“I am,” she says.
Why does he have to fight me even now? she wonders. Why do I have to be the strong one? She could feel his love but also his fragility, when he looks at Fraser. Pierre couldn’t spend time with him. He offers generosity in exchange for his “weakness.” But why the fight? Why fight the soft and gray, when life is so harsh already? Oatmeal strength. Ata goes with her thick, lumpy feelings to bathe their friend.
* * *
Fraser is sitting up in bed, looking down at his second navel. The skin around the tube sticking out above his waistband is almost dry, scabby. “You’ll be able to bathe completely soon,” Ata says.
“I want to shower and feel the water beating on my skin like rain. How I long for that feeling — to be clean all over.”
They cover the tube with a loose dressing and then wrap cling film around his waist. Pin and tuck the towel over the plastic with diaper pins like a sumo-wrestler baby.
“Ready?”
He nods and stands slowly. Still weak, he waddles straight-backed into the steamy peach bathroom. Dove soap and a washrag. Another washrag by the gleaming sink. Two towels ready, clean and soft, and a fresh mat on the floor.
Bracing on the corner of the tub, he lets her pour a bowl of water over his head. Warm water sheets over soft fuzz and fat flesh. He swipes his nose and jowls and groans, every time she pours a bowl. A round soft shoulder and upper arm, Ata cups the water under, into his shy hair there. She has washed the small bare armpits of her nieces and nephews but this intimacy feels illicit, with her hand disappearing in a slippery crevice. “The other one.” Soaping, sudsing the soft, baby smell. One bowl for a powerful calf, cup behind bent knees, more for arms, flipper-fingers draining, swirling white soap clouds. Neither of them has spoken again about Sammy’s tragedy. But it tries to sneak into the soft bathroom with them. Ata pours again and they watch the bubbles stir the scented water.
“Smells nice,” he says. “Safe.”
They retreat right to diaper days of silky skin and powder-puff hygiene. A mother’s sure grip on a slippery arm, her breath against your cheek, sweeter and hotter than the steamy air.
Fraser’s legs tremble as he stands and steps out slowly, leans heavy on the hand basin. The air is peach vapor and Fraser’s head sinks between towel-shoulders, a brown sheen in the misty mirror.
“You should lie down now. You can make it?”
He lets her help him, his voice too rusty to talk.
Ata silently dons the sterile gloves and connects his dialysis bag to a fresh nozzle, as she was shown. Taking care to preserve the sterility, she attaches the tube to his clean navel hose and Fraser tries not to tense against the cool, purifying solution filling his abdomen.
“It feels so strange cold,” he whispers. “I don’t think I could ever get used to this.” Three cycles a day, for now. But that would reduce as he detoxified, the doctors had said.
There is a new coldness creeping out of Fraser, though, sliding around sometimes, like the cool fluid filling and draining from his insides. It saddens Ata but some of his older friends don’t seem that surprised. He still refused counseling or any mention of the dreaded disease and, as much as he could, rejected the help they took turns providing. Ata had taken over most of it and felt privileged yet burdened with the responsibility. She had, with Pierre’s logistical help, worked out Fraser’s daily diet and care routine and pinned it up in the orderly kitchen.
“I could never get used to the cruelty.” Tears slip out of his closed eyes. “Sammy’s murder is just too … ask my secretary to send flowers, please. And a message from me for his loss.”
“We already did, soon after we heard,” Ata mumbles and his eyes open, his grief flickers. Was it that she was too presumptuous, or guilt for realizing his self-centeredness?
She excuses herself hurriedly. The lack of sympathy for a dying person, even for a second, feels worse than the first signs of his ugly side. “Maturity must be the acceptance of compromised beauty,” Fraser had once said.
* * *
Pierre pulls into the UNDP parking spot he was so kindly allotted temporarily, going on two years ago now. The wanker’s motorbike is there, the Harley the idiot so loved to show off, like how he flaunted his short-assed Italianness, overdoing his accent to charm the ladies. Like he is the only one who knows about good wine and art. The little wanker, with his pointed shoes and tight pants. Pierre is sure the Italian isn’t any good at his UNICEF “Save the poor children” job, but thankfully he doesn’t have much interaction with him. The poseur.
In the ratty elevator, Pierre looks down through the dirty glass at a car that is trying to fit into a space that is too small. Pierre stops on the central admin and UNAIDS floor to collect his mail himself, and once more notes how posh the office seems, compared to all the others. Too much money in HIV, he has always argued, distorting the true health picture and creating useless projects, organizations, and campaigns to spend it, while people can’t even get critical primary care.
Dr. Khumalo, the South African secretary general, the “Queen” of UNAIDS, prances out of her richly decorated office to her secretary, where Pierre stands. “Nice shirt,” she comments on his choice.
Pierre knows its baby-blue color suits his tan. The meek and mild middle-aged secretary signals him to give her a second, puts down the “In” pile, and goes for Dr. Khumalo’s document. “Thank you,” he replies.
“You know, I am making some headway ensuring we get a space in the new waterfront towers. It will be fantastic, eh? And I will get through, I know I will.”
“I’m sure you will.” Pierre takes in her elegant mauve stilettos, silk shirt, and black skirt, stretched tight over her high bum.
“And everyone will have me to thank.” She stretches a lavish hand, overly manicured and full of expensive rings and gold bracelets, to her approaching secretary. “Thank you. Don’t forget the MDG meeting this morning, Pierre. In the conference room. Nine-thirty.”
As Pierre makes his way up the drab, soon-to-be-officially-dingy steps, to his UNDP floor, he is thinking — what fun, the Police, the minister of Works and some NGOs will be there. Lovely. And joint meetings are always so useful — by the time the five UN agencies finish their statements, developed in the last meeting, there’s only time to set a date for the next meeting, which takes a while because everybody is always busy or off on travel duty. This is why, Pierre knows, he is not climbing the ranks past a P4 and keeps being moved around the world. The Trinidad country rep, from Bangladesh, didn’t like Pierre’s repetitive question — why are there so many U.N. offices in Trinidad in the first place? It doesn’t qualify as a recipient country. With a GDP so high, Trinidad could even afford to be a donor country. Okay, the care systems and policies need sorting out but let them get on with it, for God’s sake. At the very least, the U.N. should demand matching funds for its projects.
His new assistant secretary looks up from arranging the colorful, well-produced pamphlets and reports on the table as Pierre enters. She loves playing with them. The glossy rich photos are her daily reminder that she is working for the great United Nations. They make up for the disappointing cubbyhole and overwhelmingly demanding staff. She smiles uncertainly at Pierre and runs back to her desk. He has overheard her attempts at follow-up phone calls for the MDG public launch. And she has listened to him complaining about her incompetent language and brainlessness. She brings him the coffee he needs to stay awake through the bloody meeting and scampers away before he can go on about the terrible instant “fake coffee.”