The Maestro, the Magistrate and the Mathematician. Tendai Huchu
grey masonry as most of the city. He pressed the buzzer and waited.
A woman buzzed him in. The stomach-churning odour of urine and faeces greeted him as the door opened. The smell was mixed with something else, something toxic and alien. Instinct told him it was the scent of human decay, death on the threshold, masked by talc. He took hesitant steps on the maroon carpet. A short woman wearing a plastic apron stepped into the corridor.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The agency, Busy Bodies Recruitment and Employment Solutions, sent me.”
“You’re not Olu, we asked for Olu . . . She’s a hard worker that one . . . Well, alright, don’t just stand there, come on. I’ll have to have a strong word with that Alfonso, sneaky wee cretin.” She led him to the staff room that had seventies-style wallpaper and old sofas.
His tunic was tight across the waist and suffocating when he sat down on the sofa, which sunk as if it had no base. I need to trim a few pounds off the belly, he thought. Back home a pot belly was something to be admired, a sign of wealth and good living. It was the adverts mocking pot-bellied men that got to him. That was the power of the media. He recalled how when he’d first arrived they had saturation footage proclaiming Kylie Minogue had the best bum in the world. He’d scoffed at it, disagreed with their aesthetic judgement, but after months of the barrage in which prominent scientists had been wheeled out to postulate some mathematical formula on waist to hip ratio, proving that Kylie’s body was biologically the epitome of fertility thus making her irresistibly attractive to men, the Magistrate submitted to the general consensus of science and reason, and agreed that she indeed had the best bum in the world.
“Oy, why on earth are you wearing steel toe caps?” the woman asked. “Never mind. It’s time for handover. I’m Margo by the way.” There were six other people in the room. One of them was a young man with a broad forehead and intelligent eyes. The young man listened to the nurse in charge attentively and took down notes. The rest were all women. The Magistrate couldn’t make out what the nurse was saying; she spoke quickly, with an accent. He caught a few words, ‘catheter’, ‘projectile vomiting’, ‘bowel movement’.
What have I got myself into? he thought.
“Right, any questions?” the nurse asked. She was in her forties, with a mole on her left cheek. An intimate look, unnoticed by most, passed between her and the young man. “Brian, darling, would you like to pair up with . . . erm.” She turned to the Magistrate, “Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, love. Brian, show him the ropes. You’re used to the first-timers.”
The Magistrate followed Brian through a brightly lit corridor lined with black and white portraits of old people. He struggled against an overwhelming urge to throw up. Now and again he held his breath. Brian walked casually through the putrid atmosphere, seemingly oblivious. They went into the sluice room.
“You haven’t done this before, have you?” Brian asked.
“God help me,” the Magistrate replied.
“Ah, I can tell from your accent kuti muri wekumusha. Makadini Baba.” Brian clapped his hands. The Magistrate was surprised to find his countryman here of all places. Brian’s accent was a hybrid with a Londoner’s lilt mixed in with the odd Americanism. “Hang on, you’re Chenai’s father, aren’t you? We came to your house a few months ago for a prayer meeting.” The Magistrate didn’t recognise him. His wife had taken up with a Pentecostal church and, while he tolerated her church guests, he left for walks once their prayer sessions started.
“Don’t worry,” said Brian, “I’ll teach you everything you need to know. We have to settle all the residents in the east wing. Piece of cake, a few of them are bedbound anyway.”
Brian packed a trolley with incontinence pads, urine bottles, wipes, catheter bags, sheets, pillowcases, tools of the trade alien to the Magistrate. They walked down the corridor to the first room with a brass number fixed to the door. The resident’s name, Joan Dowler, was written on a piece of paper glued below the number.
“Hello Joan.” Brian’s voice had a higher pitch now, almost effeminate. “Joan’s one of our oldest, she’s been here forever. She’s a lovely old thing.”
The Magistrate cringed at the rotten odour coming from her bed. Joan made gurgling noises. She was lying on a bed with cot sides raised. She was a bony creature, propped up on either side by pillows, her hair a wild, curly mess. The Magistrate felt a mixture of pity and revulsion.
“God, is it worth living in such a state?” The words came out involuntarily.
“It’s not for us to judge. All I know is that we’re only here for the blink of an eye, and so every experience, good and bad, pain and pleasure, must be worth it. My job is to make sure they are comfortable in their last days,” Brian said, stroking Joan’s hair. The old woman cooed. There was a little radio in the room and Brian played a Jim Reeves CD. Joan lay still, looking as though she was lost in some sweet reminiscence. “She likes the music. It helps her sleep. We better hurry up, we have to get them all settled before Linda comes through on her drug round.”
Outside the window was a pine tree. The sun had gone down and that side of the building was in darkness. Brian emptied the catheter and asked the Magistrate to roll her on her side. She had tubes running through her nose, feeding her yellowy syrup from a machine beside the bed. He cringed involuntarily as Brian pulled the covers off. He was not convinced that a life tied to one’s bed was a life worth living. Putrid pus ran down her side from the bedsores on her back. He heaved but managed to stop himself.
“I have to tell Linda the dressings have come off again,” Brian said, oblivious to the Magistrate’s discomfort. “We need to turn her from side to side every two hours, all through the night.”
They finished with Joan and moved to the next room. There was an old man within, sitting on a chair, talking to himself. “I killed Hitler, I killed Hitler. Oh, God save me, I killed him.”
“Fred,” said Brian, “it’s time for bed.”
“I killed Hitler.”
“I know, and you got a medal for it, remember?” Brian winked at the Magistrate. “Fred fought in the war. He likes to remind us of that from time to time.”
“There’ve been a great many wars in these parts,” the Magistrate said. “It’s funny how they almost turned it into sport.”
“You’d all be speaking German if it wasn’t for me,” said Fred.
“I know, Fred, you tell me that every night. But here I am speaking English instead. Ain’t that something?”
They propped him up on either side, Fred fighting them every step of the way. The Magistrate felt the full weight of the man against him. Fred wobbled with every step. “Come on, one foot at a time,” Brian encouraged him.
“You bloody Nazis, the lot of you, let me go,’ said Fred. “Is this how you treat a prisoner of war?” They reached the bed and gently helped him down. Fred kicked the Magistrate on the shin. He wasn’t going down without a fight. There was a photo of him on the wall, a young man in military dress staring straight into the camera. On his bedside cabinet was another photo of Fred in a suit, holding his bride who wore a flowing wedding dress. A little of the young man was left in the old Fred, especially in the eyes, which had not lost their mischievous shine.
“I need to spend a penny,” said Fred.
“You won’t buy much with a penny these days,” replied the Magistrate.
“He means he needs to do number one, to micturate, kuita weti . . . You’ll get used to the lingo,” Brian laughed. He gave Fred a bottle and they turned aside while he did his business. “Stay alert or Fred might baptise you by throwing the bottle at you. Trust me, he’s got me a couple of times. Biological warfare is illegal under the Geneva Conventions, but he doesn’t seem to care.”
After they finished with Fred, they went round the wing, settling the other