The Invisible Life of Ivan Isaenko (21 page)

So, instead, I thoroughly scanned my room and realized that the sound was most likely produced when two Polaroid photographs were slipped under my door while I slept. Both of these photographs depicted Nurse Lyudmila in slightly differing but equally naked and whore-like poses. Furthermore, both of these photographs were set on the desk inside of the Director's office. My first instinct was to mentally ridicule the unkempt and voluminous nature of Nurse Lyudmila's genital hair. My second instinct was to make photocopies.

Spasibo, Polina.

The antique digital clock on the table next to my bed read 5:39 in the
A.M.
, which was well before breakfast hour and, more importantly, sufficiently prior to the time that Miss Kristina arrives at the front desk.
Anarchy hour
. (Shortly after becoming conscious of myself as a person, I began calling the hour between 5:00
A.M.
and 6:00
A.M.
anarchy hour due to a peculiar hole in hospital scheduling in which no nurse was present at the hospital.) Therefore, 5:39 meant twenty-one minutes to make multiple facsimiles of these nauseating photographs before the other nurses were scheduled.

Then I remembered that I was locked inside of my room like a caged animal. As per usual, my first instinct was to check the knob on my door, once again, just to see if anything had magically changed. This time something had changed, because
click, turn, creak
 …

Danke, Polina
.

I hid the photographs in the groin region of my shorts before quickly moving them under my leg nubs after reflecting on the proximity of Nurse Lyudmila to my
Hui
. Then I wheeled myself behind Miss Kristina's desk to the antiquated copy machine. I had never made a photocopy before, but I had spent long hours inspecting the machine prior to this day figuring out how I might make a copy if the need ever arose. Actually, the machine only has one button—a green one—so I laid the photos down on the glass and pressed it. Sure enough, a line of light passed up and down the paper, and within a second, a grainy, slightly indecipherable image fell out of the other side. In my professional opinion, I do believe that it bore a sufficient enough resemblance to Nurse Lyudmila to serve as an adequate backup if the need for blackmail arose. So I pressed the green button again. And then again. And then two more times.

I took one of the copies and slid it under Polina's door. “Sorry, no time to talk,” I said, and I proceeded to the next destination, which was the utility closet, where I hid a second copy under a bottle of bleach, which I had noticed a while back had been there unopened since the late '90s. I hid a third copy in Alex's room, where I maneuvered myself around his colossal sleeping head to a tear in his mattress, which I knew about, since Alex's mattress was once my mattress. The final copy I tucked inside my shorts, again far clear of my
Hui,
and then I wheeled myself back to my room to wait for the inevitable summons by the Director.

I was expecting an early bud-nipping conversation, say 7:30 in the
A.M.
, square in the middle of breakfast hour as per the rules of psychological warfare. Instead, I waited, quite impatiently, for over four hours, until at 10:38 Nurse Natalya knocked on my door. I was already waiting in my chair with all the wrinkles rubbed out of my T-shirt.

Nurse Natalya abruptly opened my door, hardly waiting for me to invite her in, and took up the space in my room like she owned it.

“What in the name of Saint Michael happened last night?” she said.

“What makes you think anything happened last night?”

“Well, first, the Director wants to talk to you, and he never wants to talk to you. Second, there's blood all up and down your face.”

Nurse Natalya charged over to me while licking her thumbs, which she used to unsuccessfully rub the streaks of blood off my face.

“I can clean myself,” I said.

Actually, I wanted to leave it on so that Mikhail could see the sadistic whore he exchanged fluids with.

“Clearly, you can't, Ivan, because it's everywhere. And stop avoiding the question. What happened last night? And why does Mikhail want to see you?”

“It doesn't concern you.”

“If it happened to you, then it concerns me.”

“I'm taking care of it.”

I tried to wheel my way out, but when my palm touched the surface of the rubber wheel, I winced, and Nurse Natalya caught me because she catches everything. A new brand of consternation spread across her face like fire across dry spruce.

“Did she hurt you? Out of all the times to be a shit, this is not the time to be one.”

“I told you I'm taking care of it.”

“And are you taking care of the bruise on Polina's face?”

“Yes.”

“How did it happen?”

“You should ask her.”

“I did.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“That she sleepwalked and fell on her face.”

A likely side effect of an exhaustive chemotherapy regime.

Shrewd, Polina.

“Tragic,” I said.

“There are a thousand reasons why you need to tell me if Lyudmila did this.”

Judging by the fervor in Nurse Natalya's voice, it occurred to me that ordinary words would not be enough to convince her to step back. In these types of situations, we do much better with telepathy. So instead of responding with words, I just looked at her with a face that said,
This is not me being ornery and difficult; this is me trying to protect you
. It took at least half a minute of me launching this message directly into her face with a variety of droopy but concentrated faces before she understood. I know this because she stopped wiping the blood off my face and said:

“Mikhail would like to talk to you now. If you care to let me know how your meeting goes, I will be in the Red Room dusting off heart monitors for most of the day.”

“I will,” I said, knowing quite lucidly that neither of us actually expected me to reveal the details of the meeting.

I turned around and started wheeling myself to the Director's office, swallowing every instinct to react to the postsurgical flames spewing out of my hand so that I could leave without setting off any more of Nurse Natalya's maternal radar.

There was a fraction of a quiver in my hand when I knocked on Mikhail's closed door, and the Polaroids of a naked Nurse Lyudmila seemed to be burning a hole straight through my ass cheeks. I was, however, quickly distracted by the sounds of the Director in the midst of a fairly animated phone conversation, which he abruptly ended. On his way to the door, my mother appeared and reminded me that I was about to speak to the Most Mediocre Man in the World.

“Come in,” he said.

In the context of the situation, the time it took for my chair to make it to the opposite side of his desk, which, incidentally, seemed to me to be worth more than the rest of the contents of the asylum all put together, felt excruciatingly long. And by the time I finally arrived opposite him, he said, “Actually, let's talk over here,” raising his arm to the corner of his office, which was furnished with a long brown (fake) leather couch and a matching recliner. Psychological warfare. I was not too naïve to realize that he was taking advantage of the vulnerability of my condition by asking me to leave my wheelchair for the much less mobile brown recliner.

“Please sit down,” he said, pointing to the recliner.

“I'm already sitting,” I responded.

“I mean you should sit comfortably,” he said.

“My chair suits me fine,” I said.

“I suppose it does,” he said.

The Director paused for a minute, which allowed ample time for his words to settle into my bones.

“So, Ivan, how are you?” he asked.

“I'm fine. Can we get on with it?” I asked.

I had inadvertently rehearsed this conversation a few hundred times in my head since midnight, and not one iteration went like this.

“Get on with what, Ivan?” he asked.

“It. I'm ready to talk,” I said.

“We are talking. Have you read any good books lately? Natalya says you like books.”

“Every day.”

“Every day what?”

“Every day I read a good book.”

“For example?”

“For example,
Doctor Zhivago
.”

“Oh, Pasternak? Never been a fan. What else?”

“
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
.”

“Much better. I fell in love with Solzhenitsyn when I was your age too.”

“What is the purpose of this?” I asked.

“The purpose of what?”

“All this chatter.”

“Just making conversation.”

“We both know we're not here to have that kind of conversation.”

“Why not, Ivan?”

“Because if we were, we would have had this conversation a long time ago.”

The Director furrowed his brow as if he were considering my words and then nodded approvingly.

“Are you happy, Ivan?” he asked.

“Am I happy?”

“Yes, are you happy?”

“That's a dumb question.”

“Be polite, Ivan.”

“It
is
a dumb question.”

“Why?”

“Because of course I'm not happy.”

By the time I finished that statement, it occurred to me that I was yelling it.

“Is that the first time you've told anyone you're not happy? The nurses here often talk about how you don't look happy, but they say you never tell them.”

“Isn't it obvious enough?”

“Perhaps. But unhappy people usually try to do something about it. Or at least let other people know.”

“What difference would it make? And who could be happy here?” I asked.

I realized that the surface of my words was inadvertently being covered with tiny microscopic razors as I spoke, and my insides were smoldering.

“It could make a difference. If it's the place that is making you unhappy, there are two things that we can do. First, we could change the place. Or, second, we could remove you from the place.”

“This place never changes.”

“Then we should remove you from the place?”

I wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical, so I didn't respond.

The Director continued:

“Have you ever asked to leave this place?”

After an eight-month-pregnant pause, I answered:

“No.”

“I see. Well, if the place makes you unhappy, then why not tell someone?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“You heard me.”

“Perhaps when you have an answer we can talk again.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is there anything else you would like to talk about, Ivan?”

“No.”

“Ivan, what's in your shorts?”

“My
Hui
.”

“Besides your
Hui
.”

“What makes you think there is anything in my shorts?”

“Because you keep looking at them.”

“There's nothing in my shorts.”

The Director paused and sifted through the contents of his balding head.

“So we're done here then?”

“Yes.”

“There is the door.”

I turned obediently and began wheeling away, unsure of why I'd lost my nerve and ashamed of the lost blackmail opportunities.

Then the Director spoke again:

“Ivan, one more thing.”

I stopped and turned toward him.

“So long as everything stays in your shorts, the two of you will be left alone.”

Even in the blur of the moment, I knew there was nothing I wanted more. So I said:

“Okay.”

At which point the Director sent me a smirk from across the room. And with that single twist of his lips, everything changed. It was as if I were meeting the man for the first time. Like there was a beast living behind the skin and it finally decided to step into the light. Reader, it is impossible to transmit to you the contents of that smile. I can only say that it was as close to the grin of a fallen angel as I'd ever seen. It spoke so many things:

It said, “You may control the details, but I control your life.”

It said, “I have more concern for the well-being of most species of roach than for you.”

It said, “As long as you're here, I'm the personal dictator of your one-man nation.”

It said other things too, but you probably get the point.

That was when I realized that my mother was wrong: the Director, Mikhail Kruk, was the Most Mediocre
Demon
in the World.

I promptly removed myself from the vicinity of that smile. My first instinct as I wheeled myself away was to dispose of Nurse Lyudmila's naked photograph in the nearest bathroom trash bin, which I did. My second instinct, conveniently, since I was already inside the bathroom, was to vomit every recollection of that meeting into the toilet, which I also did.

 

DAY 12

A Day of Sleep

(Zero days until lab results)

After my conversation with the Director, I returned to my room, shed my clothes, masturbated, fell asleep, and did not wake up until 7:50 in the
A.M.
the next morning, which was almost twenty-one hours of sleep. And even then I only woke up because Nurse Natalya was beating at my door like a distraught gorilla.

“Ivan, are you conscious? Ten minutes left in breakfast hour. You missed lunch
and
dinner yesterday. What about our deal?”

After missing twelve consecutive meals one week in the winter of 1999, we made a deal that I would never go twenty-four hours without eating.

“Ivan! Are you in there? Why is the door locked?”

“Come in,” I said.

Through the metal door I could hear the jangle of Nurse Natalya's keys fumbling their way into the slit, followed by an abrupt turn of the doorknob. She walked in with a bowl of cabbage juice and a croissant.