"Owwwh." I groaned as I struggled to get up from a position lying on my stomach on the limp mattress. I was in bed in my small sublet apartment in Moscow. It didn't help that the mattress was severely worn such that one had to fight to get up from a central depression that had developed over the years. I would have moved out by now, but the rent was cheap, the location conveniently near the Kremlin and Lubyanka where I spent much of my time doing interviews, and... I don't know... I had an inexplicable attachment to the run-down and musty old place.
This was the worst I'd felt by far since, shortly after arriving in Russia, I began to become ill. I became convinced, as I rolled over with great effort, that I was going to have to make a trip back to America to see a specialist. I hated that it would set back the timeline on my project, and I would probably have to get my publisher to agree to a revised roll-out date. I dreaded that conversation. However, it was now clear that whatever my ailment was, it was getting worse.
After seeing Doctor Elovich, a stocky balding physician recommended by my landlady, twice the only thing resembling a diagnosis I had received was that I worked too hard, was under great stress, and my body was slowly adjusting to the Moscow winter. I knew that I'd better get myself looked at by a doctor with access to X-ray machines, MRIs, and CAT-scanners. Elovich apparently wasn't willing to deal with the hassle of a hospital referral for what he seemed certain was an over-reaction to a minor affliction at best, or perhaps even a case of hypochondria. I had reached the limits of what he could do in his little office, which was disturbingly cluttered as if it were the collection point for materials that would form the exhibits of a Museum of Soviet Era Medical Implements. At least I had not had to wait in the depressing little waiting room, which I had never seen contain an occupant. The waiting area was the opposite of the observation room in that it was devoid of anything except four molded-plastic chairs spaced around the periphery. It would have been zen-like if not for the fact that it was so ill-maintained - having a flickering fluorescent light and a dark water stain down the wall adjacent to the outside of the building.
The aches, pains, and general lethargy started gradually the week I arrived in Moscow. At first, it was easy to chalk my condition up to a combination of cold and lack of daylight. It was late November in Moscow when I arrived, and that bore little resemblance to the late November I was accustomed to in Miami. For the first week-and-a-half, I figured it was a combination of jet lag, Vitamin D deficiency, and, perhaps, the onset of a cold.
If it had just been for the tiredness, achiness, mild malaise, I might not have thought anything more of it. However, with increasing frequency I began to have generalized, but occasionally intense, pains in my lower abdomen. My internal organs felt like they were bruised - pummeled from the inside out, and I occasionally had bloody stool. The odd thing was that I kept having the feeling that I should know what my problem was and what was causing it, but as soon as I thought I might know, the thought vanished. I had had similar experiences all my life in which I thought I had a glimpse of a memory of a dream, but the more I tried to recall the dream, the less I could muster anything but an unexplained feeling. Now, the feelings I felt were consistently dark and macabre.
There was no activity in my life to explain my aches and lethargy. My life consisted of work, occasional requisite evening social functions of a subdued nature, and sleep. While I usually exercised fanatically, lately I could not muster the effort. My sex drive was diminished to nearly the point of nonexistence. The tall, blond, and buxom young Russian women that attended the aforementioned evening social functions barely made it onto my radar screen lately. This was quite a change from my normal mode of operation at parties, but lately I wanted nothing more than to get home to sleep as soon as I could politely manage.
Dr. Elovich was, like the landlady who had recommended him, dour and humorless. Where the two differed was also apparent. Elovich was a nervous fidgety little man, whereas Mrs. Ivanova was a font of stern confidence. Elovich responded to inquiries and attempts at levity alike by repeating his mantra that I just needed to rest more and that the "little aches and pains" of my middle-aged frame were simply exacerbated by the bone-chilling Moscow winter. He further expressed a belief that Russian food was probably also taking some getting used to by my body. I didn't put much stock in this explanation because, while I had never before spent such an extended time in Russia, my job involved constant travel and I had spent months in places with much harsher cuisine (spicy, raw, curdled, you name it) without a problem. In fact, I was known for my cast-iron constitution. Elovich gave me Vitamin D tablets to make up for the lack of sunlight, and told me that if I spent a few days in bed I would be good as new in a week. The latter could not happen given my tight deadline for the book.
When I finally sat up in the bed, my jaw dropped in astonishment. I was dumbfounded. Except for my things, the tiny apartment had been cleared out. Had I been robbed? The thought crossed my mind, but it seemed that if anything Mrs. Ivanova had been robbed. But that made no sense. A cursory look around gave no indication that anything of mine was missing. It defied logic that robbers would leave $5,000 worth of camera equipment and a two month old fully-loaded Panasonic Toughbook laptop sitting around while they took the dusty old lamps, unimaginative pastoral artworks, stained doilies, tattered curtains, little bronze statues of Stakhanovite workers, and all the other cheap drab North Korean-made 1970s Communist-era decor and tchotchkes that had adorned the apartment. One could see where paintings had hung by the rectangles that were several shades lighter than the rest of the wall, and one could see where the cylindrical and rectangular bases of statuettes had sat on the shelf by the dust-free geometric shapes. There was an extra level of mustiness to the air as it seemed the dust continued to be stirred by recent activity. Amazingly, there was a Brownian motion of particulate matter that continued to swirl around in a shaft of light that angled in through the room's solitary window.
In the abandoned apartment, it did not take long for the folded yellow legal pad note with a USB-drive taped to it to catch my eye. It was the only thing left that wasn't mine, and the modernity of the flash-drive seemed strikingly out of character for Mrs. Ivanova.
The yellow page had the oddest statement hand-written on it. "Dear Subject X: I'll miss our little experiences together, but it is time to say ado. I have a message to get out, and you are just the person to be my mouthpiece. As a reward, I grant you permission to tell my story without revealing your own part in it. But tell it you must, or I will come to visit you again some day. Watch the video on the attached device [referring, ostensibly, to the USB drive] it should make clear what I am talking about. Also, I put a number of files on the disc that will provide background information and cases for your story. As you watch it, just know that I treated you better than the others." It was signed "Mistress Ivanova".
My mind reeled as I tried to decipher the note. "...our little experiences together..." To what did that refer? Unlike my earlier mentioned attempts to grasp a fleeting memory, now I was trying to push away, to deny, a distressing thought that was beginning to dawn.
