Valeri Stanoevich, a Bulgarian-born former engineer and forensic expert, prefers to remain in the shadows rather than bask in the limelight. He believes one’s actions should speak louder than self-promotion. With a penchant for exploring the hidden depths beyond the surface, he authored the e-book “Fancy Shop,” a collection of short stories delving into the grotesque and slipstream, revealing the unseen aspects of life.
Treatment
By Valeri Stanoevich
There was something there, light and long, something familiar. Then the word came: ‘a hand’, my hand. A ray of light fell on it. The illuminated part was warm, the rest was cold. The light was coming from the window, the chill from the room. I set it aside and got up. What had pushed the notion ‘hand’ out of my mind? ‘The hand’ began to come back when it was going out.
Their voices could be heard in the corridor. Then they died away. Perhaps they had heard me going down the stairs. They were standing at the door downstairs.
‘Waiting for someone?’
They were silent.
‘Let’s go then.’
Their looks were saying that they expected me to lead the way but they should have understood my desire to follow them. At last one of them mustered his courage and set off. The others followed in a rustling line. They stopped in front of the pavilion and turned back. I was not in a hurry to reach them. Everything was quiet. I could hold the building, the foliage and the sunset together in the palm of my hand. The smell of damp permeated the hall. The corpse was lying on the dissecting table. The old man next to me turned his face aside.
‘Don’t be scared. Touch her!’ I ordered him.
He came closer, touched her hand and leapt as if being scalded. A giggle was heard. I had to intervene.
‘Today we are parting with Phiffy,’ I told them. ‘Her relatives are coming to take her body away tomorrow. Do you remember how scornful she was with you? And the notorious silk scarf she wore to hide her wrinkled neck? Now she has nothing to hide. Anyway, let’s bid farewell to her.’
‘Farewell,’ echoed in the hall …
The man in the corridor tried to turn around, then stopped.
‘Why didn’t you come along with us?’
‘Doctor, I …’ he stuttered at my question. ‘I … actually my voice …’
‘Your voice?’
‘Yes, doctor, my inner voice stopped me from doing so.’
‘Why?’
‘To punish me for my distrust.’
‘What distrust?’
‘It became aware that I had doubts as to the reasons behind your decision to visit the deceased,’ he finished with relief.
‘Your inner voice is too condescending. I am adding a week without any walks in the park to his punishment.’
‘Yes, sir!’ he said with a brisk voice.
I went back to my office. A pile of papers was waiting on my desk. I pushed them aside and opened the notebook. ‘Facts needed!’ was written under the previous day’s date. Why was Sophie late? At that moment, as if pulled in by my thoughts, the door opened. Sophie was standing in the doorway.
‘Come in, Nurse.’ I pointed to the chair across my desk.
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I’m afraid I am going to disappoint you.’
‘You’d better leave that judgment to me.’
‘I couldn’t get anything new.’
‘Really?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did you ask him the questions I dictated to you?’
‘Yes, I did. All of them.’
‘Were you careful enough?’
‘You know that—’
‘I know that you’ve made him fall head over heels for you. Why then?’
‘He said he couldn’t share that with anyone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is his nature.’
‘I suppose that’s so, but I have to know, Sophie.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘The same. Ask him the questions every day, one by one. He has to soften at some point.’
‘Okay.’ Her voice did not sound confident.
‘You have to remember that this man has tried to kill himself three times. The fourth could be the last.’
‘I see.’
‘You must understand that everything we do is for his own good even if it does not appear so. Without that fact, his medical diagnosis is disappointingly incomplete.’
‘I almost forgot. We spoke about the autumn and he mentioned one name: “Rilke [1]”.’
‘Rilke?’
‘Yes, and when I asked him who Rilke was he remained silent for a while and then said, “After all, you understand me.”’
‘That tops it!’
‘Who is Rilke, Doctor?’
‘It doesn’t matter. He vanished a long time ago. You can go now.’
It was a windy morning. Coming this way, I glanced at the rotunda. There was someone in it. I got closer and recognized the haggard, stubbly face.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Guarding.’
‘What are you guarding?’
‘Nature.’
‘Who are you guarding it from?’
The man lifted up his head and looked at me.
‘Doctor, you will not let the town in, will you? You will stop it before it comes here, right?’
‘Of course I will. Go back to the clinic.’
I was not sure if he heard my last words. Those slatterns need to be chewed out. How could they not see that a patient was missing? The man had probably been out all night, in this cold weather!
… I looked up at the wall clock. It was almost midnight. Was it worth paying that much attention to a failed suicide? I closed the notebook, stood up and went down the empty corridor. Suddenly I perceived a faint groan of pain as if it was coming from underground. I drew closer to the stairs. The groans were clearly audible. So, somebody was suffering at that moment. Somebody was in need of help. A door at the end of the corridor was slightly open. I saw the back of the deaf-and-dumb orderly. Sophie was groaning beneath him …
On a late autumn morning, I happened to pass by the rotunda again. The man was still there buried in leaves. When I drew nearer I saw his beard covered with frost and his gaze arrested at a point above the treetops. I bent down, and then all of a sudden his lips moved and he wheezed:
‘Depth … at last.’
I was sitting at the window and looking out. Should I be the one who is now looking for something hidden beneath the fog outside? Had I become the man whose fate was to live up to someone else’s expectations? Where is the thing that lurks behind all my fears? Is it still far away, or it has already come and is waiting here behind me?
Fragile, miserable creatures, humbled at my will, innocent as children, afraid they will become lost. It’s late for them, too late. So kind, they reveal their feelings, trust their dreams. Out there, no one will have mercy on them. Well, they will not understand anything. They will not feel it until the last minute. They will look back … but Sophie, Sophie… I thought I had saved her. So hard I had wrenched her from my heart, to leave her my thoughts. I was hoping that she would continue from where I have to stop. I could watch her from afar. From far, far away. My alter ego could be saved. Cool mind freed from passion and anguish. She would see through my eyes, speak with my words. She was close, so close, but sank into the mud… an ordinary bitch. It all stinks.
… I hadn’t finished my coffee when there was a knock at the door.
‘Good morning, doctor.’
‘Good morning, Mr Suicide!’
‘I came to return your book.’
‘Did you read it?’
‘Of course, with great interest. I am impressed by your therapeutic method. To offer a person afflicted with depression reading matter entitled A Handbook of Suicide is more than ingenious.’
‘You have already regained your sense of humour. It is an achievement!’
He was at the door when I hinted, ‘I can’t understand why Sophie is late. Her leave was over a long time ago.’
‘She’ll never come back here.’
His certainty was troubling.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I asked her not to.’
‘You? Are you fully aware of what will become of you if she isn’t around?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘She doesn’t deserve your self-sacrifice, because she is trash.’
‘You can never touch her soul again.’
‘She followed you on my orders.’
‘I know. She told me.’
‘Then can I give you a piece of advice? The last man in your room who hanged himself used the hook above the lampshade. He succeeded, and he was much heavier than you.’
‘I’ll most likely follow your advice. Hope you get cured!’
At that moment I felt that shapeless, incomprehensible thing that had pushed the notion ‘a hand’ out of my mind a while before starting to come back.
[1] Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926), an Austrian poet
The Galway Review 