Light sits everywhere in a hospital. It's not busting out from every corner, so much as laying itself omnisciently - not a single shadow, wherever you stand. Always a distant sound as well - a wail from a far corridor, bleeps and cheeps of numerous machines with flickering red lights, cutlery rattling in a way polarised to how it does in a restaurant, feet scuffing on floors in occasional cute squeaks. Despite the removal of harmful liquids from human bodies it's immaculately clean. The whole place is a litmus test for life or death - a waiting room full of mortality trials.
------
Russian hospitals are a little different - not quite as spurious - not cheating so much. There are deep-cut shadows under harsh light bulbs, the walls look tired and badly washed - muck in the depths of broken plaster. The occasional cat patters down the corridor, looking for a free room to piss in. Doctors look grave just eating their lunch - the same face to tell someone a family member's died as to munch on a bread-heavy cabbage pie. The sounds are the same though, except people wince when they hear them - especially the wails. Why lie anyway? We all know what this place is.
------
The doctor comes out with his solemn face to greet Derek and Pyotr's mum. His head is swaying side-to-side. It's hard to tell if he always does that or he has bad news. His coat is dreadfully white, starched and bleached into precision-built creases down the arm. His outfit almost looks bolted on him - too stiff to have been put on like a normal garment.
He addresses Derek first, but Derek's face crunches into lack of understanding. The doctor sighs downwards and breaks into a patchwork English:
'Very serious. Very serious, but not dead yet. Boy needs big operating. This big difficult for here.'
Each consonant is as blunt as the others. Every word spat dryly.
'What's so difficult? What's wrong with him?'
'Many things wrong. Many things - what is word? Many things ruptured. Blood grow inside stomach and into intestine. Not good. Need operation now - or die.'
'Okay - so operate on him!'
'This problem. Not insurance and wait time maybe three months. This time not good - Pyotr dead soon if not operate.'
'No insurance? What insurance? Can we pay to help?'
'Pay is possible, but not little. Must to pay many other who wait and paid. Must pay more to jump to top of list. Only top of list not kill him I think.'
'No problem. How much? Tell me how much.'
'You American, yes? American dollar very good right now. I think five thousand then not problem.'
'Jesus! Five thousand!'
In his staccato ejection of syllables - probably in the same voice he uses to say 'I love you' to his wife - the doctor replies.
'I think one, maybe two day, Pyotr live, but need money before work on him.'
'Okay! Okay! I'll get it. Tomorrow I'll have it here in the morning. Just keep him okay - please. Now - can I see him?'
In the room, at the end of several turned corridors, Pyotr is decked out on a mainly metal bed. Every kind of tube seems to be in that room - made from almost every material. Nothing else in this room except machines to check with way God's thumb is going to switch - up or down.
Pyotr's mother grasps the metal railing around the bed. Her head falls to it and the dirge pours out in colossal chest rumbles. Derek walks to Pyotr. Sees prickles of icy sweat exiting his forehead, pats them off with his palm.
'It's going to be fine Pyotr. I'm getting you out of here - I'm not losing you. No chance.'
He turns to her mother and rocks her by her shoulders gently. She looks up at Derek, her eyes plummeting in tears. Derek stares into her - his eyes desperately promising 'I'll save him. I'll save him.'
She gives back a series of meek nods.
'I'll be back. As soon as I have the money. I'll be back.'
------
