Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 1

To live, to reach the bright days painted in the celestial score. where the ark is raided, the calm comes before the storm, and the notes reflect on the sheet that has rejected the B and D's, as the square of the apartment walls collapses and the sun rises over the abyss.

Emily Johnson is not heard of, she is not seen, she is not spoken of.

Emily wakes up and sees before her thin streaks of dust on the metal blinds, as gray as the sky outside the window, except you can get rid of the dust, and you can't wipe away the London damp with a rag.

She turns her head to look at the scratched cupboard, scrawled on the back with obscene words and autographs of people who had lived here before her. Just above her head is an inscription: Aliis inserviendo consumor. Burn yourself, shine to others.

Beautiful handwriting: smooth, clear, confident; that's how you write with expensive engraved pens, but not with permanent marker embedded in wood that's almost completely dried out.

Who had lived here before her?

Who could exist at all in this incarnation of rational use of space? There seems to be no space even for her: in the corner, hidden by the closet from everyone else, a small bed with a shelf above the headboard fits somehow; a drawer serving for everything at once, and a few hooks with clothes covers hanging on them – at the other end of the room, where her workplace is supposed to be. But she hadn't bought a goddamn chair or desk in a year of being here, so the same drawer serves as the place for her endless reports. Also, by the way, written out.

Emily's body works harder than any alarm clock, waking her up at exactly five fifteen in the morning every day.

It's a typical morning, like a hundred others: an old notebook in a blue backpack, a black T-shirt, skinny jeans, frayed sneakers, a cold coat. A white coat case in one hand, a thermos in the other; a busy Trinity Street and no hint of sunshine.

She doesn't know there is any other way. In her mind, the world is always the same: on weekends she works from morning till night, on weekdays she has free time until dinner, and then runs to the hospital again, for the night shift. Constant sleep deprivation makes her immune to everything going on around her: Emily is a walking automaton. An unfortunate specimen of an intelligent robot.

Yes, absolutely, Emily is plastic: like an unfinished, articulated doll, gathering dust on a store shelf; as if they forgot to add the finishing details – the thickness of her hair, the scariness of her lips, or the length of her eyelashes; a walking irregularity and dull, mocking: narrow shoulders, wide hips, and a complete lack of breasts.

Fifteen stops on a jam-packed bus (did someone say London is modernized? He was lying) through the most densely populated part of the city invigorates Emily more than coffee. The subway was much better than the subway, she'd learned since she was a little girl; the famous London Underground was like hell in the mornings. On the bus, at least she could open the windows and lean against the cool glass to see what was behind them.

At the Whitechapel Gallery, they linger a little longer than usual: the previous bus hadn't left yet, and Emily pokes her reflection in the darkened glass for a moment: unkempt and short, she huddles in the corner, clutching at the coveted clear cover.

It's like he's making her someone.

It takes them fifty-five minutes instead of the usual thirty minutes to get to the stop she wants: the traffic on the huge A11 is equally huge.

She passes the post office, the bar and the bank, nods to the elderly barista at the newly opened coffee shop, runs across Cavell Street, trying not to look at the unfulfilled dream of eight-story Churchill College, and enters a world of glass and steel: the six buildings of the Royal London Hospital tower over her head like giants, ready at any moment to fall on her with full force.

Normally Emily would enter from the service entrance, but today there are dozens of cars of paramedics who have just finished their night shifts in front of it – and the small interior space is surely crowded; so she walks around the hospital through the main entrance. It's still quiet here: most of the doctors start their appointments at seven, and Olivia at the front desk is too busy with the files of the night's admissions to pay attention to anyone, so Emily slips past her after saying hello to the empty space. A staircase, a wide hallway, and the nurses' room is only a few feet away.

– I'm telling you, I need it today, today," Emily hears behind her. – And no, I'm not asking you to do a paternity test, it's not in our purview… Shit!

BAM!

He doesn't even apologize; he just adjusts his blue nametag, pats Emily on the shoulder, and, without taking his eyes off the phone, tosses something like "Don't get in the way."

I will, Emily thinks, picking up her robe from the floor.

The world is always against her. She knows this without being reminded.

The room with the "Office" sign is as gray as the outdoors – endless rows of tin lockers, slamming doors, drafts across the floor, and gossip hanging in the air, as fresh and bitter as the coffee on the bosses' desks.

Emily awkwardly waves to Rebecca, washing the bright makeup off her face: forty minutes in the morning at the mirror for the sake of a half-hour bus ride, and then the complete destruction of all labor. Completely, Emily would add, if Rebecca ever said hello to her. But she always pretends not to see anything. Well, or really doesn't notice.

Behind her is Dana, twirling and twirling-a short robe, her hair in a braid, big innocent eyes. Small and skittish, she always brings the latest news in her uniform pockets: Dayna follows her Mr. Powell, the general practitioner, everywhere. Sometimes Emily thinks they have a connection: Miss Webb's neckline is too deep, Eric's gaze is too ambiguous.

Melissa, the head nurse, their supervisor, is adjusting her collar by the large closet. Instead of a white coat over her clothes, she wears a strict uniform: straight pants and a short-sleeved shirt; her last name is embroidered in black thread on her chest. Walters, in her forties, has a straight, sharp look and a heavy gold ring on her ring finger.

Emily quickly removes her gray coat and stuffs it into a narrow locker; she fumbles with her pant legs, drops her jeans, and slips into a pair of sizeless pants. They are allowed to keep their own T-shirt; they should just hide it under the robe. Although some, like Rebecca, prefer to wear cotton over their naked bodies.

For junior nurses, the uniform is the same: white pants and a gown with an embroidered Royal London Hospital logo; a nametag attached to the breast pocket; and comfortable shoes – traditional loafers or loafers.

She slips into the unchanging black Crocs, catches Dana's odd look, Rebecca's snort, and habitually throws them out of her mind-something that stays forever.

Taking a sip of coffee from the thermos and strapping on her nametag, Emily hears the others coming up: the night shift ends, flowing into the morning shift, the front door keeps slamming, the cold street air enveloping her feet.

– Ah, Johnson, ready yet? – Melissa arises at her shoulder and picks up the neatly folded folders. – You're in neurology today – James asked me to send him a couple of assistants. Grab poor Evis from the E.R., and get over there.

– Neurology is neurology. – Emily gathered her brown hair into a high ponytail and fastened it with bobby pins. The unruly strands struggled to take shape, here and there the curling ends fell out. – Damn you," she says angrily to the mirror, pulling her robe up.

– What, you still can't get a doctor? – Rebecca tilts her head sideways; her thin lips are clearly marked by lipstick that hasn't been fully washed off. – Don't be sad, you'll get lucky one day. – She sends her an air kiss.

– Take this to Gilmore's surgery and wash the disgust off. – Melissa hands Rebecca a heavy plastic box of papers. – Let her figure out what to do with it.

The last thing Emily hears before she closes the door behind her is Rebecca's indignant voice.

* * *

– It was brought in at night. – The thin file is on the table. – Harmon says it's clear enough, but there's something about it that makes me…" He pauses.

The dark-haired man pulls out his expensive-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and reaches for the thick cardboard.

– Mr. Moss," the doctor who brought the file continues, "there is a craniotomy performed here, that is, on the head.

– What exactly are you confused about? – Andrew Moss runs a glance over the scribbled sheet.

– Look at the picture.

He presses his lips together grudgingly – his shift hasn't even officially started yet – but still walks over to the huge negatoscope hanging on the wall and, fixing a small photograph to it, turns on the lamps.

– Do you see it? Right there. – The man who brought the folder points to the dot. – What do you think it is?

– A trace from a failed stereotaxis?

– Inside?

– Our brain has no nerve endings," Moss shrugs. – It can't hurt, Professor. You know that yourself. Maybe it's another tumor that hasn't been seen, or a neoplasm that's recently appeared. Well, maybe we should change the machine. Either way…

– Professor M. Higgins, GP, I've checked him in three different machines. They all showed the same thing – the patient does not have a tumor, only this defect. The gray spot on the scan. A cavity that looks like it was forgotten to be filled.

Mark sits in the chair across from Andrew's desk and rubs his gray beard.

– Why do you need my opinion if you already know the answer? – Moss frowns.

– You're going to love this. – Mark smiles at the corners of his lips. – Our patient has an artificially excised Wernicke. There's a void in its place. What's more, he remains anonymous to this day: he has no memory at all. Simply put, he has too many defects for one person. But it is nevertheless a very interesting case: Broca remains unaffected.

Moss adjusts the perfectly pressed collar of his expensive shirt and turns off the wall lamps. In the morning light of the study, the gold dial of his Hublot is clearly visible: the hands are inexorably approaching seven o'clock in the morning.

– Interesting. – Andrew folds his fingers into a house. – Mr. Anonymity with a clipped speech. – His brown eyes seem almost black as he squints. – Afferent aphasia, then. Remind me again, how old is he? About sixty?

– He's hardly twenty," Mark shakes his head. – Found him unconscious in the street, brought him here. There was blood on his head – they suspected head injury, they took pictures… And then you know. Someone operated on him and just threw him away like he was nothing.

– We need to find out if he had epilepsy," Moss returns the file, "or a hemorrhagic stroke. We also need tests for encephalitis, leukoencephalitis, heavy metals, protein. We figure out the cause, we'll get to the main consequence. And we need to show these scans to Grace.

Higgins rises from his comfortable chair, takes the thin cardboard, nods, and leaves without saying good-bye: as a general practitioner, he never takes a shift; his whole life is work.

Afterward, Moss pulls a perfectly pressed white coat out of the closet, throws it over his shirt, and walks over to his desk and takes his nametag – the words Andrew Moss, neurologist, stand out clearly on the glossy surface of the plastic.

Cursing, he slips a pack of cigarettes into his pocket.

The sun gradually rises over the Royal London Hospital.