Mr. X

My name is Kuzma. Or atleast, that's what people call me, so I guess it's true. I was born in the village of Mykolaevo. Or atleast, so I've been told, so I'll assume that's true as well. I do not know my age, for I've not been told. But I guess, that doesn't really matter.

I rested my head against the carriage door and closed my eyes, hoping to catch up the sleep I'd missed that night. But Mr. × wouldn't let me. All I know is that it saved my live. In Mykolaevo I lived on the streets. My parents having died from one cause or another. I didn't have any other family there, or atleast, I hadn't been told I did. And even if I did, I'd be too much of a burden for them to take me in anyway. It was each for themselves these days. Back then I would sleep in a barn I had broken into, and surely if the owner had found out, I would've been beaten to death on the spot. Without hassitation. And this fear made it difficult for me to fall asleep at night. Fortunately, that hadn't happened, and that one morning too it was the crying of a rooster that woke me up, earlier than usual. I don't recall exactly how we met, but next thing I knew it, me and Mr. × were travel companions, or atleast, I was his.

We arrived in a small town. We jumped off the carriage and Mr. × steadfastly walked up to a small cafe, squeezed in between two other, unremarkable buildings. He opened the door of the cafe with one hand and with the other waved we inside.

- Sit over there. He said, pointing at a small square table with a chair on either side. Mr.  × raised his finger into the air and pointed to the table, signifying this wasn't the first time he'd been here.

The cafe was dark. The few windows it had being covered in a layer of soot from the Turkish tobacco the patrons smoked without stop. It caused the light beaming through them to light up the room with a dim yellow hue, quite romantic if one could for a moment ignore the presence of the boarish looking inn-keeper, hunched over the bar counter, annoyedly waiting for the patrons to raise their hand to signal the desire for another drink or, more commonly, yet another cigar.

No sooner had we sat down at the table or a woman in apron put a small porcelain cup with a dark liquid in front of Mr. ×.  A cup of coffee.

- Turkish coffee. Mr. × clarified.

This was the first time I'd seen coffee. We didn't have that in Mykolaevo. He gently nodded the cup towards me, inviting me to take a sip. I unwittingly obliged. As soon as my tongue noted the bitter taste, an uncontrolled tensing of the muscles caused my face to hurt. The corners of the mouth on Mr. ×'s face moved upward, as if he'd expected such a response. Tasty? He asked tauntingly, raising his chin up as he did. Aha. I uttered and nodded the cup back in his direction.

Mr. × had distinct cheekbones, which, being clean shaven, gave him a professional, yet imposing look. Something uncommon, but quite indispensable for someone in his profession. Most traveling doctors were grey-bearded misers, who one would invite in only as a last resort, when the patient was already standing with one foot in their grave. I looked at the tufts of steam coming off of the opaque liquid in the cup.

- Mr. can I ask you something? What made you decide to become a doctor?

It was a question which had been burning on my lips since the day we met, but which I had always been too shy to ask. But now, after some weeks, maybe a month, had passed, I felt more comfortable asking him deeper, more philosophical questions, which he was always eager to answer, and which not seldom let to hour-long discussions.

- Interesting question, Kuzma. He replied, taking his first sip of the bitter liquid.

- It makes me feel useful. Makes it feel like I have a purpose in this world; a true benefit to this small society of ours.

- Does it make you happy?

- Yes, it does.

- And it also makes them happy, right? The patients you treat?

- Yes, I think it's fair to say it also makes them happy.

- But then, which is more important? Making yourself happy, or making others happy?

- That's an interesting question, Kuzma, not one I had thought about before. What do you think?

- I think it's more important to make other people happy.

- How come?

- Well, it is possible to make yourself happy at the expense of others, right? Isn't that the core of all evil in this world? Greed, lust... Depriving others of things just to enrich yourself.

- Yes, that seems logical, but surely it is also possible to make oneself happy without negatively affecting others?

- Yes, I agree. But you will have to agree it is not possible to make other people happy, whilst simultaneously making them unhappy as well?

- No, that would be weird. But you will agree that it *is* possible to make other people happy at one's own expense.

- Yes, this is something one has to look out for. But I don't think we can consider this to be the general case.

- I agree. But what prompted you to start this rather philosophical dialogue? Did you nick a book from somewhere?

- It's just something that has been on my mind for a while.

- That young mind of yours is thinking way too much. Mr. × said jokingly. He poured down the rest of his coffee and nodded his head as a sign to leave.

And so I joined Mr. × on his next journey through the land, moving from village to village looking for peasants in need of healing. Be it the flu, an infection or toothache, there was no affliction Mr. × wasn't willing to tackle. Successfully or not. He carried with him a suitcase with medical instruments, and I would carry his wooden box, one that folded open to reveal a motley collection of bottles filled with powders, pills and liquids; some in the form of beautifully shimmering, well-odourous crystals, some in the form of putrid smelling, noxious looking ointments.

All the bottles were labeled with yellowed tags inscribed with Latin words, so Mr. × told me, whose meaning I was unable to decipher.

We entered a hut, where a lady was laying in bed, next to the oven, covered in blankets. Yet still she was incessantly complaining of feeling cold. Some women, her sisters probably, had gathered around her, and the small candle that was hung in the corner of the room, valiantly trying to single-handedly light up the entire room, revealed the looks of concern and worriment on their faces.

Mr. × gestured I sit in the corner of the room. I handed him the wooden box and sat down. From there I quietly observed the master at work.

He flipped open his wooden box and grabbed an amber bottle from it. He removed the cork with a pop, put its contents on a checkered handkerchief he'd pulled out of one of the many pockets of his robe, and rubbed it underneath the nose of the bedridden woman. The poor thing started writhing, clearly in distress from the doctors treatment, as the women around looked on in horror. Soon the woman went limp, all movement ceased. One of the women let out a screech, unable to contain herself at the sight. The doctor, unfazed, corked the bottle and put it on the bench next to me, just close enough for me to read the label: "Laudanum". I remember asking Mr. × later what it was, what it was used for, but I cannot recall it now. I returned the bottle to its rightful place in the wooden box and gently closed it.

- That'll be it! Mr. × said triumphantly. Do this once a week and by the end of the month she'll be kicking as before!

Mr. × grabbed a pen, scribbled some words on it and handed it to one of the ladies. The lady turned pale and almost fainted reading it, from which I deduced it must've been a receipt of sorts. I don't recall the rest of what happened in the hut, but next thing I remember we were walking outside again, looking for more souls to cure.

We walked to the edge of town, where a carriage was seemingly waiting for us. We hopped on and gently trotted to the next village, which was already visible in the far distance, and which greeted us with the sweet scent of freshly burned birch wood as we drew closer.

- Mr., do you consider us friends?

- Are you going to be philosophical with me again, Kuzma? He said in grumpy voice. But I knew it was all play. He liked these kinds of discussions.

- Just one more question for the day. Then I'll let you enjoy the evening in quiet. I promise.

- OK, agreed.

- Good. So, would you consider us friends?

- Yes. I consider us companions and friends.

- Those two are mutually applicable?

- Yes, I don't think they exclude one another. And definitely we are more than acquaintances.

- What is the difference? Between acquaintances and friends I mean.

- Oh, but that's an easy question, Kuzma. Acquaintances are people with whom you only talk about trivial matters, the weather, a sports match. When an acquaintance asks you how you are doing, you only answer positively. You wouldn't reply to such a question by talking about a death in the family, some illness you might have, heartbreak. Such would be awkward and would make the other person feel uncomfortable.

- But with friends you can talk about such things?

- In the right context, yes.

- And a stranger is someone with whom you do not talk about anything?

- Not more than the usual platitudes and meaningless dribble.

- OK. Clear. But then what about...

- I thought we'd agreed on one more question for the night!

- I know, Mr., but it's a follow-up question. Please allow me.

- Alright, but it better be a quick one!

- Is there something more than friendship?

- A romantic relationship is more than friendship. Mr. × replied after some pause.

- Yes, obviously. But could there be something in between friendship and romance?

This question send Mr. × into a long ponder. So long so, that at some moment I thought he'd forgotten my question and had filled his mind with contemplations of his own. But I'd learned to be patient in such situations, to not disturb the master at work.

- Yes, such a thing exists, I think. He replied with uncommon for him hesitance.

- And what would we call that?

- You'll have to forgive me Kuzma, for I don't know. I left the discussion at that.

We arrived in the village and the coacher, who hadn't bothered to join in on our conversation, bid us farewell with the usual platitudes.

- Mr. I would like to follow up on our earlier discussion, if you'd let me. I said as we slowly walked the dirt path that meandered through the village.

- And which discussion are you referring too?

- The one about friendship. Do you think we need friendship?

- Yes, people need friendship to live happily.

- I agree that this is the case, but why?

- Again one of your intriguing questions. I think it's because we want have an innate desire to be correct.

- How do you mean?

- The thoughts we have, the opinions we have about things, are all formed by our experiences, but these experiences are limited. We want to pose these thoughts to other people to verify whether what we believe is true.

- But that doesn't make sense. I interjected. Surely someone else is not able to form a correct thought about something he hasn't witnessed himself? Do we not need context to determine whether a certain event is good or bad, for example?

- Oh, but it's this context you are talking about which can sometimes muddle our perception. We are limited in our experiences, and sometimes they are inadequate in properly understanding what is happening. How often is man not blinded by anger, jealousy, all the vices really. Even love can blind people in their judgment. And we need friends to rope us back to reality.

- So, what you mean to say is that, we need other people to judge us. We need an outside perspective? I asked, scratching my head in noticeable confusion.

- Yes, I think you get it. Mr. × replied. But we need the opinion of someone we trust. Such input cannot come from just anyone.

- And such intimate things can only be discussed with friends, which is why we need them?

- I think we've reached a satisfying conclusion to this topic! Mr. × concluded.

Our next visit brought us to what struck me as a painters workplace - a narrow passage, more akin to a corridor than a proper room, and which was made even narrower by the thick-framed paintings that covered the walls all the way to the ceiling. Portraits of dignitaries or otherwise imposing looking people. Invariably old people. Mr. × guided me through this funeral hedge into a small room behind a rickety looking door. There we entered the workshop of the artist: a heavily-bearded, grayed man, with the wrinkles in his face drawing deep valleys, revealing without words the hardships he'd endured. He had a pleasant demeanor, spoke in soft tone, with an occasional smile gently raising the corners of his pale moustache. Mr. × seated himself on a stool opposite of him. I stood next to him. They were speaking a language I could poorly understand. Maybe it was Polish. From the few words I was able to make out, I understood he had been suffering from some kind of flu, with the usual symptoms of raised temperature, headache and lack of appetite. Mr. × proposed he drink some herbal tea, and didn't even bother to proscribe him any medication. The wooden box I was carrying remained unopened. The visit struck me more as a pleasant get-together of friends, rather than a medical intervention.

After less than half an hour Mr. × got up and we left.

- Who is he? Was the first thing I asked when we turned back into the street.

- Prokoviev, Gennadij Alekseevic. Portrait painter of the dead.

- Of the dead?

- Yes. Life is temporary, dead is eternal, as are his portraits.

- Makes sense.

That afternoon we ate potato puree - watery, seasoned only with salt and pepper. But it quenched our hunger, which was enough of a treat these days. Afterwards we made our way to what Mr. × said was the main reason for us visiting this village, of which he didn't bother share the name. We followed the dirt path to its natural conclusion, which took us to the edge of a chestnut coppice, where a prominent red-brick building was menacingly waiting for us. A wall made from the same red brick lined the premises, adorned with black cast-iron fencing. The gate which separated this small piece of God's green earth from all outside of it, squeaked as Mr. × pushed it open. We made our way to the front door, opened it in much the same way as we had opened the gate, and were greeted inside by the porter: a rotund man, dressed in all white, who seemed surprised to see, what we can only imagine ourselves to be, relatively normal people.

Mr. × and the porter again exchanged words in a language foreign to me, and which ended with the porter pointing his hand in the direction of the stairs directly opposite the entrance door. As we walked up the hard-wooden stairs, the sound of our steps was joined by a low humming, which grew louder yet not quite discernible when we entered the second floor corridor. Confidently Mr. × walked into the corridor, straight to a door on the left, as if he'd been here on more than one occasion. He opened the door without knocking, at which point a cacophony of sound shook me right awake. Hesitantly I followed Mr. × into the room, where the final tune of a harmonica quickly died out. The murmuring of the crowd of people in the room, however, did not, being suddenly overpowered by the shouting of a single word: smooth-skins! Which received a hearty laughter in reply from the others. Smooth-skins? I thought. But before I could turn to Mr. × to pose my question, I had already found the answer. Looking around the room, at the faces and clothes of those around me, it was clear: this was their territory. Where in the outside world they would be shunned, outcast and avoided, here they were the normal ones, and we the intruders.

- "Miss Y" Mr. × shouted in no direction in particular. And a short gypsy woman emerged from the crowd. Mr. × nodded in the direction of the door and under hushed voices the three of us left. We followed the gypsy woman to a room at the other end of the corridor, where she sat down on, ostensibly, her bed. Mr. × took seat on a chair opposite, me standing besides him, as per usual.

- "What do you reckon? Three, four?" The woman asked with high-pitched voice.

- "Probably. Five if you take it easy." The doctor replied grinning. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat to reveal a sizeable, labelless ember bottle, and handed it to the woman. From another pocket he produced a small bag, whose contents of white tablets he emptied into a glass stood on the bedside table.

- One per week, as per usual. Mr. × said with stern voice, as if to admonish her.

- What? Are you going to retrieve the leftovers? She replied. He didn't answer.

- Let's go. Mr. × stood up and made his way back into the corridor.

- What was that brown bottle? I asked.

- Brandywine. But not the good stuff.

- But is she allowed to drink with those tablets?

- Those are just effervescent tablets.

- Excuse me, but, is that going to cure her?

- The task of a doctor is to help people, not necessarily to cure them. If the brandywine sooths her pain to her dieing breath, then I too can die with a rested heart.

- You're so smart. I said after a moment of silence.

- We're all born dumb. He quipped. But not all of us die that way.

We returned to the coach, which was diligently waiting for us in the light of the setting sun. After about a month we were back in the small town, and it was around dusk that we entered the cafe, still snug between it greater companions. It was about to close, and only three other, shabby looking gentlemen were left. Without hesitation Mr. × sat himself at the table near the amber coloured window. I sat down on the other side, the chair stuttering on the hardwood floor as I pulled it back.

The ruckage caused by the patrons at the other end of the cafe pulled our eyes in their direction. Three man, dressed in muddied dark-green foot-soldier overcoats, hunched over a large newspaper spread out across the table. It was clear one of the men had attended school and had learned his ABC's, as he was reading aloud, trying to impress his comrades, the latest foreign news.

"The working class roll-playing as the petite bourgeois." Said Mr. × annoyedly in hushed voice, having had the same exact thoughts as me. "People are dying in the streets and these folks are concerned with the weather in Paris or what-not. They'll be reciting it before St. Peter by the end of the month if the Devil doesn't catch them before that!" It was the first time I had seen Mr. × so animated.

The waitress came and put a white porcelain cup in front of Mr. ×.

- Coffee, at this hour?

- Why are you asking so jealousy? He replied, grinning, having seemingly calmed down a bit. He handed me his cup.

My facial muscles tensed as I drank the dark-coloured liquid.

Summer was drawing to an end, and the first leaves on the trees had already acquired an ashamedly yellow blush. But the air was still warm and heavy, as it can only be on summer evenings. We again closed in on Mykolaevo, whose little white huts were visible in the far distance, like sheep, dotted across the green ocean of late summer grass, not yet wilted from the scorching sun up above. The smell of burned birch-wood caressed my nose, welcoming me home. One would think burned birch-wood smells the same in Mykolaevo as it does in any forgotten-by-God place, but the peasants among my readers know better. But not all was the same. Despite all the hardship, the village had always been lively. People worked together to survive, pull through, and the sight of a young boy innocently playing in the streets could drown all earthly sadness in an instance. But this was no longer. There was no more liveliness, and the quietness which the passer-through might term tranquility, serenity or other some such pompous word, just seemed foreign to a place like Mykolaevo.

We passed the old mill on the end of the village, which had since long become the favorite homestead of the local youth, desecrating it with their mere presence. The former owner was a true miser, and he would've turned in his grave if he knew what had become of his cherished domicile, were it not for his untimely death, which had forced a hasty cremation. He didn't have a wife or offspring, nor many friends who could be offended by this non-Christian funeral though, and with nobody to take over the estate, it was destined to attain its current state sooner or later. The spirit of the owner was rumored to still roam the rooms of the old mill, sleeping in the attic. Such tell-tales were sufficient for the superstitious folk of Mykolaevo to stay away from it, though they equally served to attract its curious youths, especially during the periods between harvests, when dreariness and boredom fought for dominance. But today, there were no youths. And where tenants are the soul of the building they inhabit, the mill was now officially dead.

Winter came early that year. Already in September the once lush grass underneath our feet would crunch as we walked over it. Food was getting ever harder to come by, and for the first time since I'd met Mr. ×, I experienced hunger again. Yet although I'd known this feeling from the time before, somehow, it felt different. One night, sometime before Christmas, Mr.× passed away. I woke up one morning, to find him still in his bed. I looked, and saw him staring into the abyss. A gaze expressed only by the soulless. Having traveled with Mr.× for so long, I'd become well familiar with it. No sadness, sorrow or dread came over me. Just resignation with the new state of affairs. I went downstairs and informed the owner of the lodge. He, too, was unfazed by the news, for much the same reason. He called the police, who came and removed his body later that day. And from that point onward, I was alone again. Nobody to tell me my name, nobody to tell me where I was from, but I guess it didn't matter. For I had become another Mr. ×.