The Last Hiccup Read Online Free PDF Page A

arranged and they began examining the boy for signs of the following illnesses — scurvy, rickets, guinea worm pestilence, shingles, gonorrhea, the Egyptian plague, gravidity, whooping cough and, finally, the common cold.
    The boy was poked at, prodded and pricked with needles. His blood was taken so many times that the nurses eventually had difficulty finding an unspoiled vein each time more tests needed to be run. On two separate occasions he was made to endure a lumbar puncture. His glucose level was checked. The roots of his hair were examined under suspicion he was succumbing to advanced aging syndrome. Through it all, Vladimir never complained once. He endured tubes sliding down his throat, spinal taps and enemas with a sedate pragmatism far beyond his years; his attitude owed partly to his obedient nature and partly to the aftereffects of the drugs that kept him asleep at night. He was simply too exhausted to complain.
    After five long months of tests, Alexander approached Sergei while he was strolling down the cobblestone path between the hospital’s main building and the mental health ward. This trail was lined with the most beautiful trees in all of Russia. They stood seven times taller than a man, and their branches reached over the heads of passersby. Even the perpetual winter could not disturb the landscape’s beauty. The crisp white blanket of snow had crystallized the branches, leaving the trail protected by thousands of dangling icicles.
    â€œIt appears there is nothing physically wrong with the boy,” Alexander said.
    â€œSo you’re telling me there’s nothing we can do?” Sergei stared straight down and followed a set of footprints in the snow.
    â€œI’m not suggesting we should abandon all hope.”
    â€œThen what exactly are you suggesting?”
    The two men were being coated by a light, languid fall of snow. Alexander found it infuriating. Sergei considered it the most peaceful feeling in the whole world.
    â€œHave you considered that Vladimir’s condition might stem from something other than a physical ailment?” Alexander said.
    Sergei kept walking. That possibility had always been in the back of his mind. Late at night as he lay awake recollecting the timeline of the escalating injustices his ex-wife had incurred upon him, Sergei would often consider the idea that young Vladimir was indeed quite mad.
    Alexander continued. “I’m not suggesting that he’s somehow fashioned this illness in his clever little brain or that he’s experiencing some kind of psychosis. I haven’t yet identified all the factors at play, but there’s something unique happening here. I’m starting to believe there is a battle raging in the young boy’s soul — a battle between his conscience and his most base impulses, between the seraph and the devil’s sprite, between good and evil.”
    Sergei stopped in the snow. Strangely preoccupied, he hadn’t quite heard what Alexander said. Even now, as his rival kept talking, all Sergei could focus on was how he suddenly felt far too warm in his large scarf and fur hat. He shook his head slowly, then looked at the ground. This snow hadn’t been touched since it fell. A blank sheet of paper lay out before him and Sergei could write anything on it he wished. He ignored Alexander and stood mesmerized by the pure white glory.
    Alexander took two long strides into Sergei’s line of vision; he dragged his feet across the blank page and sullied Sergei’s inner peace in the process. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
    Sergei was so lost in thought, he’d only picked up fragments of words fluttering in the air. Finally he looked up from the snow and was met by Alexander’s frustrated expression.
What has he been going on about? It’s no matter
, Sergei decided. He knew what Alexander must be getting at.
    â€œI will handle this.” Sergei pushed past