The weight of money, huh? How much does a headache weigh? Migraines weigh a couple of hundred dollars I guess. An average bad morning's poor head just a matter of cents. That's all this is - tattooed paper. Not sure what that means, but it sounds right. Five thousand dollars weighs more than its mass and volume though. Funny how holding that much money seeps into you - drinks your sweat, drains your tongue. Just for the quantity of it, but that's all money depends on - quantity - like a fucking virus. My five thousand is no more beautiful than Rockefeller's, than Hitler's, than a bum's found down an alley. There's a reason to let it go. That and it's making me feel ill - this nauseous brick wall of cash.
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Derek's throat feels dry not from the rush to the hospital, not from the fear of the taxi driver dumping him and not getting him back, but from the money. His breath feels like toilet stench swarming into his guts. A wide belt around his innards is growing hotter - ready to offload themselves from whichever orifice caves in first. When he thinks about the wad of money in his pocket, his clammy hand attached to it, a wave of dizziness spirals into him. If he doesn't hand this over to someone soon, he's going to puke. What a vile infection money can be - especially when it's not your own anymore.
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Derek notices Pyotr's mother in the corner of the reception area. She's a bundle - not particularly plump, not the opulent kind anyway - more the kind that is stout from hardship. He's taken no time to notice how she looks before - her body looks too heavy for her. This situation is too heavy for both of us. Just get this money off me!
'Mr Derek - good you return now. People who need money will leave soon - means operations wait until tomorrow if late. Must pay right people first. You have?'
'Yes. Yes - I have it. Here take it.'
Derek shuffles into his pocket, the money feels like it needs a crowbar to get it out of there.
'Not here! No - other room. This way.'
In the innocuous, regimented side room Derek surrenders the money - his body grabs back its equilibrium instantaneously. The doctor thumb-flutters the neat pile of bound notes a few times before speaking.
'This is good amount. Now operation can start. Mother must come to sign special papers. You wait in wait area. Will call you when news, but not soon I think.'
'How long do you expect?'
'Many hours I think - wait and I will come to you when it all finished.'
'What are his chances?'
The doctor pats his fattened pocket.
'Better now than before is what I say to you. Better now.'
'Thank you doctor. Please do all you can.'
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Derek waits with hope - hope in the shape of fifty sheets of green paper with the number one-hundred etched on each of them. Waiting in a country with waiting in its veins - if he can wait anywhere it has to be here - here in Russia. A five-thousand dollar wait for life to return.
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