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“I—I—haven’t slept for the last ten nights…”

That was what he claimed, at least. A windswept ragamuffin in torn cotton with eyes like Nietzsche’s abyss, as though his soul had been jostled loose from its moorings and stuck to the bottom of his shoe, trampled, step by step, against every sharp-edged paving stone in the whole of St. Petersburg.

“She’s dying,” he said.

“So are a number of people,” I answered back.

And he gave me this look as though I had ripped his puppy from end to end and pinned the individual pieces to the edge of his seat.

He had boarded the line in Novosibirsk, carrying only a knapsack and a photograph of a girl tucked beneath his overcoat. You could tell at a glance that there was something terribly wrong with him. A malady of the heart. Imminent loss creeping up his veins like tendrils of ivy. And of course he had decided to sit by me, even though there were a dozen available compartments to choose from—sympathetic compartments, encouraging compartments, or even empty compartments, where he might simply end his sorrows with a gunshot that hardly anyone would remember after the initial shock. Clear the body out, clean up the blood, and that would be that. Happens all the time.

“But I had to leave,” he continued. “Money. The medical expenses were getting to be too much…”

“So you abandoned her, did you?” said I. “Defected? Ran away? That was certainly the manly thing to do, my boy. Well done.”

“No, I… I went for employment.” He paused. “You really don’t care at all, do you?”

“And why should I?” I inquired. “You’re just some strange fellow who chose to sit across from me and agitate my otherwise pleasant train ride. Here I was, pondering to myself in my own quiet compartment, and then you came along to disturb my pleasant reverie with tales of death and woe. Might you not simply keep your despair to yourself and leave me to my contented indifference?”

“No man is an island,” he whispered, eyes wide with desperation.

“And do you really believe that?” I countered. “Do you suppose Donne had mankind all figured out when he wrote that? Hardly. He was a poet. Poets lie.”

“But how can you…?”

“Men are islands,” I went on. “We are insulated—break that down, if you will, and you will find that it means to literally make into an island—against one another’s tragedies. Seriously, my boy, can you imagine if we were constantly wading off to examine everyone else’s problems in addition to our own? One day, the misery would simply be too deep, tides rising on all sides, and we’d drown. So don’t you dare quote Donne to me without examining the matter more thoroughly.”

This stumped the boy for a moment. He bit his lip and looked out the window.

“What do you do?” he asked suddenly, turning back. “I mean, for a living?”

“I, my dear boy, am a physician.”

He exhaled in disbelief. “Then how on earth can you be so callous? A man who heals? Can you honestly tell me that you don’t care about other people?”

“My job requires me to remain objective. It’s better that way. Now, please, if you don’t mind…”

“I do mind,” he said with surprising vehemence. “She’s dying, and I can hardly afford anything that might save her. So I leave. I find work. And after I haven’t seen her for nearly two months, I get this letter saying that she probably only has a couple weeks left. I failed. And even if there were some faint chance that she could still be saved, no doctor is going to so much as look at her without charging me far more than I could possibly afford. And then you tell me that you’re a physician, and that you could care less about anyone else, and it all just fits together like some horrible piece of clockwork. No one in this whole insane world seems to care about anyone else. And honestly, what would it cost you? What would it cost any doctor to just come look at her, give her a little medication or something? Doesn’t it mean anything to you? Doesn’t anyone care anymore?”

The boy twisted back to his window, tears flickering like crystals in the corners of his eyes.

I turned to follow his gaze and observed a diaphanous shroud of frost covering the seemingly endless stretch of terrain, interspersed here and there by lonely patches of shrubbery, fractured gems upon a veil of diamantine tears, as though all Russia were weeping for this boy.

Blasted country. Trying to inspire sympathy or something.

“Have you ever married?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“Do you love her?”

I paused.

Somehow, he understood. “Did you love her?”

“Once,” I admitted. “But it was a very long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“The usual.”

“She died?”

“You know, this is hardly any of your business,” I protested, scowling at him with all the ferocity I could muster.

And yet he was undeterred. “How did she die?”

I sighed, wondering why on earth I was bothering to indulge him. “I took her to India. Charity work at the leper hospitals. She was so enthusiastic to be mopping up after chancrous invalids that I couldn’t deny her. She caught it in the end, though.”

“Did it… Was she in much pain? Could you at least sort of treat her? I mean… I’m sorry…”

“No need. No pain at all. Felo de se.”

“Beg pardon?”

“She killed herself.”

“Oh.” His mouth stayed poised in a perfect circle of shock before he came to his senses sufficiently to snap it shut. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“No need for that, my boy.” I shrugged. “It happened many years ago. It’s rather more like a bad dream these days than an actual occurrence. Nothing to worry about.”

He remained silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts so that he might better siphon them into his argument.

“At least you make sense now,” he said after a time. “Hardened through loss. It’s forgivable, and certainly understandable. But you must learn to remember—‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Then why do you cling to her so desperately?”

“I…” He sucked in air like a drowning man. “I would rather have loved and not lost so quickly.”

“May I recommend something?”

“Sir?”

“Stop quoting other people. You’re eloquent enough on your own, and you sound like less of an idiot when you voice your own opinions instead of a dead man’s.”

He smiled weakly. “I’ll try, sir.”

We sat and stared at one another for an uncomfortable length of time.

“God, sir?” he said nervously.

“Why have you started calling me sir? Where’s your impudence? And finish your questions, please. I refuse to answer to vagaries.”

“I mean, do you believe in God?” He cast me a plaintive look upward through the strands of his pale hair.

“Ah, I see.” I crossed my arms and grinned at the naïvety of his question in spite of myself. “I’m a Romantic atheist, if you will. We say we don’t believe in God, but we believe in him just enough to have someone to curse for our misfortunes. And you?” I asked, raising the skeptic’s eyebrow. “I suppose you’re a devout little Orthodox boy, and you’ll tell me with great candor how if I only believed in a higher power I would appreciate life once more and begin to actually care about people?”

“I was,” he said. “And yes, I probably would have told you that a year ago.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore,” he said.

The look on his face was one that I had seen on many a burn victim, mangled and tortured by a source more powerful than they for seemingly arbitrary reasons, for how is one to explain to a three-year-old girl that God wanted half her face to melt off? Perhaps she asked too many questions, stole a sweet or two? Is it really worth that? The answer is unthinkable. And so it is best not to believe in the possibility of it at all.

“Sir?” said the boy in a voice like dried rose petals rustling against one another.

“Yes?”

“Sir, if she dies…I think I may become like you.” He swallowed. “I’m a little afraid…”

“Quite the compliment,” I muttered.

“No, I…” He broke off, struggling. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t really know why, but I think you’re a good man. But, I just, I… I wish I could have remained as I was.”

I said nothing.

“I don’t think I believe in God anymore.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” said I, faking a smile so hard it nearly tore my teeth out. “There’s no need to lose everything at once, faith tossed into the bargain.”

The boy sighed speculatively at the barren landscape.

A stillness hung in the air, a silence quite beyond quiet that pressed damply upon the ears and made them ring, the kind of muteness that makes one feel oddly deaf, like the sensation of being high in the mountains. I had to do something, must do something, to make the overwhelming sense of it go away.

And so I asked, “May I inquire as to your intended destination?”

“Omsk,” answered the boy.

“How fortunate! I have some business there—a meeting with my lawyer, paperwork and suits and whatnot, nothing too important—and I scarcely know anyone in the area. Didn’t bother to line up a single thing as to where I’d stay. I don’t suppose you’d mind if I…?”

“Oh, of course not!” said the boy, his face lighting up for the first time. “I’d be happy to…” He fell silent a moment. “Your lawyer is in Omsk? Why, there’s hardly anything…”

Something dawned on him, but he let it pass, turning his words into a cherub’s smile instead.

“Sophie and I would be happy to have you stay with us,” he finished at last.

And the abyss in his eyes became just a little bit less dark.

Description
“I—I—haven’t slept for the last ten nights…”

That was what he claimed, at least. A windswept ragamuffin in torn cotton with eyes like Nietzsche’s abyss, as though his soul had been jostled loose from its moorings and stuck to the bottom of his shoe, trampled, step by step, against every sharp-edged paving stone in the whole of St. Petersburg.

“She’s dying,” he said.

“So are a number of people,” I answered back.

And he gave me this look as though I had ripped his puppy from end to end and pinned the individual pieces to the edge of his seat.

He had boarded the line in Novosibirsk, carrying only a knapsack and a photograph of a girl tucked beneath his overcoat. You could tell at a glance that there was something terribly wrong with him. A malady of the heart. Imminent loss creeping up his veins like tendrils of ivy. And of course he had decided to sit by me, even though there were a dozen available compartments to choose from—sympathetic compartments, encouraging compartments, or even empty compartments, where he might simply end his sorrows with a gunshot that hardly anyone would remember after the initial shock. Clear the body out, clean up the blood, and that would be that. Happens all the time.

“But I had to leave,” he continued. “Money. The medical expenses were getting to be too much…”

“So you abandoned her, did you?” said I. “Defected? Ran away? That was certainly the manly thing to do, my boy. Well done.”

“No, I… I went for employment.” He paused. “You really don’t care at all, do you?”

“And why should I?” I inquired. “You’re just some strange fellow who chose to sit across from me and agitate my otherwise pleasant train ride. Here I was, pondering to myself in my own quiet compartment, and then you came along to disturb my pleasant reverie with tales of death and woe. Might you not simply keep your despair to yourself and leave me to my contented indifference?”

“No man is an island,” he whispered, eyes wide with desperation.

“And do you really believe that?” I countered. “Do you suppose Donne had mankind all figured out when he wrote that? Hardly. He was a poet. Poets lie.”

“But how can you…?”

“Men are islands,” I went on. “We are insulated—break that down, if you will, and you will find that it means to literally make into an island—against one another’s tragedies. Seriously, my boy, can you imagine if we were constantly wading off to examine everyone else’s problems in addition to our own? One day, the misery would simply be too deep, tides rising on all sides, and we’d drown. So don’t you dare quote Donne to me without examining the matter more thoroughly.”

This stumped the boy for a moment. He bit his lip and looked out the window.

“What do you do?” he asked suddenly, turning back. “I mean, for a living?”

“I, my dear boy, am a physician.”

He exhaled in disbelief. “Then how on earth can you be so callous? A man who heals? Can you honestly tell me that you don’t care about other people?”

“My job requires me to remain objective. It’s better that way. Now, please, if you don’t mind…”

“I do mind,” he said with surprising vehemence. “She’s dying, and I can hardly afford anything that might save her. So I leave. I find work. And after I haven’t seen her for nearly two months, I get this letter saying that she probably only has a couple weeks left. I failed. And even if there were some faint chance that she could still be saved, no doctor is going to so much as look at her without charging me far more than I could possibly afford. And then you tell me that you’re a physician, and that you could care less about anyone else, and it all just fits together like some horrible piece of clockwork. No one in this whole insane world seems to care about anyone else. And honestly, what would it cost you? What would it cost any doctor to just come look at her, give her a little medication or something? Doesn’t it mean anything to you? Doesn’t anyone care anymore?”

The boy twisted back to his window, tears flickering like crystals in the corners of his eyes.

I turned to follow his gaze and observed a diaphanous shroud of frost covering the seemingly endless stretch of terrain, interspersed here and there by lonely patches of shrubbery, fractured gems upon a veil of diamantine tears, as though all Russia were weeping for this boy.

Blasted country. Trying to inspire sympathy or something.

“Have you ever married?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“Do you love her?”

I paused.

Somehow, he understood. “Did you love her?”

“Once,” I admitted. “But it was a very long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“The usual.”

“She died?”

“You know, this is hardly any of your business,” I protested, scowling at him with all the ferocity I could muster.

And yet he was undeterred. “How did she die?”

I sighed, wondering why on earth I was bothering to indulge him. “I took her to India. Charity work at the leper hospitals. She was so enthusiastic to be mopping up after chancrous invalids that I couldn’t deny her. She caught it in the end, though.”

“Did it… Was she in much pain? Could you at least sort of treat her? I mean… I’m sorry…”

“No need. No pain at all. Felo de se.”

“Beg pardon?”

“She killed herself.”

“Oh.” His mouth stayed poised in a perfect circle of shock before he came to his senses sufficiently to snap it shut. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“No need for that, my boy.” I shrugged. “It happened many years ago. It’s rather more like a bad dream these days than an actual occurrence. Nothing to worry about.”

He remained silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts so that he might better siphon them into his argument.

“At least you make sense now,” he said after a time. “Hardened through loss. It’s forgivable, and certainly understandable. But you must learn to remember—‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Then why do you cling to her so desperately?”

“I…” He sucked in air like a drowning man. “I would rather have loved and not lost so quickly.”

“May I recommend something?”

“Sir?”

“Stop quoting other people. You’re eloquent enough on your own, and you sound like less of an idiot when you voice your own opinions instead of a dead man’s.”

He smiled weakly. “I’ll try, sir.”

We sat and stared at one another for an uncomfortable length of time.

“God, sir?” he said nervously.

“Why have you started calling me sir? Where’s your impudence? And finish your questions, please. I refuse to answer to vagaries.”

“I mean, do you believe in God?” He cast me a plaintive look upward through the strands of his pale hair.

“Ah, I see.” I crossed my arms and grinned at the naïvety of his question in spite of myself. “I’m a Romantic atheist, if you will. We say we don’t believe in God, but we believe in him just enough to have someone to curse for our misfortunes. And you?” I asked, raising the skeptic’s eyebrow. “I suppose you’re a devout little Orthodox boy, and you’ll tell me with great candor how if I only believed in a higher power I would appreciate life once more and begin to actually care about people?”

“I was,” he said. “And yes, I probably would have told you that a year ago.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore,” he said.

The look on his face was one that I had seen on many a burn victim, mangled and tortured by a source more powerful than they for seemingly arbitrary reasons, for how is one to explain to a three-year-old girl that God wanted half her face to melt off? Perhaps she asked too many questions, stole a sweet or two? Is it really worth that? The answer is unthinkable. And so it is best not to believe in the possibility of it at all.

“Sir?” said the boy in a voice like dried rose petals rustling against one another.

“Yes?”

“Sir, if she dies…I think I may become like you.” He swallowed. “I’m a little afraid…”

“Quite the compliment,” I muttered.

“No, I…” He broke off, struggling. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t really know why, but I think you’re a good man. But, I just, I… I wish I could have remained as I was.”

I said nothing.

“I don’t think I believe in God anymore.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” said I, faking a smile so hard it nearly tore my teeth out. “There’s no need to lose everything at once, faith tossed into the bargain.”

The boy sighed speculatively at the barren landscape.

A stillness hung in the air, a silence quite beyond quiet that pressed damply upon the ears and made them ring, the kind of muteness that makes one feel oddly deaf, like the sensation of being high in the mountains. I had to do something, must do something, to make the overwhelming sense of it go away.

And so I asked, “May I inquire as to your intended destination?”

“Omsk,” answered the boy.

“How fortunate! I have some business there—a meeting with my lawyer, paperwork and suits and whatnot, nothing too important—and I scarcely know anyone in the area. Didn’t bother to line up a single thing as to where I’d stay. I don’t suppose you’d mind if I…?”

“Oh, of course not!” said the boy, his face lighting up for the first time. “I’d be happy to…” He fell silent a moment. “Your lawyer is in Omsk? Why, there’s hardly anything…”

Something dawned on him, but he let it pass, turning his words into a cherub’s smile instead.

“Sophie and I would be happy to have you stay with us,” he finished at last.

And the abyss in his eyes became just a little bit less dark.