The Invisible Life of Ivan Isaenko Read Online Free Page A

arm (the only exception to this rule is cutting a hard-boiled egg), and (B) if there is a God, then I should thank Him for my thumb, since it is the only thing that makes (A) possible.
    While patiently waiting for the urge to defecate, I played with my diaper’s tiny adhesive tabs. I was getting comfortable with the mechanics of the contraption, finding the subtle tricks required to get a single thumb and index finger to attach and detach the various flaps with ease, exploring the necessary tension required to keep a diaper in place. I’ve found that after about eight hours of practicing just about anything with my flimsy hand, I can become good enough at it to put a rare smile on my droopy face (incidentally, before the eight-hour mark of proficiency, don’t touch me—I will simultaneously snap, beat, hiss, gnash at you; Nurse Natalya calls it my d’yavol * face).
    Luckily, eight hours is also a sufficient period of time to build up an adequate urge to defecate. In other words, by the time I mastered the art of the diaper I was ready to fill it. I cringed as the warm paste spread over my zadnista. †
    I removed the diaper, which, by now, I could do quite easily, and used the towel in my room to clear out all the chocolate pudding that managed to coat every crack and contour of my backside. This proved far more challenging than I had expected, and I immediately wished I had more towels and diapers. In my stubborn obsession, I had also not really thought through what I would do with the leftovers. Nor did I fully appreciate the speed with which the smell would make me expel that morning’s cabbage.
    The soiled towel was the easy part. I just let it soak in my bathroom sink for the night so the next morning I could ring out all the supersaturated brown water until the towel was reduced to the traditional shade of antiquated off-white of the typical hospital towel. The diaper, however, would be more difficult. After considering several possibilities, I eventually decided that the best option would be to wait until the Director (as well as the majority of the nursing staff) left to go home for the day and drop off the soiled diaper behind the leather sofa in his office. At least half the days of the week he left his office unlocked so Nurse Lyudmila could casually let herself in for late-night erotic activities. Years later, I still imagine the carnal things that might have happened on that couch, directly above that diaper.
    At this stage, I had one more step to mastering my diapery. There was an old (and by old I mean Stalin-era standard-issue model) baby doll buried in a bin of useless toys in the TV room. Unfortunately, rummaging through a crib-sized box of chaotic toys goes far beyond my current level of athletic ability, so I had to reduce myself to asking Nurse Elena if she could dig it out for me (Nurse Natalya was off-limits, as she was very close to her critical mass of suspicion). Nurse Elena was equally baffled by the request, since I had not asked to hold the creepy, odd-smelling doll in my entire tenure at the asylum, but she gave in nevertheless.
    Somewhat disgusted, somewhat excited, I wheeled myself back to my room, laid the doll (whom I lovingly named Rebeka Rebokov) on my bed, removed its tattered outfit, and tried to slip the diaper onto its androgynous pelvis. Then I slid Rebeka Rebokov under the covers of my bed and fell asleep next to her.
    The next morning, I initiated another eight-hour session. On and off, on and off, on and off with that diaper. All morning. Then lunch hour. And then again all afternoon. During one particularly awkward moment, Nurse Natalya had come by to change my sheets (in my fever, I’d forgotten it was sheet day, which is the third Tuesday of every month). When I heard the knob turn and the door open, I craned my head back around my shoulder to find her staring wide-eyed with a stack of linen in her arms. After three or four unbearable seconds, in