivich, who has become a hole.”
Alex jerked back, holding the other’s body at arm’s length, staring into his eyes with uncertainty.
“Get up”, he said.
“Nyet.”
“Get up, Alyosha, get up!”
“Alyosha?” The eyes strained to focus, filled now with puzzlement. “You call me Alyosha?” he whispered.
“Please, get up!”
“I cannot. My legs.”
Alex stood, dragging Alyosha’s body up with him, straining every muscle. Shifting the weight of the other to his right hip, he gripped the man’s chest under his arm and hobbled with him to the entry stairs. Climbing-dragging him up to street level took an eternity. When they finally emerged, Alex lowered him to the pavement and propped him against the post of a street lamp. A search through the man’s pockets produced no identification papers, nothing to indicate a home address.
Alex dashed to the corner, hoping to spot a policeman. A few minutes later a taxi wheeled around the corner and barreled along the street in his direction. He flagged it to the curb.
~Michael O’Brien (from The Father's Tale)
Lying on the wet floor was a young man in fetal position, reeking of alcohol, body fluids, and human befoulment. His shoes were soaked, torn, sockless, laced with string. His thin cloth coat was flung open, revealing a cotton undershirt stained with blood and vomit. But his face was the worst, for it was bruised and lacerated with cuts, scabbed with dried blood. His nose was broken, though this seemed to be an old break that had healed badly. His lips were swollen and cracked, opening and closing with shallow breathing that came from his mouth. His chin was dark with several days’ growth of beard. By what chain of follies he had come to this end, Alex could not begin to guess.
He knelt down and reached out to shake the man’s shoulder, but there was little response, only a resuming of mute cries that seemed to come from the pit of the soul. His glazed eyes managed to swivel toward Alex but could not maintain their focus and returned to a sightless gaze at the floor. His arms were locked in an X across his chest, with large hands clenched tightly. His body convulsed and shook with chills. Alex put his hand on the man’s forehead. It was ice cold.
He now realized that the man was lying across the drain hole and that spray from the water pipe was soaking the entire length of his back. Fighting overwhelming disgust, he grabbed the inert form and dragged it out of the cubicle into the dirty slush of the main section of the washroom. An empty vodka bottle skidded out with him and spun in circles. Alex closed the front of the coat over the man’s chest and bound it with strings that were knotted in the buttonholes. After a quick search, he found a weak heat source farther along the wall, the ventilation shaft out of which warm air was rising, accompanied by the faint roar of the subway many meters below. He dragged the man’s body over to it and propped it up in sitting position.
Removing his own scarf, Alex soaked it in the water spurting from one of the nearby sinks, then used it to clean the man’s face and hands. The rest of his body was in a condition that was beyond any help he could offer.
The man’s eyes opened and tried to focus again.
“Little brother,” Alex said in a low voice, “what has happened to you?”
The answering groan was an attempt at articulation, but it failed.
“What is your name?” Alex said.
“No name”, slurred the voice.
“You have a name”, Alex said firmly.
“No name”, the voice cried with sudden volume. The head lurched sideways, the eyes rolling.
Alex removed his fur hat and put it onto the man’s head, pulling down the flaps about the ears.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“No live, no place, no live, no place, no nothing, no . . .”
The chorus of nyet, nyet went on for some time until the man’s eyes glazed over and his teeth began to chatter violently.
“But you must live someplace. Tell me, where? I will take you there.”
The eyes struggled to focus again. The blue lips parted to reveal an insane grin.
“Live here. Die here. Live, die, live, die—”
“You cannot stay here. You will die if you stay.”
“I am dead. I live in the drain hole—”
“You must try to get up!”
“—the drain hole of the universe.”
“That’s not true! You must get up!”
“I die in the hole. I am the hole. I am the nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet. . .”
Alex’s face went hot with shame and pity. He seized the man’s coat lapels tightly, pulling his loathsome body, trying to lift him. But it was no use. The man’s head flopped back and banged against the wall. Alex put his hand on the back of the man’s skull, sticky with blood and the detritus of the hole of the universe.
“Fifty rubles for me”, the man babbled. The eyes wept and laughed. “Cheap.”
“What is your name?”
“A bottle. A needle.”
“Your name?” Alex shook him.
“One sip.”
“You must remember. Try to remember.”
“No name.”
“Tell me your name!” Alex cried.
“I . . . I . . .”
Now the man’s mad mouth fell slack, and the laughing-weeping eyes turned to pure weeping.
“I once was Alexei”, he sobbed.
“Alexei? Your name is Alexei?”
“Alexei Andreivich, who has become a hole.”
Alex jerked back, holding the other’s body at arm’s length, staring into his eyes with uncertainty.
“Get up”, he said.
“Nyet.”
“Get up, Alyosha, get up!”
“Alyosha?” The eyes strained to focus, filled now with puzzlement. “You call me Alyosha?” he whispered.
“Please, get up!”
“I cannot. My legs.”
Alex stood, dragging Alyosha’s body up with him, straining every muscle. Shifting the weight of the other to his right hip, he gripped the man’s chest under his arm and hobbled with him to the entry stairs. Climbing-dragging him up to street level took an eternity. When they finally emerged, Alex lowered him to the pavement and propped him against the post of a street lamp. A search through the man’s pockets produced no identification papers, nothing to indicate a home address.
Alex dashed to the corner, hoping to spot a policeman. A few minutes later a taxi wheeled around the corner and barreled along the street in his direction. He flagged it to the curb.
~Michael O’Brien (from The Father's Tale)
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