Taming the Wish

By Sava Buncic

Petar, a physician and scientist living an ordinary life, unexpectedly and through no fault of his own, faces the danger that his whole existence and that of his loved ones will be erased by the powerful machinery of the state's secret service. Will he turn to bare survival, just surrender to the terrible threats from that monster and do everything it demands from him? Even though that could lead to destruction of the fundamental ethical, moral and humanistic values that uphold humanity, and make it what it is, or should be? Or will he try to resist, however hopeless that seems and regardless of the possible cost, and fight the monster to preserve the normality of people and the society they live in? While grappling with those existential dilemmas, his only secure foothold is the love he shares with those he is closest to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9780473595951

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Table of Contents

Epigraph

1. Roots

2. Wall

3. Secret

4. Darkness

5. Dossier

6. Truth

7. Waking Up

8. Games

9. Gambling

10. Believing

About the Author

Copyright

Epigraph

None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free. (Goethe)

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) was a German poet, playwright, novelist, scientist, statesman, theatre director and aesthetic critic

1.      Roots

The Clinical Centre in Reygrad was the largest and leading medical institution in the country, Matrania. Whenever somebody mentioned medicine in the country, the Reygrad Centre was the first one that sprang to everybody’s mind. Not just because it was located in the capital city, but because all other medical centres and hospitals with respect to their facilities and staff expertise were just that, others. Auxiliary, secondary… Understandably, such a top-level medical institution was the ultimate target, or at least a professional desire, for most medics looking to build up and advance their careers. And hoping the Centre’s enviable reputation would rub off on them.

Petar had set his mind on the Centre during his medical studies at university. Later, when he applied for internship and a position within the Centre, he did not have much hope of being successful. Coming straight from university, he lacked relevant experience and authoritative recommendations. Indeed, he did bring brilliant grades from his studies, but some other aspiring candidates had them too. But in the end, he was the lucky one who wedged himself into the Centre. Even today, he did not know how on earth it had happened.

Sitting in front of the director of the Centre, Professor Radan, Petar felt uneasy. He knew all too well Radan’s favourite mantra – at such a top-notch institution, everybody must keep proving themselves through delivering excellent results in their job, every day anew, constantly. And, he would not miss an immediate follow up it was up to the medical professionals to demonstrate that the Centre still needs them. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do from my first day here, Petar tried to convince himself.

Radan stalked around his large desk, which always looked to Petar like a fortress. He silently paced up and down behind the chair Petar sat on. Radan had offered him the chair five minutes ago in such a commanding tone that Petar had felt physically pushed down onto it. Immediately, he sensed nothing good would come. Now, he followed Radan’s pacing out of the corner of his eye. The supreme master of the Centre was like a hawk circling above an unsuspecting chicken and choosing the best angle to dive and thrust its claws into its back. Only, unlike the chicken, Petar knew the hawk was diving on him. Radan had signalled it in various ways and more than once. Over several past months, in fact. At first, discreetly and in coded language, then ever more directly, and lately, even by threatening him openly. With every patient assigned to him and he saw many on a daily basis Petar did try to obey his director’s demands. Unintentionally, though, he kept slipping back into doing the very things in ways Radan did not want.

Mr Bontich, why do we have to struggle with the same problem, again and again? Actually, with you. Because you are the problem. Radan loomed over him and stared into Petar’s eyes. Not for me personally. Not for the Clinical Centre. But for our business here.

Oh yes, clear as a bell, here it comes, deadly avalanche… That’s why he’s not using my first name, Petar thought and mutely shrugged his shoulders.

Why don’t you simply say you don’t want to follow your written job description? Instead, you, unauthorised and irresponsibly, have changed that description all by yourself! Actually, you haven’t changed it. You work as if our clearly defined procedures provided by that description don’t exist at all!

Petar remained silent and Radan jabbed his finger at him: Standard procedures are the foundation of modern medicine! Without them, the health service becomes chaotic, there’s ineffective consumption of resources, we’re susceptible to serious professional errors and misconduct. You should’ve learnt that at university!

Well…I only try to gather as much factual information as possible about the objective status of every patient of mine. I don’t disrespect standard procedures. I don’t ignore them. I don’t violate them. I only do more than the minimum required by those procedures. For the benefit of the patient. And the medicine.

Who do you think you are, Mr Bontich? In the role of a general practitioner whose only job is to screen patients at the front door of the Centre? As he did not get any response, Radan answered his own question. You’re only a traffic cop! You have to conduct only a basic examination of the patient, take a look at their accompanying medical history, ask them the pre-set questions, type up the answers and direct them where to go from there. Either towards the exit, or towards one of our clinics for further processing. Nothing more!

Petar coughed and countered, barely audibly: Sometimes, what one can learn about the patient’s health by such a…bureaucratic manner…is enough, indeed. But, lots of times, it isn’t. Often in fact, the possibility of some other coexisting condition, on top of the health problems stated by the patient or issues arising from their medical notes, becomes obvious. In those cases, I feel obligated to clarify the case…the whole of it, not just a part of it. It’s necessary, so I can make an informed decision about what final advice to give the patient and where to direct them.

Radan’s jaw muscles twitched and he bent towards him, glaring at him from up close: You, Mr Bontich, do not clarify! You do not give final advice! Others do that. You only direct the patient either back to their GP or to our specialists in the Centre.

So, then, I’m not a real doctor?

"For God’s sake, what makes you think you should refer the patients to those many further examinations? The masses of laboratory, functional, radiological, even neurological tests you order cost a fortune, unnecessarily clog up our departments… I’ve personally forbidden you to do that, but you don’t care – you just ignore my orders, and you continue as before!"

That means you forbid me to gain factual medical information and understanding of what exactly is the problem with my patients? But I need to know that… I have to know! Not just as a medical professional, but as a human being. If I don’t know enough but make a decision, that flies in the face of all scientific principles of our profession.

Radan shook his head, spun around and moved quickly to his large, wheeled armchair on the other side of his desk-fortress. He rummaged through various fascicles piled up in front of him, periodically glancing at the computer screen. It lasted. He was preoccupied so much with what he was doing that he did not look up even when Petar coughed twice, then eventually got up and stood silently swaying from foot to foot next to the desk.

Well, then…I should go? You’re busy, Petar said hesitantly and, as the director did not show he had noticed him at all, walked towards the door.

Ha! Here it is, just what we need, Radan’s sneer stopped Petar in his tracks. "Since you talk about scientific principles all the time, let’s please you, Mr Bontich. We’ll transfer you to our Scientific Institute of Public Health. You’ll be a research associate in the Obesity Unit. Starting on Monday."

But… As far as I know, they deal mostly with epidemiology. Not with clinical therapy. I mean – their focus is on population, not on individual patients? What could I, a clinical doctor, do there? What can I contribute there, exactly?

Radan smiled sourly, a barely discernible triumphant spark in his eye: You’ll put those scientific principles into practice, what else. Everything there is about scientific research. It’s just what you want, isn’t it?

Yes, but it isn’t…

Enough! Radan growled through his teeth. I’ve dedicated to you more time than I have. Monday morning. Report to the unit manager. Goodbye, now.

That evening in his small flat, Petar sat on a chair by the table in the kitchen area of his living space, feeling empty. A plate of reheated pasta with meat sauce, leftover from yesterday’s dinner, and salad were in front of him. His fork came to a halt as he stared across the table at the other chair. Interesting, he thought, I always sit on this chair, never on that one. Intriguing habit, can’t be just coincidence. Why is that? What controls it? Damn… Pondering over meaningless matters. Again. So weird. Analysing every little detail of everything, not distinguishing the essential from the unimportant!

You do not posses a sense of prioritisation, his favourite university professor had said once during an oral examination. Although a long time – seven years? – had passed since then, Petar remembered his comment vividly, as if watching it in a documentary movie. Not just his words, but the tone in his voice, even the expression in his eyes. Dear colleague Bontich, he sounded regretful and fatherly at the same time, I could give you the highest mark if I were to assess your mastery of detailed knowledge, or a fail if I were to assess your ability to apply your vast knowledge in medical practice. In the end, he did give him the top grade, but only after seeking and getting Petar’s repeated promise that he would always use a holistic approach – look at the entirety of any medical case, instead of getting lost in isolated details or individual aspects.

Radan’s latest act told him how little successful he was in achieving that goal, however much he tried to evade the meaning behind it or make it less painful. He had not achieved much, if anything at all. Not that he had not faced the same bitter answer before. It started at the beginning. During the second year of his internship, when he observed and sometimes assisted in operations in the general surgery department, several lead surgeons had told him the same thing. Colleague Bontich, while you’re taking care to not damage the smallest blood vessel or nerve branch – it almost looks as if you’re dealing with capillaries! – the main objective of the operation remains not sorted out and the expected thirty minute procedure lasts far too long! By doing so, you not only potentially harm the patient, but you significantly reduce the daily capacity of the operating theatre!

All his later efforts to overcome that particular shortcoming had ended as if he walked a circle and merely came back to the starting point. Following his internship, it did not come as a surprise to him, or to anybody else at the Centre, that he did not win a clinic placement. Instead, they pushed him into the deep background – to screen incoming patients, to be a medical gatekeeper as they called the post in their changing room jargon. He felt it as both a professional and a personal defeat. Rather, a debacle. It took him a long time after his crushing fall to stand up again and shake off the dust. But nothing turned to the better. Today, he had fallen yet again. It was not a question of whether work in laboratory research was less medically valuable than clinical work. The two were equally important. In some aspects, laboratory research was even ahead of clinical practice, a precondition for it. The problem was, a research laboratory position was not his choice; the clinical work was. He could not escape from the truth – he had not achieved what he wanted. Again.

Petar glowered at his plate. This is the simplest dish that anybody can manage, quick to prepare, delicious. When I cook it, it’s tasty too, but not quick. Takes me two or three hours to finish. It’s not just because I weigh the ingredients to two decimal places. I think too much when cooking. Every time, for every ingredient, I ask myself – what’s its role in the dish, how does it interact with the other constituents, how does it affect the human body physiologically, how do I react to it consciously, and instinctively? Then I come to the foggiest issue – why did they create the recipe in this particular way, not in some other way? I start pondering in the middle of cooking – how could I change the recipe to make it even better? Improving pasta – what a mental challenge for a medical doctor, ha? Petar tried to laugh, but could not; he felt his heart sink. What’s wrong with me, for God’s sake, he moaned.

He shuddered, stood up and glanced around. As if chased by somebody or something, he hurriedly went to the only window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass and aimlessly looked up and down the street. He did that often, whenever he was at home, which was whenever he was not at work. Even though there was never anything to see in the small side street in the city’s outskirts. Two rows of greyish, three-storied buildings without balconies and with all the windows almost always closed for some reason. A narrow carriageway with a long line of cars parked only on the opposite side. Asphalt footpaths wide enough only for two people walking together. No trees or anything green. When a cyclist or a pedestrian on the leash being towed by their dog passed – that was an event. Now, in the evening and under sodium yellow light from the sparse street lamps, everything looked even emptier, almost spooky.

Then he saw Mira. She bounded out from her building, the second one along from his, and crossed the carriageway with her head bowed and without checking the traffic. As if she could not wait to get away from here. It was the beginning of summer and she wore a floral, swaying skirt and a white, sleeveless top. When she unlocked and opened her car door, Petar pressed his forehead even harder against the window, trying to see better what he knew was coming. As she lowered herself onto the driver’s seat, her skirt slipped up, her legs parted a little and her thighs flashed almost full-length. It lasted a moment only, but the picture set in his mind, as clear as if caught by camera. What a lucky guy her husband is, with such an attractive, groomed and elegant woman next to him. As she drove away, he mumbled into his chin you don’t even know if she has a man, and you just stealthily ogle her from a distance, like a teenager. Or worse, like a voyeur. Get to know her, at least! He sighed in surrender and turned away.

In the morning, as he was getting into his car, she came to her own, parked just in front of his. To his delight, she found her left rear tire was flat. He managed to collect himself enough to address her and offered to change the wheel for her. When he finished, they engaged in a brief but surprisingly relaxed conversation. Despite his belief it was impossible for such a beautiful woman to not have a man, he figured out from various bits of what she said that she lived alone and was not even in a relationship.

Over the following days, he lurked at his window for any opportunity to bump into her on the street – which was not that difficult, considering she exited and entered her building always at the same times. On those occasions, they chatted briefly but cosily. Gradually, they started learning more about each other, but it only heightened his need to know every smallest detail about her. Every little piece of information he would gather from her words just opened many connected questions, and he wanted answers to all of them. His curiosity kept endlessly branching like the roots of a tree, a process that was nothing new to him. But it was to her. Besides, she did not like endless beating around the bush. She proposed they go out for dinner.

Oh, I’m just a hacker, she replied leisurely between two mouthfuls to his question of what exactly was the nature of her position at the information technology company she worked for.

"Well…I thought hackers work in hiding, isolated in some basement. Not as employees for a commercial company. Because computer hacking is against the law, isn’t it?"

Really? Against the law? Well, lawfulness is an elastic term. I hold a legal position, and my job description is legal. My employer, BTHS, is a legitimate, multinational conglomerate. One of the largest biotechnology companies on the global scale. We do business not only with many thousands of business partners, but we deal with tens of governments, worldwide. Who dares to say, or try to prove, that such a company does anything against the law? She giggled teasingly.

As he only mutely raised his eyebrows, she added in a conciliatory note: All right, what I called my job was more…jargon, from our line of work. I’m an electronic information analyst.

What information?

Whatever BTHS needs! Or might need. She looked questioningly into his eyes for a moment and sighed softly: "Let’s simplify… Who makes good money, as they say big bucks? The company that’s first to develop and market some new product for which demand exists. For that of course, the most important thing is to keep their own research and technological development a step ahead of their competitors. But, to be sure whether it is a step ahead or not, the company has to know what those competitors are doing and how far they’ve advanced on the product. And just the same, they have to know what the governments are doing about the legal framework in each country, because that affects the market access and sales of the product. You understand?"

Maybe… Not sure. Do you spy?

Mira glanced at him askance, frowned, but the next moment burst out laughing: Come on, please! Do I look like a spy to you? I’m just a technical officer, at work I don’t leave my computer chair. I do exactly what my bosses ask of me – I search for and gather piles of electronic information from out there, the cyber-world. Then I extract what’s relevant, compare what’s comparable, extrapolate… Make some sense out of it.

Petar did not laugh but kept wiping the corners of his mouth with a serviette, so eventually she added: I have nothing to do further with the information.

When he just mutely shrugged his shoulders, she gestured quickly: Oh, let’s drop it! Is that only why we’re here? Can’t our jobs wait until morning?

She turned to chatting cheerily about her everyday life, while he talked little, drily although kindly. The more she spoke, the less he wanted to keep the conversation going. His mind became increasingly occupied by his own reflections. Why’s she so enthusiastic, almost over-the-top delighted by us going out and my company? People are never very impressed by me – especially not women. Maybe my job’s the important thing to her? Perhaps she hopes her company – using me as an insider – could be a major supplier for our Clinical Centre? Because we do consume huge amounts of biotechnological products. Of course, she doesn’t know what a small and irrelevant part I am in the Centre’s machinery… Or, on the other hand, considering she’s roughly my age, just passed thirty, maybe she wants to sail into a stable marina – marriage, house, kids – so she’s looking for a husband? OK, I’m not the type women fall in love with just a few moments after meeting, but still, I’m a medic, live alone, cultivated… So, she could see me as a good opportunity. But then, with all this flammability and rush from her side – is she just a man-eater? Consumes you today, discards you tomorrow? It wouldn’t come as a surprise, she can obviously get any man she wishes, so why would she skip any?

A soft touch on his hand resting on the table and Mira’s vivid laughter brought him back from his musings: For heaven’s sake! You’re killing my confidence. Well…self-respect! I’m telling you my most entertaining stories, but you’re bored. At least you could look at me while I’m talking, not just through me.

He glanced at her hand that barely noticeably covered his, but remained there. Smooth skin, fine fingers, rounded yet svelte forearm… When he looked at her glowing face, he did not know what glistened the most – her dark eyes or the whiteness of her teeth revealed by her plump, smiling lips. The beauty of this woman was just painful. But, for reasons unclear to him, he did not feel a trace of the excitement that overcame him each time he saw her from his window.

Tell me, Petar – what was I saying just before I woke you up from your pensiveness…or daydream? She giggled, but it did not sound cynical, just as if she was having fun.

He blushed: Sorry, please… I was only…

She withdrew her hand and signalled him to stop: Don’t bother answering! Now you’re back, I have an easier question – why are we here?

Well… We met by chance, we chatted, we found each other interesting… So we’re here to get to know each other better. To learn who the other person is.

That’s correct, but that’s not the main reason. Which is?

When he quickly grabbed his glass and carried on drinking for several moments, she shook her head, looked at him askance and said quietly: We’re here because we like each other. Is it so hard to say that? For how long should we…circumambulate the simple truth? So we can finally relax and indulge ourselves…have some fun.

He felt a whiff of displeasure: Yes, Mira, I do like you. But, to know if my liking is real and proper, I have to know you…deeper.

She raised her eyebrows: I’m not sure what real and proper liking is. What do you expect it to be? I think if two people are interesting to each other and see they are neither lunatics nor bullies, then perhaps the only way to find out where it leads is to set the mutual liking free. Over time, it’ll show by itself what it’s made of. Otherwise, if the couple engages in a lengthy, detailed investigation, like detectives, to find out all the slightest traits in each other first – the liking can easily loose its early magic, mystery. Fade away. Wither!

Wait…look… I understand what you’re saying. But we aren’t teenagers. Don’t you need to know somebody deeper, not just by scratching the surface…before you can fully open to that person? If you’re going to become…to spend a lot of time with that person?

She chuckled: Petar, don’t you trust your instincts?

He said nothing and she continued teasingly: Damn it! Just look at us two! We haven’t finished dinner yet, but we’re having a quarrel already. Let’s stop this philosophising. Petar, talk to me about what you do when you’re doing nothing.

Petar smiled sourly: Aha, now we’re going to have a socially neutral conversation. We’ll conduct, as you computer wizards call it, a reset? That’s fine, I can do that.

They turned to their plates. The food had cooled down, but they ate it nevertheless. Their conversation continued, but the exchanges were slower, quieter and more careful. The second bottle of wine they ordered seemingly helped. Gradually, he talked more and more, and she limited herself only to short replies or to just listening. He