Troubadour 2

From the author. I decided to write a story from three novellas, in which I wanted to describe real stories heard from completely different people. As a rule, surgeons' tales are "poisoned" during night shifts during the crew's joint dinner, especially when, to relieve stress and fatigue, the on-duty doctors "relaxed a little." At such "get-togethers" one doctor laughed and told that he knew a doctor who, in his district, was a therapist, a surgeon, and even a pathologist, and besides, played the accordion in a local orchestra and once as a part of it, escorted his patient on his "last journey". And the story about the general's anal fissure was told by our associate professor from the department of surgery, and this is also a completely true story. Immediately after the institute, his classmate served in some military unit somewhere in Siberia, and a general came to them with an inspection..... True, unlike my hero, out of gratitude, the general still transferred the young doctor from Siberia to somewhere near Moscow, where he promoted him and, subsequently, helped him defend his dissertation.

"The expression 'to be up to your ears in shit'," the associate professor laughed, "in the case of my friend, is not a metaphor, but reality, and it turns out that he really 'made his career through his ass'! And about army life in the 'bear corners', I heard repeatedly from doctors who served in such units, and it was particularly colorfully described by a surgeon from Abakan, whom I met in Kiev at advanced training courses for doctors. In short, I conceived a plot, started writing... but, in the process of working, unexpectedly, memories of my student years flooded over me, images of my groupmates, with whom the years of study at the institute passed, began to surface, and I didn't even notice how I began to call the characters of my story by their names. To be honest, I don't understand how and why it happened? So, the novellas got out of the author's control, took on a life of their own, and then imperceptibly united into one story, which I dedicate to friends from my student group. Well, what came of it, is up to you, my dear reader, to evaluate. P. S. The characters of my story met thirty years after graduating from the institute, and next year we will have a "jubilee" - 50! I look at old photos of our group and a "lump in my throat" rises. How young, beautiful, happy we were, with our whole lives ahead of us! Unfortunately, many of the guys from my group are no longer here. The ridiculous and tragic death of Vova (Miron), oncology took Vova (Dudkin), Tolya (Margo), Misha (Michael), Tolya (Mitrich - "Docent") and Sveta (Gavrilova). Life decreed that out of all my classmates, only one remained in Russia, and the others, including myself, have been living abroad for many years - in America, Canada, Israel and the Czech Republic. (I do not name names, because I do not have their consent for this). And finally, Vovka (Popets). After the third year, he transferred from our institute to the Military Medical Academy in Kuibyshev, and contact with him was lost. If, suddenly, he reads this story and responds, I will be very happy.