She had faint blue shadows under her eyes. A tiny vein shimmered on her left eyelid. He seemed to be familiar with those eyes, they looked so close and deep, it was as if he had always known them. Maybe she wasn’t a native of the night, only when she was on the late shift? People of the night, and he was one of them himself, seldom dropped off to sleep before dawn. You watch over the darkness the way a Neanderthal man watched over fire in the cradle of mankind, Michael had told him in their tent, because Thomas had been sitting outside it half the night, smoking.
Marie looked at him attentively. She wore hardly any make-up, just a delicate black line on her eyelids, emphasising the almond shape of her large eyes.
Come along, she said again, gently, and when he followed her the delicately sweet aroma of her perfume streamed into his nostrils.
In the nurses’ room Marie loaded up her trolley for the ward with thermometers, a pair of scissors, small knives, pipettes and syringes for blood samples, cellulose wadding, cotton wool, plasters, and one large and one small container for used instruments. We’ll need these as well, she said, placing several bulb syringes for enemas and a manicure set in the middle compartment. She asked Thomas to wait outside the medicaments room. Then she took a long list from the clipboard, written by someone in meticulous, small handwriting, and Thomas watched her in profile through the door, which stood ajar, as she stood in front of the large cupboard, opened doors and stood on tiptoe to reach an upper compartment. She collected tablets, small bottles of tinctures and ointments.
In the next room she loaded up a second trolley with bedlinen, washcloths and towels that Thomas took down from the upper cupboards for her.
At Marie’s request, Thomas pushed the trolley of bedlinen while she wheeled the trolley of medicaments. Before they reached the first door, Marie briefly explained what to expect. There were six men in the first room on the ward, two of them dying, it could take hours or days but probably not weeks, while it was to be hoped that the others would be discharged once the scars of their operations had healed or they had recovered from pneumonia. The old man by the window had to be attended to first. As he had not passed any stools for too long, according to a chart attached to his bed, he was to be given an enema, and then he must be washed. He’s in pain, said Marie quietly, better not make too much of it if he screams. He’ll scream terribly, he calls us names too. His piles must hurt like hell. She opened the door, and the dazzling winter sunlight fell on their faces. Thomas followed her. Without even thinking about it, he stood next to her beside the bed. She greeted the man, who was dozing, and had to speak to him twice and touch his thin shoulder through the nightshirt to wake him up properly. She pulled the covers back with one hand, with the other she held the man’s hand, and with a skilful grip she laid the thin little man on his side and undid his nightshirt. She pushed it up and undid the nappy he was wearing. Could he sit up today? she asked. The man shook his head, he groaned, why couldn’t they leave him in peace? he asked. He wanted to be left alone, that was all. There was no emotion at all in her voice, no impatience, no regret, only her quiet firmness allowed Thomas to guess at her sympathy as she said that now, unfortunately, she would have to give him an enema. Marie asked Thomas to hold the old man firmly, and showed him exactly how. It was a matter of holding his wrists, his hips, his rickety legs. Thomas held him as she turned round, did something or other, and filled a rubber bulb syringe with water. She bent down and took a bedpan off her trolley. Thomas had to hold the man’s wrists tight. Marie put the bedpan in position on the sheet and skilfully inserted the point of the syringe past the raw flesh. The man’s screams were deafening. Thomas turned his eyes to the window and concentrated on the muscular power of his arms and legs to hold the thin but very strong little man firmly, pushing him down on the mattress with all his might.
Behind him, two of the other patients were arguing, but Thomas couldn’t understand what they were saying.
Thomas held out like that for about ten minutes, until his back hurt and the stink was taking his breath away. He would have liked to ask Marie how much longer he must hold the man. He couldn’t open his mouth, because the stench nauseated him so much, and he could hardly breathe through his nose when the little old man suddenly fell silent in his hands and stopped resisting; his body lay limp, as if broken, and Thomas’s own hands now looked to him like an animal’s paws. Cautiously, he raised them and let go of the man, but he was not defending himself any more. Thomas saw his shallow breathing under skin as thin as paper, as his ribcage rose and fell. The man had half closed his yellowish, rather clouded eyes. He had discolorations all over his body, blue, nearly black, and brighter red marks. Marie had disappeared with the bedpan. It seemed to Thomas that he stood there for an eternity, staring at the door and waiting for her to come back. Soon after that she brought a bowl of steaming hot water to the bedside. She handed Thomas a warm washcloth. You wash his face, throat, arms and armpits. I’ll do the rest.
Thomas nodded, held the washcloth, and watched Marie washing the man’s genitals and bottom with short, quick movements.
What is it? She stopped and looked up at Thomas.
I think, I’m afraid I. . Thomas passed his forefinger over the old man’s arm. I’m afraid I hurt him.
The blue bruises? That’s normal. There’s nothing else to be done. He’s been here for a few weeks now, we’re just glad he hasn’t developed bedsores on his back.
Thomas nodded. If Marie said so, maybe it was true. Was old people’s skin too thin, their flesh too soft, did they simply bruise more easily? Thomas took the washcloth and cautiously dabbed the old man’s forehead. He turned the washcloth over and, with the other side of it, wiped his cheeks, chin and mouth. The stubble of his beard looked like little plants, dark little stems growing out of small pits.
Thomas. She stepped to one side and bent over to him from the other side of the bed. In her mouth his name sounded intimate, distinguished, tenderly beautiful. You must get a move on. We have five rooms and almost thirty patients to deal with. Their lunch will be brought at eleven thirty.
Thomas apologised. In her eyes, his attempts must look clumsy, hesitant, awkward. He had never washed another human being before.
With the diabetic patients, the laboratory values entered on the charts had to be consulted, the dose of insulin was calculated to match them, and Marie injected it.
The second room also contained six men, one of whom had not been properly conscious for two weeks; three others would be dead by summer, although two of them would presumably be discharged and sent home before that. Three men lay in the third room; the fourth bed was empty because the patient was in surgery, having an incipient ulcer removed.
Thomas saw two nurses going along the corridor with a trolley. They were making their way to the ward. Marie and he had begun in the first room, the two nurses in the last room, and later they would meet and finish their round in the middle. Or almost finish it. Only the strong or particularly expensive medicinal drugs would be administered by Marie in the other rooms. The fourth room contained five men, and a sixth bed had been vacant since yesterday, because the patient had died.
What of?
Cancer, replied Marie. Most of the patients on our ward have cancer. Diseases seldom come alone. Diabetes goes along with kidney damage and kidney failure, kidney stones and strokes. The older the patients are, the tougher their bodies, the more diseases they accumulate.
When they reached the last room Marie said, in her soft, husky voice, that Thomas had already made good progress. She licked her lips. Only her eyes were smiling now, not a grimace, a sign that she felt close to him, Thomas believed. She had sensed that he didn’t want any pretence. Could he please, she asked, see to the last two patients on his own, because she had to hand out the medicinal drugs and write up entries in the card index and her poisons book. Marie explained what to do for the two men. One could walk, wash and shave himself, and he was to be discharged tomorrow. For the sake of routine, however, his temperature must be taken and he must be weighed without shoes on. The other man was still young, but as well as an ulcer he had a weak heart. Thomas was to help him wash, because he was too weak and careless to cleanse certain parts of his body properly. Thomas was to check his ears. Change his nightshirt. Make up the bed with clean linen, a job done much faster by two people synchronising their movements, and Marie promised to send him a nurse to help with it.