Pierre. Primula Bond
the first person, the first member of staff, who’s questioned this ghastly morning ritual. Actually, it’s more than that. You can see how I feel about it.’
‘Maybe some of the patients like it? Even the ones who are perfectly capable of washing themselves, like you are.’ Even so, I pause what I’m doing. ‘Maybe that’s why the ritual was introduced?’
‘A little surreptitious pleasuring to keep the customers happy, you mean? A bonus in the pay packet if there’s a happy ending? You’d make a good sex worker, Cavalieri.’ The ghost of a smile plays around Pierre’s lips as he keeps looking at the window. ‘Why didn’t Nurse Jeannie think of that? We’re all poor frustrated fools in here. The men at least. And normally I’d be all for a gorgeous girl with lips like pillows touching me up.’
‘We’re not touching you up,’ I interrupt him, unwrapping my fingers. ‘We’re washing you. But if you find it humiliating then I’ll stop.’
‘Yes, please do. I don’t want you treating me as if I was a baby. It’s degrading. But then again, there’s nothing normal about any of this. There’s certainly nothing normal about me.’
I pull the sheet back over, just covering him, but the stiff shape is still visible, making a tent out of the white cotton. Pierre knows perfectly well what just happened. He glances down at it, then at me. His face relaxes. The cheekbones are less sharp, the brows less hooded.
Then he winks. I’m not imagining it, because I can feel it. The heat flooding through my body. Goddammit, I haven’t blushed in years, but here it comes. Into my face like a beacon for all to see.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ I say, pulling the gloves off with a snap.
‘What, blush like a schoolgirl?’
‘No. Yes. No, I don’t mean that.’ I turn away, toss the gloves into the basket of towels still by my feet. ‘I mean I’ve only been working here a few weeks and you’ve already made me break the rules. Not washing you this morning could get me the sack.’
He snorts. ‘You want to wash people’s sorry arses the rest of your life?’
I look back at him, trying to read the blackness in his eyes. They are pulling me under, daring me to drown.
‘It’s not the job of my dreams, Mr Levi, but those are the regulations and I need the work. And you know what? I applied to come here because this haven for the rich and entitled pays well over the odds to wash people’s “sorry arses”.’
‘I like it!’ This time he really chuckles. ‘I like you! The other carers are all so fucking serious. I was only taking the piss, Rosie. That’s the way I am. I’ve got fuck all else to do in here, have I?
I move the frame back into position and sweep the light duvet back over him.
‘Rosa. It’s Rosa. And you may be bored witless, but you could try being a little more polite to people who are only following instructions.’ I try, and fail, to push my curls back into place. ‘Shedloads of money shouldn’t equal zero manners. It should mean better manners. So I’m not disobeying any more rules, no matter how nicely you ask.’
‘OK, Rosa. Consider my wrist well and truly slapped. I won’t tell if you won’t.’ He hands me a kirby grip that has dropped out of my hair. ‘But I’m now going to consider it my goal to test how many other rules I can get you to break. Pushing at the boundaries is my pathetic attempt to go back, you see. To be the same as I was before.’
I pick up the bowl and the cloths and the gloves. I hesitate, halted by the pain in his voice. His face settles into the white, expressionless mask I saw when I came in. But no. Don’t weaken. Remain professional at all times. Master and servant. Customer and employee.
As I turn to retreat I trip over the basket of towels, sending them flying. The magazine flips out and lands on top of them.
‘What’s that? Brought me some gossip?’
I open it to the right page and turn it to show him. He takes it from me, stares at it for a long time. The silence stretches again. The bee at the window skids across the glass and escapes at last.
‘It’s an article about you. I was reading it earlier, and you know something? My sister saw that show in New York. I remember her telling me.’ I tap at the photograph. ‘She said it was amazing. Very naughty. You had to go along dressed in period costume, and the cast mingled with the audience and dragged you onto this walkway, onto the stage, until you all became part of the performance.’
‘Yes. I know all that,’ Pierre sighs. ‘I designed it.’
‘Carlo, her husband, thought it was ace. Then again, he’s pretty bloody naughty himself.’
I clamp my mouth shut, but it’s too late. Pierre Levi lowers the magazine. His eyes are enormous, his eyelids drooping with the weight of sadness.
‘It says here, “The Way He Was.”’
‘Francesca said you were awesome. Like a ringmaster, you know, controlling all the animals.’
‘I was amazing. You see? It’s all in the past, Rosie. I don’t know who I am any more.’
‘You’re Pierre Levi, of course.’ I take the magazine out of his hands. ‘Here you are. In this magazine. A handsome, strong, successful man surrounded by brilliant dancing girls.’
Pierre turns his face towards the window. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here but the sun has climbed higher in the sky and the heat is beating the energy out of the air.
‘So what do you see now, Rosie? Who do you see?’
‘I see a man, a patient, in a lot of pain.’ I try to remember the psycho-speak we were advised to use during training, for defusing difficult, upsetting situations. ‘You need to rest now.’
‘I’ll tell you what I am. I’m no longer the circus master. I’m one of those animals, but I’m not dancing any more. I’m caged up. Chained. Hobbled.’
He knocks at the frame, dislodging the duvet. I step forward, pull it back into place.
‘Temporarily, maybe. But you’re the same man, Mr Levi. Just with some broken bones. They’ll heal in the end, and then you’ll be as good as new.’
‘You’re a doctor now?’
‘No. I’m not even a proper nurse. But I do know that there’s one part of you that can never change, or lie.’
We gaze at each other, and then down at the bed. The sheet has subsided and is lying smooth and snowy across him.
A deep dimple appears in his cheek, and a bubble of laughter fizzes inside me, too.
‘What bit’s that then, Cavalieri? The one you’ve just kindly covered up?’
‘The eyes, Mr Levi! The eyes! They’re –’
He presses his hands down on mine, where they are still resting on top of the duvet, and we laugh.
Being in here is like being caught up in a freak storm, where one minute thunder clouds are turning the world black, the next a multi-coloured rainbow is arching over the sky promising a heatwave.
‘Go on.’
‘Lovely black eyes, Mr Levi. In this picture, and in real life. They’re piercing and bright, like a raven, or a –’
‘Ratsnake?’
His hands are white from lack of natural light, and too thin from lack of appetite, and still covered in dried scratches, but they’re large, and warm. I sense that they’re strong, or they soon will be again. They could stroke you, or hold you, or lift you –
‘Seal. I was going to say a baby seal.’
‘Before they club it?’ He lifts my hands as if to use them as weapons.