The Doctor Continued

The doctor stirred the ice in his cocktail glass and glanced up at the TV at the end of the airport bar. The news was on and there was war in Eastern Europe. The news correspondent spoke dejectedly before the camera. Behind her was the aftermath of a bombing that had occurred the night before. Several civilians had been killed and some could be seen in the street behind the correspondent. Their clothes were blackened and disarranged as they lay in awkward or unpleasant positions. There was rubble and burned out cars up and down the street and the facades of some buildings had been blasted away to the bare support pilings, others had their windows blown out and were stripped of paint and siding down to the pallid concrete underneath. At a glance the scene looked something like the remains of an ancient Greek or Roman portico that had deteriorated over the course of a millennia. In a sense, there was a similar effect, but a far different lapsing of time had occurred.

After a while, a man walked into the bar and sat down a seat over from the doctor and glanced and nodded. The doctor nodded back. The bartender came over and the man asked for a whiskey and ginger ale. He paid and began sipping his drink and the doctor and the man both watched the television at the end of the bar. The screen panned across the blown out streets. There were a few bodies lying face down in the street and on the sidewalks. They lay still, one or two with their heads blurred on the screen.

“It never ends, does it,” said the man. He was wearing a brown jacket. One of the collars was stuffed in around his neck. He didn’t seem to notice.

“No, it doesn’t,” said the doctor.

The man sighed as he tipped his nose into his drink which he had already emptied and sucked at an ice cube. The bartender was nearby and asked him if he wanted another. The man nodded and set his cocktail glass out for the bartender, who promptly replaced it. After a while, the man asked the doctor where he was headed. The doctor said he was traveling to Ukraine.

“Really?” said the man. “Are you a mercenary?”

The doctor nodded amiably.

“No, I’m kidding,” said the man and laughed in a way that quickly deteriorated into a cough. The doctor smiled. Then the man went on: “A medical volunteer, I’m guessing?”

“Yes,” said the doctor. “I’m a physician.”

“You guys just head over there and play it by ear or what?”

“Oh no. The medical community has organizations that filter professionals where they need to be.”

“I see, I see.” He paused for a beat and then added: “Well, I wish you good luck. It’s a commendable thing, going over there.”

The doctor nodded and glanced and tipped his empty cocktail glass in the bartenders direction. The bartender came over and took the glass and returned with a fresh drink. The doctor thanked him.

“So,” said the man, “do you speak Russian or what do you speak over there? Ukrainian?”

“Yes, they have their own language. It’s about as different from Russian as Portuguese is from Spanish, so not very different, but different enough.”

“Then you speak — “

“Ukrainian.”

“It’s a strange language to have picked up.”

“I have family who emigrated from Ukraine after World War II. My grandparents spoke in the home growing up. Learning it was just part of the deal, you know?” The doctor laughed. “Kinda like: ‘learn the language or don’t come over for Christmas,’ kinda thing.” The man and the doctor laughed. Then the doctor continued: “They were very proud of their heritage. The country just wasn’t a great place to live back then.”

“Still isn’t.”

The doctor nodded. “Agreed.”

The man watched his drink as he stirred it. Then he bent the straw over the rim with his index finger and took a sip. On the television the scene was replaying: the bombed out streets, the bodies with their heads blurred and their clothes in tatters. Both the doctor and the man sat watching for a time. Then the man said: “Can I ask you an honest question?”

“Sure,” said the doctor.

“Are you scared?”

“Scared?” said the doctor.

“Of going to a war zone.”

“I don’t know if I’m scared. Medical staff are protected by international law, so–”

“Things happen though.”

“Things happen. But I love what I do, you know? I’d rather wear myself down doing my job than be safe and comfortable, if you can imagine it. I’m not naïve about the risk, but my priority is to protect life. That’s why I got into this to begin with. That was the oath anyways.”

“Yeah, the doctor’s oath.”

“The Hippocratic Oath.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Yeah. It’s not the same anymore. The original talks about Greek gods and all, but the idea is the same.”

The man nodded.

“If I get killed doing that,” the doctor went on, “then, well — at least I was doing something that was undeniably good, you know?”

“Putin might disagree.”

“He might disagree because saving Ukrainian lives interrupts his plans, but I think he would still think it commendable to some degree.”

“Even with a gun to your head?”

The doctor nodded. “I think even if he had a gun to my head he would still say: ‘I get it, but you’re in my way.’”

“God that’s messed up.”

“Who would have thought, you know? There are greater forces at work in the world than myself. Not that I expect anyone to follow me, ’cause I don’t. I know I’m not going to win, in a sense, in the grand scheme of things. But if nobody did anything, then nothing would ever happen at all.”

“And then where would we be?

“Exactly.”

The man nodded and said: “You have kids? A wife?”

“Divorced. Two kids, both in college. Got married young, had kids young, got divorced early,” said the doctor and laughed. The man with the brown jacket laughed, and then his laugh turned into a cough again. He cleared his throat and sipped his drink. After a while he said:

“I’d like to go on an adventure. To put something real on the line for a change, you know? For something you believe in.”

“Yeah? What’s holding you back?”

“Kids, wife, job. You know,” said the man and chuckled. “The works.”

“Hey man, everyone’s got their battles.” The man nodded and sat there looking at his drink. They both sat there without talking for a while. The doctor took an audible breath and let it out. The man looked up and saw the doctor’s attention was back on the television.

“Sure is quiet around here,” said the man.

“Almost a shame to be leaving,” said the doctor. “It’s nice to enjoy a little friendly conversation with a stranger here and there. Seems like things were so tense between everyone for so long with the pandemic and the elections.” Realizing the doctor’s comment was now meant in a broader sense, the man said:

“I hear that.”

“Sometimes it takes a war to remind people there are worse monsters in the world than their neighbors.”

The man nodded solemnly.

The doctor shrugged as if considering something further. Then he emptied his glass and looked at his watch. “Well, I got the three-thirty,” he said. “I better be getting on my way.” The doctor pushed his empty cocktail glass to the edge of the bar and set out a couple bills for the bartender. The bartender waved and the doctor waved back. As the doctor bent to pick up his bag on the floor beside his bar stool, the man in the brown jacket grabbed him by the sleeve. The doctor stopped and looked.

“Hey,” said the man, “good luck out there and be safe.”

“I appreciate that. Good luck to yourself as well.” The man let go of the doctor’s wrist. The doctor patted the man on the shoulder and leaned and picked up his baggage and smiled and headed for the archway that led out to the airport terminal. The man watched the doctor go, then turned back and looked into his drink and jiggled the glass until the ice made a tinkling sound. Then he rested his hand and looked up at the TV. The bartender came over and put the TV remote in front of him. “You can watch something else if you’d like,” said the bartender. The man sat looking at the remote. The bartender smiled and went away down the bar.