Untrodden paths

Created with intellectual publishing system Ridero

By Andrei Shkarubo

Dedicated to those who, in their quest for Truth, pass through Death

From the author: The author is in no way responsible for the politically incorrect actions and words of the characters in his play: it takes place in a psychiatric hospital 50 km. east of Moscow in the summer of 1985, at the start of Gorbachev’s perestroika.

To those who might view the plot as contrived and unrealistic, saying that people, finding themselves in a psychiatric hospital, are unlikely to spend their time debating at length the complex issues of philosophy, our being, and politics; thinking that in a psychiatric hospital these people are likely to be preoccupied with their own problems and sorrows, rather than the problems of the whole mankind – the author would like to remind those that the characters of his play are not normal healthy members of society, but personalities whose minds are thought to be seriously affected – which is evident from their painful, obsessive, pathological drive toward some alleged Truth; indifference toward their own fate and wellbeing; and finally total disregard for authority and state.

Gentlemen, and former comrades, too, please, be patient with my characters – they are sick people, besides, they are living in Russia – the country where the questions

«who’s to blame?» and «what to do?» are inherent.

Bachkov, a tall, athletic, handsome male nurse in his mid-thirties: Wake up, wake up, you loonies! Everybody here, get up, get dressed, make your beds, wash your f-f-f-asses. Voronin, stop jerking off and start the floor scrub!

Voronin, a man in his mid- thirties: I ain’t jerkin’ off, I’m playing morning tattoo.

Imitates the sound of a bugle.

A general laugh, then someone: He won’t get up till his cock gets down!

Bachkov: Grab that broom and play scrubbing tattoo, instead.

Voronin, giving a loud raspberry, causing more laughter: Sorry, Captain, but scrubbing ain’t like jerkin’ off; it has to be done in turns.

Bachkov: Whose turn is it, then?

Voronin: See this new loony, in the corner?

Bachkov: Are you Andrei, the one police brought in yesterday evening?

Andrei, a young man of 27: Yes.

Bachkov, giving an amused whistle: I‘ve just read your case story, is it rue? They say…

Andrei: Never mind what they say, watch what they do…

Bachkov: Really? Well, frankly, it’s none of my business because I’ve seen enough to mind my own. Anyway, Mr. Spy, today seems to be your turn to scrub. Here’s a bucket and a mop for you.

(Sound of scrubbing)

Sasha, a young man of 27 with a guarded look characteristic of an ex-con, watching inexperienced scrubbing movements, asks quietly: First time here?

Andrei: Not exactly, I was in the institution before, four years ago, in fact.

Sasha: What for?

Andrei: American embassy…

Sasha: Wanted to emigrate?

Andrei: Not exactly, it’s a long story….

Victor, a handsome man of 45 with piercing shiny eyes: That’s what our gaga-houses are for: To cut our long stories short. As I understand it, once you’re on the KGB’s black list, your stays here are bound to become regular: a party Congress, Good-Will Games, or a Youth Festival, like now, and they round up all subversive elements which might spoil their fun.

Sasha: Yeah, man, you should have gone to some safe place before this fucking festival began.

Andrei: I didn’t know that. I thought – in fact I was assured – that if I laid low and kept quiet I would be left alone, unnoticed and forgotten.

Victor: Boy, you must be really na"ive to trust what they say. It’s not in their interests to forgive and forget. They live by suppression.

Andrei: Why? Is it in their interests to increase the number of their enemies?

Victor: Friends and enemies are the notions which belong to the rosy world of Romance. The shady world of politics knows only

«useful and useless». And if you should happen to be of any use to them, they label you as friend or enemy, depending on the way they want to exploit you. It doesn’t matter for them which side you’re on, as long as you play by the rules of the game.

Andrei: How’s that?

Victor: Whatever team you play for there’s only one goal in this ball game.

Tupikov, a portly man in his sixties, grinning: Victor Vasilyevich is a philosopher, got here because of it.

Victor: No, I’m not a philosopher. I used to practice yoga, until my enlightenment, then I wrote a book – and here we are…

Tupikov: Now psychiatrists are busy writing the review. After which, unless the author shuts up, the «publisher» would pay him lavish royalties, which you, Victor Vasilyevich, would be at pains to enjoy, say, in Sychevka, or in Kazan’s life ward.