"Scary? Anxiety now. Do you catch sensations?

A fragment of a book by hospital clown Igor Narovsky - about the war and helping children in Lviv

Freedom Letters published a book by Latvian hospital clown Igor Narovsky, who helps Ukrainians affected by the war, “Laughing Red.” Meduza publishes an excerpt in which Narovsky describes the first days in Lviv, where he and the Scottish clown Susie Ferguson arrived.

Sirens

Having checked into the hostel, the first thing we did was inspect the basement for shelter. The floor was covered with buckets of paint.

“If we get hit, no bomb shelter will help,” the administrator explained, noticing our bewilderment.

We went up to the room. After showering and getting our clown costumes ready for work at the hospital tomorrow, we finally settled down. I put the phone aside and began to fall asleep. Susie was sketching in her notebook.

The screen lit up, Tanya wrote. She was transporting a group of hospital clowns from Kharkov and was already in Lvov.

"Scary? Anxiety now. Do you catch sensations?

Strange question. A strange way to pose the question. It's a strange time to talk about feelings. It's almost midnight.

I replied that the city was beautiful, that there was no reason to worry, that I was not alone - Susie was with me. He wrote how great it was that everyone was able to come, and I would meet everyone tomorrow.

“No,” Tanya interrupted, “now is the time for alarm. There was no lights out."

Up to this point, it was as if we were speaking different languages.

“Is there an air raid warning now?” - I asked.

“Yes, a threat. There was no lights out."

The window in the room was slightly open, but the siren could not be heard. I looked outside. There was a huge chestnut tree in the center of the yard. Like us, he is squeezed within four walls.

“Does it still sound?”

“No, the threat could be five minutes or an hour and a half,” Tanya explained. — The siren will sound again when the alarm ends. It’s not yet time for the signal to roar. Wait."

Tanya copied the message into the chat:

“!UVAGA. Anxiety has struck in the Lviv region.

Usi - in ukrittya!

Horrified, I turned to Susie. She was drawing something in a notebook, unaware that everything had changed in a second. I didn't have the slightest idea how to start. The phrase air-raid warning was not in my English. I typed “air raid warning” into the translator and showed the screen to Susie. Without getting out of bed, we passed from peace to war. Looking at each other, we silently decided: get up, get dressed and go to the bomb shelter or wait out the alarm in the room. Moreover, according to the administrator, we had nowhere to hide.

The howl of a siren interrupted our thrashing.

“Oh, she started crying,” Tanya immediately wrote. - Lights out. Hugs to you and Susie. It's so safe here. Compared to Kharkov, the Bahamas in general. And one more thing: if you suddenly catch air defense in action, under no circumstances should you film or broadcast it. I’m just reminding you of the rules of life in Ukraine. It can be very loud and very beautiful.”

I am Odysseus Laertides

Regional children's hospital "Okhmatdyt" . From the front entrance, the five-story building was surrounded by scaffolding. Evgenia was waiting for us downstairs. We met in person for the first time. In a formal summer dress, she looked like a child who had been thrown into the world of adults. Something canary-yellow was begging for her completely childish sparkling eyes. She was even more beautiful in life.

We went up to the fourth floor. Old Lvov stood in the windows, the glare of the tin roofs. The hospital was on a hill - what an easy target. Evgenia led us to the staff room, where we could change clothes and get ready.

Mister Robin and Doctor Maybee . Seeing these two, Evgenia stood up on her tiptoes and smiled like a child. The clowns walked along a dark corridor, no longer remembering where they had just come from, and completely not understanding which way to go. They were happy with any direction. The only thing they feared was the air raid sirens.

The man is refracted in the clown as in a prism. This play of light often already contains a metaphor that covers the circumstances. You just need to see her. The clown refracts the light of a person and fills the present moment with colors.

I'm Mister Robin.

People are waiting at the entrance to the department. Maeby opens the glass door and lets me through. "Only after you." "What do you!"

"I insist." “No, I insist.” We bow to each other with cartoonish politeness until I lose my balance and tumble into the department. I jump up and rush to the door. I pull it towards myself - it’s closed. We are separated - this time for sure forever. Let's make a tragedy out of this.

“The door is open,” the girl explains. - On myself. Not you! You are in the other direction. God!

She can’t stand it, gets up and opens the door for us.

We rush towards each other, fly past and again find ourselves on opposite sides. Despair! We touch our palms through the glass. We draw a labyrinth on the glass with our finger. One leads, the other follows on the heels so as not to get lost.

- What are you doing! — the angry voice of the head nurse interrupts the game. — We just washed the windows.

I look at her, confused, as if she had smashed my sand castle with her foot. It’s insulting and painful, but instead of making excuses, I kiss her hand. Out of inertia, she still scolds me, but she no longer believes in her anger and cannot restrain her smile.

“Let me hug you,” the nurse exhales and hugs me tightly.

* * *

First ward. The kids beg to check the corner by the sink. Maeby looks behind the door and turns to stone. I met the gaze of Medusa the Gorgon (with a mop tucked away in the corner). After much laughter, the children jump out of their beds and run to the rescue. Maeby manages to be saved by becoming her reflection.

* * *

The floor squeaks treacherously. We try all sorts of tricks to get in unnoticed. We try to sneak around, cartwheel, moonwalk - all to no avail. I'm running - jump! I hang from the lamp, swing, fly over to the windowsill - through the window! I fly six floors down, run twelve flights of stairs up and I’m here again, on the threshold of the seventh ward. They made me laugh. Nobody believed that I really did all this.

* * *

A scream escapes from the treatment room and sweeps through the department. We run towards the voice.

Through the frosted glass I see the silhouette of a three-headed monster. I push the door, and the ominous image splits into three figures: a woman doctor, a little boy and a father looming over him.

“Ian, don’t be afraid,” the father begs the child. - The doctor will only listen to you. Breathe.

The boy stands with his T-shirt pulled up under his chin. The metal ear of the stethoscope moves methodically along his bare back. Yana bends over: he’s scared. She blushes and bursts into tears. It is impossible to make a diagnosis.

“Look who came to you,” dad tries to distract him with feigned delight.

Ian opens his eyes. In front of him is a clown in a red jacket. Before the boy starts crying, I manage to grab a bright orange bottle from my pocket. It worked, giving me a couple more seconds to maneuver. I snap off the cap and blow out a soap bubble. One, one is better. Everyone is watching a single performance. Iridescently shimmering, the bubble flies up to the ceiling, caught by the air flow, hovers and - po! - bursts. Tension is replaced by fascination with miracles. The cramped box seems to have become more spacious.

I blow out another one and drive it towards the boy, blowing it from one side, then from the other. Ian himself doesn’t notice how we find ourselves face to face. I bring the ring of soap to his lips.

- Blow!

The boy takes in air into his lungs and blows as hard as he can. From such a gust, the membrane breaks and soap splashes into the eye.

- Ay! - I close my eyes, fall on my back and crawl back to my feet. - One more time!

He laughs and blows more gently. The exhalation forms into a soap bubble and floats through the air like a tiny airship.

Meanwhile, the doctor is already signaling to me from behind: “continue, continue - hold a little further - freeze - again.” The game became a solution: when the doctor needed to listen for a deep breath, I would move the ring further and Ian would take in more air. And vice versa. After a couple of such soap bubbles, the procedure was over.

The Meduza publishing house publishes books that, due to censorship, cannot be published in Russia. Now in our “Store” you can buy not only paper books, but also electronic and audio books. Meduza also began publishing fiction. This is one of the easiest ways to support the editors and our publishing project.