� I repeat for the potential idiots: don't hang about by the dustbins, don't stuff your socks with butts and all sorts of rubbish, � said a stalwart grey-haired hospital attendant didactically and cast a fatherly severe look round the sorry rank of the insane persons.
      The �elite� of the 4th compartment of the V. P. Serbskii psychiatricolegal centre (foot-note: the name is invented) were inertly shifting from one foot to the other, rounding drowsily the apathetic lip lines by wide yawns.
      � You, Sanych, would better not hint at idiocy � my diagnosis is: �three hundred and three, two,� � took offence, as was his habit in such cases, a 39-year old alcoholic Vadim Sosnovskii and his head began to twitch nervously. � It's high time you sized it up� Am I right, Venya? � asked he a leggy moron Venya Berezhnoi, hanging at his left, and getting no answer, blew his nose loudly in Venya's pyjamas.
      The young dark-complexioned moron grinned servilely from ear to ear and nodded his head joyfully.
      � What a dirty scum you are, Sosnovskii, � remarked the hospital attendant in a tired voice and screwed up his eyes badly. � Venya is ill-fated, but you.. � being thoughtful for a moment, Sanych found by groping mechanically a gold cross on his breast. � Wait and see, you're going to get it yourself. They will wipe their snotty noses against you, wit. Yeah, they will. In a couple of years, � he added with unconcealed malicious joy, pressing the cross to his body with his finger.
      � Oh, dear! � pouting scornfully, playing the fool, began to lament the alcoholic. � Have threatened the sinner with Paradise�
      � Stop clowning! � Annoyed as he was, the attendant made a sharp wave and took a step towards the heap of mattresses, dumped at the wall and, finding by eye the most soiled one, poked his finger at it. � Take this one and wait at the door.
      � Like hell! � answered Sosnovskii, angry about the fact of open discrimination, but meeting Sanych's biting glare, shouldered obediently the mattress, pungently reeking of urine. The traditional morning drying of mattresses, having grown heavy during the night under the loonies, sinking into marasmus, was one of the few possibilities to get out of the stuffy compartment and Sosnovskii was not going to lose this, rather questionable as it was, privilege through the quarrel with the hospital attendant.
      � There you are! � nodded Sanych with satisfaction and looked at his watch. The hands on the face showed that he was to come off duty in three hours.
      �I hope Nikodim did not go on a drinking spree,� � he thought about the relief worker and his practised eye fell on one person in the rank � a frail schizophrenic who was uneasily feeling his absolutely bald, egg-shaped crown.
      � Well, Ilich, did envious people substitute your head yet again? � sighed the hospital attendant and, preoccupied, scratched his head � he did not want at all to reject anybody from the hardly recruited crew.
      � It's mine, mine! � Ilich lovingly passed his palm over his shiny skull several times and folded his arms contentedly.
      � Now, by night, he hides it in his bedside table, � could not help making a sarcastic remark Sosnovskii, � Crappy Einstein�
      � Well, it's only right that you do so, Albert Ilich, � observed Sanych calmly and as if in earnest and shook his fist at the alcoholic. � Oh, don't you dare! You are asking for trouble today�
      � Why me? � the alcoholic looked sullen. � That's just by the way�
      � Enough talking, � bellowed the hospital attendant angrily and knitted his bushy brows. � All of you shoulder the mattresses, make it snappy!
      Making a bit of fuss about the things, the madmen took the stinking heap and crowded obediently at the door, opening on a staircase.
      � Hey you, new boy! What's your name? � Sanych loured at a lean lad in very short for him pyjamas who did not budge.
      Timothy Stahov, who had just been transferred from the diagnostic section, crossed his arms behind pointedly and looked at the attendant defiantly.
      � Stahov� in my opinion, � he said in a deep, hoarse voice and his lips twisted in a light ironical smile. � The 1st of July, Wednesday, � having a momentary think, added he in an exaggeratedly serious tone. � There is another wit! � Sanych did not slightly resent the lad's trick � whatever it might be he could see through madmen after 20-year work: this man, who called himself Stahov, was, beyond any doubt, in his right mind like Goncharov while to talk nonsense was an everyday occurrence in the compartment.
      � Will be the chief since today is the 1st of July, � experienced Sanych was quick to find the way out of the situation and extracted an impressive bunch of keys from his smock pocket.
      � Only nominally, � warned Stahov dully and moved towards the vanguard who had already begun to grumble at the hitch.
      � The main thing is to see to it that nobody leaps into the catering department or the neurological building, � instructed the hospital attendant on the run. � Our lads are out of their heads as it is and they are quite overcome by uncontrolled joy when in the open air. Especially what concerns food.
      � I haven't hired myself out as an overseer, � Stahov gloomily refused to have anything to do with the improper role. � not my profile.
      Sanych was on the point of explaining to the obstinate person that only the chief had the right to go out without a mattress and that Sosnovskii might as well be given this privilege today but held his peace, appreciating bulging muscles under the lad's pyjamas.
      The catch of a special lock clicked softly and the door, bound with thick tin, was set ajar with a little squeak.
      � Don't crowd! � shouted Sanych at the agitated madmen and, blocking their way, ordered: � Go out one by one, in file. Stahov, bring up the rear. � �Let it be Stahov, then�, � thought the hospital attendant.
      The 18 residents of the fourth compartment, loaded with the damp burden, began to glide down the scantily lit stairs across the barred windows of the flights.
      Having carefully hanged the mattresses on a high metal fence surrounding the sports ground, the �elite� dispersed at once in search of cigarette-butts, obediently trying not to leave the attendant's field of vision. That was, in general, the essence of the privilege: the procedure of drying took place not in the inner fenced off yard for walking but on the public centre territory, where doctors and visitors kept on scurrying about, generously fertilizing the ground with rather passable by local standards �fag ends�.
      Stahov chose a small haycock on the edge of a tiny lawn squeezed between the sports ground and an asphalted path, and sprawled out contentedly on the fragrant bedding.
      Sanych rent the air several more times with the warning: �Don't set foot farther than the planted trees!� and seated himself by Stahov.
      � Still and all, keep your eye on the brigade will you? � he did not order but asked the man and offered him the lighter. � Give a light to the smartest lads later on.
      � To have a smoke � that's a nice idea, � Stahov was not against and struck a flint. The lighter submissively gave out poor light.
      � I'll take a short nap � got tired of you during twenty-four hours, � said Sanych in a confidential tone and, burying his face in the hay, began to snore almost at once.
      Stahov glanced over the tobacco prospectors and, having made himself comfortable, began to examine the place of his forced residence. Even the number of buildings within his field of vision made it possible to draw a conclusion that the centre was quite a large institution. The date �1960�, remaining on the face of the boiler room, spoke for itself. Stahov noted immediately that the inscription fully corresponded to the picture he was observing: time had appreciably smoothed out the austerity of the front lines, eaten into the walls of buildings, leaving on them ugly dents. Shady avenues of lime trees confirmed indirectly the forty-year age of the centre. Stahov cast a retrospective memory look into the history and stumbled across the famous dictum of Nikita Sergeevich almost at once: �There are not political prisoners in our country. Those people who are still dissatisfied with something are simply ill�.
      � �Here it is � the former front line of our ideology, � smirked Stahov and his eyes began to sweep over the high fence with the remains of barbed wire. � I have never thought of finding myself in a laid up hole of the Deep Boring Bureau��
      Scanning the wall, he ran across an inscription, scratched in enormous scrawl: �Madness is private. Don't poke your nose into my soul!�
      �Well done!� � smiled Stahov involuntarily and, going on with his visual excursion, found in the corner another exhortation: �Don't force your neighbour into a corner!�
      �It looks as if one may come here across some blokes who are nobody's fools, � thought Stahov, very much surprised at the profundity of the unknown philosopher's thoughts, � what clever turns of phrase!�
      � Would you mind my company? � Agile Sosnovskii, who was the first to gather in most of the harvest, pulled a wisp of hay from the cock and perched himself close to Stahov. He thought it reasonable to keep in with the heads in the hospital, in contrast to life at liberty.
      � No need to ask me as you have already got a place � growled his neighbour without particular enthusiasm � the recent scene of the alcoholic's blowing his nose put the latter automatically on the list of people with whom Stahov was not going to be on friendly terms.
      Sosnovskii shook out unhurriedly the contents of several cigarette-butts into a strip of paper and, making fairly dexterously a fat-sided roll-up out of this, looked sideways at Stahov. The latter had quite a gloomy appearance. Weighing something up, the alcoholic breathed out noisily and fished a match and a scrap of scratcher out of his sock.
      � Now, it's hot� � complained he and lit his cigarette. The tobacco began to glow with a soft crackle. The alcoholic rolled his eyes and inhaled deeply.
      Stahov kept silent.
      � Even tabacco is free here, old boy, � not giving up trying to start a conversation, said Sosnovskii with satisfaction and took a puff. There and then he had a fit of coughing and added: � But, to tell the truth, it's crappy�
      � I don't smoke, � Stahov let drop a cold remark and put his face on the sunlight.
      The rest of the group soon also tailed up for a light. Lighting their cigarettes, the residents of the centre were floating in blue-grey puffs of smoke and, sighing with relief, were being seated close by. Just on the ground.
      � And you, Stahov, how on earth have you got here? � Sosnovskii, screwing up one eye, fixed the other on the lad inquisitively. � You don't look like a loony and you don't resemble an alcoholic either.
      � Like all the rest � by a lucky chance, � spat Stahov through his teeth with an unconcealed jeer.
      � But why lucky? � did not understand the alcoholic.
      � Because not every man is so lucky in his life. You ought to know that yourself.
      � Don't give me any of your lip � we've got skilly to sup together so far, � said the alcoholic, not the least bit offended. � By the way, just mind it: we all here have a nervous disorder. That's there, � Sosnovskii lowered his voice and motioned to the watch-towers which could be seen through the tree tops, � where Yaponchik himself has been twice held�
      � But why in a whisper?
      � Oh, bother them those criminal leaders!
      � All right, will take it into consideration. � For a moment Stahov was moved to pity, looking at his intimidated interlocutor. � And how is this institution guarded in general?
      � The extra-departmental watch guarded formerly, now � a guarding firm. At the entrance check-point round-the-clock, along the perimeter only at night. That is to say from sunset till dawn. Oh, but how they guard! They do nothing but drink hard and feel up nurses� � Sosnovskii sniffed scornfully. � If you come to an agreement with the hospital attendant you may even venture on absence without leave. There are three holes in the fence � they have been making up their minds to repair it for two years. So much for our guard!
      � It's not so very bad, � said Stahov meditatively. � Then why don't you run away from here? � he looked at his interlocutor with curiosity.
      � What for? � Sosnovskii was genuinely astonished. � To get into Sychovka? Why, you won't get out of it alive then, old chap.
      � What kind of Osventsim is that?
      � Well, there is such a, so to say, hospital. But why did they send you here, exactly to the centre? � the alcoholic pricked up his ears.
      � I don't know. All Moscow hospitals of the same type must be overcrowded.
      � You don't say so! What about Kashchenko? Or �Bedlam�? Or the 13th one? � the alcoholic spouted the names.
      � Oh, goodness knows!
      � But still? � persistent Sosnovskii was obviously not going to leave the lad alone. � I see that your veins are not pricked all over, then you're not a drug addict either.
      � Why pestering me! By accident, if it comes to that.
      � You attempted suicide, didn't you?
      � Cut that crap! � Stahov looked at his interlocutor wonderingly. � In your opinion I look neither an alcoholic nor a drug addict but at the same time I do seem to be a self-murderer?
      � You've got such a sad look in your eyes, � observed Sosnovskii, � as they say here: �a target for the guilt vector�. Besides I heard with half an ear they had to resuscitate you � You must have swallowed a quantity of some rubbish.
      � Oh, don't talk nonsense! �Target�, �guilt vector� � Everything is much simpler, � Stahov understood it was not so easy to get rid of the alcoholic. � A friend of mine and I were drinking in a garage� and we poisoned ourselves with exhaust. As a result I've got toxic psychosis.
      Sosnovskii livened up noticeably at the mention of drinks.
      � And how much did you take? � asked the alcoholic, swallowing the saliva greedily. At that moment his eyes were sad like those of a basset.
      � I don't remember� In my opinion, a bucket each, � snapped Stahov frowningly � he was losing his patience.
      � What? A bucket each? In a pig's eye you did! You're exaggerating, � remarked Sosnovskii quite seriously. � But you must have drunk a litre each if you forgot to stop the engine� By the way, what for did you need it on such a hot day?
      � It was cold� We were in the special garage� a hundred metres under the ground� � said Stahov. � In the government one, � added he to sound more convincing.
      � If you don't want to answer you should have said so, � Sosnovskii pulled a hurt face at last. � Why the hell mixing me up? � he spat indignantly and began to turn his head from side to side with an air of exaggerated indifference. Stahov sighed with relief.
      � Hullo! Look, they are taking out the silly girls to work, � livened up the alcoholic literally in a moment. The expression of offence on his face gave place to the anticipation of merriment. � We are going to see the concert. Called �Romeo and Juliet�. Venya! � screamed he with all his might, stretching out his thin neck.
      Stahov looked attentively at the building next door: a row of women in identical blue overalls were flowing out of it and lining up, well co-ordinated. ( They sew sacks in the workshops, ( explained the alcoholic and waved his hand in the direction of a two-storey building with wide window openings. � Earn grub for us.
      Meanwhile the column started and began to move smoothly towards the resting �elite�. Every once in a while severe shouts of the nurses were heard in the approaching ranks.
      Meanwhile Venya started to show signs of extreme agitation: having straightened out his pyjamas several times, he stood on tiptoe and began to wave his hand, trying desperately to arrest the attention of somebody in the nearing group.
      � He's got his beauty among them, � explained Sosnovskii, choking with laughter. � She's just ugly as sin! Look, now he is going to treat her to his mother's sweets. As if she were a little girl.
      Stahov, growing involuntarily interested, concentrated on what was going on. A hand with an orange headscarf shot up in the column and Venya minced funnily towards it, fishing the candies out of his pockets on the run.
      A fragile girl of short height, almost a teenager, separated from her companions and, bashfully, took some steps to meet the hastening boy-friend.
      Having reached the girl, lanky Venya bent over her like a big stripy heron and, passing his hand tenderly over her short auburn hair, began to say something very quickly.
      His words did not reach the men's ears.
      The girl nodded, set the buttons on Venya's pyjamas straight carefully and, tilting back her head, touched the boy's hair in the same way. Venya caught her tiny palm quite awkwardly and, dropping the sweets on the ground, poured out the contents of his big hand into it.
      Having noticed the inadvertence, he started picking up the candies right away, looking up at the girl.
      The latter was shrugging her shoulders perplexedly and smiling.
      �She's not all that ugly� She's even pretty!� � thought Stahov, involuntary giving way to the rising wave of sentimentality which swept him over at the sight of this picture. The last rank of the column absorbed the blue overall with the orange headscarf and Venya stiffened dead, following the withdrawing short-haired head with his eyes. He felt miserable.
      � It is like this every time, � sniggered Sosnovskii caustically. � The madman but with the same inclinations�
      � Fuck, you are lucky, you commentator, that Venya is from a good family, � mumbled Sanych, who had awoken by this time, angrily. � If his father were a drunkard like you, Venya would cut you into pieces somewhere in a secluded corner and then salt you down in an enamel tank� Sanych half-rose and looked at his watch. � Such a butcher was held once in the isolation ward. ( What examples you've got, Sanych, ( Sosnovskii was downright hurt and pouted, ( you always aim at touching me on the raw.
      ( Oh, I can't ( you've got a heart of stone, ( said the hospital attendant angrily and stood up with a deep groan. ( Stop it! This has gone on long enough�

      ...Lonskich was in low spirits. From the early morning. To be more exact, from the very first moments of his awakening. He often lapsed into this distressed state of mind since That very day�
      Now, after lots of years, Lonskich did not doubt that he was doomed to have gone through all that had happened to him on That day. Everything had been predestined long before the melancholic boy Pete broke his finger. But the realization of all this did not save him from fits of severe depression. Rather on the contrary.
      He remembered That day to the smallest detail. In the morning everything was running its course: a planning meeting, the rounds, generally, the usual duties of the head of such a restless compartment� The arrival of the acupuncturist, a broad-faced brawny intellectual Ivan Chenov, made him glad. Chenov was an interesting companion and passed for such a plain fellow among the medical staff of the centre. An expert on eastern philosophy and fighting arts, he easily came to terms with people who were fascinated by his inexplicable charms from the very first minutes of the acquaintance. Lonskich was not an exception. For about half an hour had Chenov been telling the head doctor about the niceties of some eastern gymnastics, then asked with a most good-natured air whether he could experiment with some fighting techniques on one of the violent lunatics and justified his request, saying that the staff periodically had to use brute force against the latter one way or another. In their time both the men had taken an oath of Hippocrates and at that moment they were, of course, aware of what they were talking about, but perhaps years gone by or something else had deadened their sense of responsibility, the fact remained, however: Lonskich was not able to refuse his permission to the colleague. But, as they say, misfortunes never come singly. As soon as Chenov, satisfied with his �work� with a live �pear-shaped apparatus�, left the compartment Lonskich was called to one of the drug addicts. He could not disregard her request ( after all it was his job: to listen to entreaties about �a dose�, complaints about excruciating suffering and many other things� But this 17 year-old morphine addict with a long record did not ask for anything. No sooner had Lonskich entered the ward than she threw her arms around his neck and, whispering excitedly some love gibberish in his ear, carried him along with her� Strange as it might seem, he even did not try to resist. His libido, having been restrained for 15 years of family life, got out of control and he abandoned himself to the sinful passion: entirely and with unknown to him delight� Every time the recollection of that day gave Lonskich the creeps. His fingers trembling, he got out a cigarette and lit it. Years had passed since the death of that first junkie-partner in his life, Chenov left the service in the centre several months ago and launched his own business in Moscow � a massage parlour, but he, Peter Lonskich, still remembered the events of That day.
      Today the fit of the disease was somehow especially unbearable. � Peter Ivanovich, � the voice of a hospital attendant, who had barged into the surgery, stirred the doctor from his torpor. � The patient from the fifth ward has become excited yet again. What should we do?
      � Am I to teach you, Kornei Alexandrovich? � Lonskich looked at the colleague reproachfully. � You're an experienced worker, aren't you?
      � I've got dog-tired of him, Peter Ivanovich, � complained the attendant. � I have fixed him, given him the �twist� and, much as I regret it, lashed him with a club. A day doesn't pass and he falls back into his old ways: dashes around the room like a tiger in a cage, growls, attacks the walls; this skunk has torn his mattress to pieces. The worst of it is that medicines don't affect him � everything goes down the drain. Another man would have already kicked the bucket of such doses but it's like water off a duck's back with this one � � Hm, � Lonskich fell to thinking, rubbed his forehead, � the case is difficult. � That's it! Very difficult, � KA picked up the point, � he is a most rare fellow.
      � Well, I'll calm him down myself, � said the head doctor maliciously. � myself� � He stood up resolutely, clapped himself on the pockets and took out a case with his glasses and a fountain pen �Parker� with care. � Let's go, Kornei Alexandrovich!
      Lonskich began to stride along the corridor, casting angry glances about him. The hospital attendant, uttering a stream of foul curses, could hardly keep pace with him.
      � Give me the club, � said the head doctor in a muffled voice, having peeped into the ward through the spy-hole.
      � The club? � KA was sincerely astonished � as far as he could remember the doctor had never used this weapon.
      � Yes. The club, � Lonskich repeated his request exasperatedly and snatched it from the hands of the taken aback attendant almost by force. � I've already said: I'll calm him down myself.
      � Of course! � said KA and clanked the bolt hurriedly. � You'd better try to beat with long blows � it works better, � advised he carefully.
      � I will know somehow, � said the head doctor and made some impressive strokes with the club in the air.
      � Don't let him come close to you � he will bite you or, what is much worse, will scratch your eyes out� � the male nurse could not quiet down.
      � Leave me alone, KA, I know it myself, � said Lonskich hoarsely with sudden animosity and pulled the door open. � Don't go in with me.
      � What?! � the hospital attendant was absolutely taken aback and looked sideways at the end of the corridor where there was a room for the guard behind a metal partition. � Perhaps you need one of the fellows?
      � No. Don't call anybody, � snapped out the head doctor and entered the ward.
      The lunatic, quite a young man covered with thick bristle, fixed his wild eyes on the stranger. An idiotic smile distorted his fleshy lips, their corners caked with foam, and bared a line of widely spaced decayed teeth.
      Lonskich made a wry face at the repulsive smell, filling the air of the room.
      They attacked each other almost simultaneously. Lonskich somehow contrived to be the first to strike the madman on the collar-bone with all his might. Once, once again� The latter uttered a mournful wail and started to spin around on the spot like a dog, trying to bite its tail.
      � Bastards! Monsters! � began to bawl Lonskich, beside himself with rage, and, having lost any control, started to ply his club with bitterness. � Skunks! Idiots! Have ruined my life! � yelled he abruptly, delivering blows anywhere. � To hell! You drive me to hell, you dirty scums! Now get your deserts, get, get!� � Spite, that had been accumulating in him for many years, was coming out into the open, violently and unrestrainedly.
      The patient's pyjamas, soaked with blood, began to squelch horribly under the club. Suddenly the madman was rooted to the spot and then flew at the head doctor with menacing snarl, trying to seize him by the throat. Lonskich dodged the grip and fetched a blow on the lunatic's head. The latter began to whimper desperately, went down on all fours and started crawling to the wall. Having hidden in the corner, he began to tremble all over and, like an offended child, buried his face in his hands.
      � Why, you don't like this, don't you? � Lonskich was becoming more and more incensed. � May be you think I like to smell your shit every day? Or I like to see your ugly mugs every day? � His bitterness suddenly gave place to ecstasy unknown to him before. It seemed to the head doctor that every blow elevated him more and more, the ordinary meek creature was changing into an omnipotent lord of human fates� He controlled himself only when all the madman's body went limp.
      �I've overdone it�� � realized he, his mind in a fog, and suddenly took a detached view of the whole picture with extraordinary clearness: the crippled madman in the corner of the ward and he himself, Lonskich Peter Ivanovich, stately and haughty, in a doctor's smock bespattered with blood�
      He was surprised not to be conscience-stricken at all at that moment. His morning depression vanished altogether.
      �Well, I have crossed another Rubicon�� � Lonskich established the fact calmly and, having thrown the club on the floor, went out.

Belarus, 2000