The Skinner's Revenge. Chris Karsten
take a sip of water, and let me put some Vaseline on your lips. Better? Can you hear me now?”
As if water and Vaseline could assist with his hearing. He nodded.
“You gave us a fright, Mr Lomas. We thought we were losing you. Infection – sepsis. We don’t know where it came from. But there’s always a risk. Always bacteria, no matter how thoroughly you scrub. Here, have some more water.”
“Whrs th fckn qck?” The sounds came laboriously over his dry lips, his throat raw from the tubes.
“What’s that, Mr Lomas?” The nurse leaned closer, holding her ear to his Vaseline-covered lips.
“Whrs th fckn qck?”
“You could still be delirious, though the fever has broken. Take this tablet, it’s just a mild sedative, and sleep some more. I’ll change the bandages later tonight.”
His hand shot out from under the blanket and grabbed her wrist. With great effort he forced the words slowly over his vocal chords: “Where’s the fucking quack?”
She staggered back. “Mr Lomas!”
In his neck the muscles were taut. “Take off the bandages. Bring me a mirror.”
“Calm down,” said the nurse. “I can’t take them off. It’s too dangerous. We need antibiotic ointment for the wounds … ”
“Call Dr Lippens.”
“He isn’t here. He’s at his rooms. He’ll be here when I change the bandages tonight. Take the tablet and get some rest.”
He swallowed the pill, lay back against the pillow, dozed off.
When he woke up, he was feeling better. He lay waiting for her.
On the other side of the window, evening was falling over Bujumbura. His bed was next to the window, and he only had to turn his head to look out. He was glad about the window. He didn’t want to be squashed between beds occupied by groaning patients.
He waited, closed his eyes, listened to the drone and hooting of cars in the streets outside.
Then he felt her presence and heard her voice above him.
“Does it still hurt? Do you have any pain?”
Her fingers busily unwrapping the bandages over his ears.
“Where’s the doctor?”
“He’ll be here in a while. Still doing his rounds. Your ears look good, Mr Lomas. You have good-looking ears now, pixie ears. I think we can leave them uncovered, give them some air; there’s no more need for bandages. They’re just about healed.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Five days. That’s why the wounds are almost completely healed. Let’s take a look at your face.”
“Only two nights,” he said. “Then I was supposed to have gone home.”
“There were complications … Ah, the nose.” A click of her tongue. “No, the nose will need more work. Healed, but not quite right. You’ll have to return in about a month.”
“Bring me a mirror.”
She unwrapped the last bandage, removed the gauze from his chin. “Oh no, your chin as well. The worst of the infection was on your new chin.”
He tried to get up out of bed but she pushed him back.
“I want to see!”
“In a little while. Let me clean it first. We don’t want a brand-new infection, do we, Mr Lomas?”
He lay back, allowing her to bathe his face with cotton wool and a cool liquid, an antiseptic smell sharp in his nostrils.
“Do you smell it? I see you’re wrinkling your nose, so you’re able to smell. That’s a good sign – the infection hasn’t damaged your sinus cavities or olfactory nerves. Good news, isn’t it?”
“What’s wrong with my nose and chin?”
“Nothing is wrong, Mr Lomas, it’s just, er … work in progress, you might say. Little more adjustments to be done.”
“He called it a weekend facelift. He didn’t say anything about unfinished work!”
“He couldn’t have known there would be complications.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll bring a bedpan.”
“I don’t want a bedpan.”
She helped him out of bed.
“Take the drip out of my arm.”
“I can’t.” She held out his dressing gown. “Doctor has to give his permission. Come, slowly now. Do you feel light-headed? Lean on my shoulder until your legs feel stronger. Can you stand on your own?”
He began to cough, wiped mucus from his lips with the back of his hand.
“Are you getting a cold, Mr Lomas? It could be the after-effects of the infection.”
She draped the dressing gown around his shoulders, over the hospital gown. He was short, inclined to chubbiness, especially around the hips and buttocks, with round, fat thighs.
“Cough syrup. Can you get me some for my cough?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask the doctor.”
“Chamberlain’s. It’s harmless. Just a few sips of Chamberlain’s for the cough and my raw throat.”
“I’ll get you some.”
He shuffled to the door, the drip stand in one hand. The skin of his face felt taut, but it was free of bandages.
In the bathroom he found a mirror. Stared.
He didn’t recognise the face.
Before, he had been chinless. Now the mirror reflected a chin, a large one, the skin pockmarked, like craters on the surface of the moon. The once flat nose was now sharp, but crooked, the tip pointing up, the nostrils flared.
The face in the bathroom mirror was a caricature. He recognised only the eyes. The sluggish blink of the lazy eye.
He started to tremble as the rage seethed and roiled deep inside him. Then, suddenly, not able to be suppressed, his fury erupted in a mournful wail and his body twisted and convulsed as if seized by some undefined spirit, his bulging eyes distended, white froth gathering at the corners of his mouth. He hit his forehead against the bathroom wall and slowly slid down to the floor. He sat there, maybe for a minute, inert, with hunched shoulders. Then he lifted his face and gulped for air. His chest heaved and his quivering hands caressed his cheeks and nose and chin, and he forced his anger back into that dark crevice of his mind where it lurked and waited to be summoned again.
You’re not attractive, his mother had told him, so don’t make it worse by telling lies. He’d been ten or twelve at the time. Later, at thirty, she’d said: every man deserves the face he’s got. He hadn’t understood what she meant.
Work in progress. Straightening the nose, turning the tip down, tidying up the nostrils. And chiselling the chin. The craters in the skin were the result of the infection, he knew. It was water under the bridge. There was nothing to be done. He knew all about hides and skins, and he didn’t think a graft was possible. The risk was too great, here, in this place, with the possibility of infection.
He stood up, looked in the mirror again. With a paper towel, he wiped the sweat from his disfigured face and the froth from his plump lips and, carrying his drip, shuffled back to the men’s ward, past the beds occupied by complaining patients, crawling back under the blankets of his bed at the window. He took a sip from the brown cough-syrup bottle. He liked the liquorice