Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

The orderly is standing over me. You want me to call the doctor for you? Lady, you all right? He is leaning against his broom and looking down at me with concern. You gotta calm down, girl. This kind of carry on won't do you no good. It is still afternoon. The tea is cold. They were telling the truth. I did see the doctor. I am in a private room. I have no idea of how long I have been asleep. If I talk out loud in my sleep, what language do I speak? The wooden chair is empty. I move my head slightly so that I can see the orderly's face. The pillow is wet, my hair lank with sweat. Girl, you need a next pillow. The man hesitates for a moment. It is only when he puts aside his broom that I remember that I do not talk. (Last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words.) His is a statement, not a question. I soon come back with a next pillow.

Of course, Gerry was at home. Hiding behind the door. Back at the camp, he had impressed me as a quiet and reasonable man, one who even shared his provisions with ladies. One morning, he came to me by my wall, where I sat hoping for sun. He came to me and brought me his army rations: a package containing biscuits, dried fruit, chewing gum and cigarettes. He never asked me, did you survive because you slept with a man? (Others asked this question, but not Gerry.) But of course, Gerry was at home. He emerged from behind the door and said something to his wife, but I couldn't hear. I looked at him and noticed that his trousers were thick, with turn-ups at the ankles. Then Gerry stepped from his house and led me quietly through the streets of London, not offering to carry my suitcase, not saying anything beyond, 'We'll have a drink, Eva love.' He cracked a smile. 'There's a nice pub just across from the tube station.' And so we walked on through the streets of London, neither one of us saying anything. I moved with the frantic beauty of a late butterfly, but he did not seem to notice. And then we passed a man who looked at me, then flicked a cigarette end that quickly arched and then fell to the ground, having described a tight burning parabola. I feared this kind of sudden dramatic action, and a chill ran through my body. But Gerry didn't notice. As we walked on, I looked all about me and decided that I liked these streets which, the cigarette-man aside, seemed to tolerate my presence. I liked Gerry's London.

'Park yourself in that corner. It's snug over there. I'll get us a drink.' As he spoke, Gerry fished in his pocket for money. I obeyed his instruction and sat in the corner on a stool that was covered in balding crushed velvet. I watched him walk across to the bar, where a large man spoke to him. The barman was prematurely grey, his hair parted in the middle, and he wore a jacket and tie. He had the sort of face that belonged to a cigar. Clearly, appearance counted for much with this man, and I imagined that it was he who polished the brass pumps and pipes in this pub. Then Gerry looked over to where I was sitting and he smiled at me. The barman stole a glance. They were talking about me. I looked down at the table and waited for Gerry to return. In the ashtray, ashes. 'I got you a gin and tonic.' I looked at his beer. The glass was impossibly huge. 'Well, drink up then. It will steady your nerves.' Cubes of ice swilled noisily in the bowl of my glass. The other people were smoking, sitting in pairs, whispering to each other. It was unacceptably intimate. 'Drink up.' I lifted the glass to my lips, but the smell was overpowering. And then the taste. It burnt me. 'I can get you something else.' He spoke with fake enthusiasm. And then there was a deep silence, broken only by the sound of Gerry drumming a peeling coaster against the edge of the table. "The wife. Well, I told her you were a bit crackers. I'm sorry, but I had to tell her something.' Please, Gerry, do not do this to me. Do not be somebody else now that you are back home. A woman started to play the piano in the corner. 'I think I need another pint. You all right?' The wooden panelling was brown, the carpet was brown, the wooden tables were brown. I could feel the tingle of gin and tonic as it coursed through my veins. 'Look, I won't be a minute.' I watched him go. I don't want to be hurt again. I won't be able to survive being abandoned again. Not again. Through the window, I saw people snaking along the evening street. I hid behind the curtain, and I realized that Gerry had probably said all that he was going to say to me. I watched him now, laughing with his friend at the bar. No, Gerry. No. Surely you are better than this?

The doctor sits opposite me. In this room, some of the furniture is covered with white dust sheets. There is a thick rug on the floor and a pair of noisy radiators against the wall. 'It's bitter outside for this time of the year.' He notices me looking around his makeshift office. A desk with a solitary chair in front and one behind, a single bed, and a metal filing cabinet. The other pieces of furniture are shrouded. Behind the doctor's desk, there is a small uncurtained window, and on his desk there is a single flower in a thin vase. I look into this tall man's face. His eyebrows run into each other, and then his mouth moves strangely, as though he is trying to overcome a yawn. 'We're putting you in your own room.' I look beyond him to the window. It is early afternoon. Then I hear the sound of feet pounding their way towards us and a sharp knock and a door opening. I turn around. 'Hello, dear. How are you?' This woman's manner is too familiar. As she moves, she releases the scent of a cheap perfume. 'A cup of tea, doctor. Before she settles into her new room.' She glances from me to the doctor, then back to me. 'Or perhaps you'd like your tea upstairs after you've finished with the doctor?' The doctor motions for her to set down the tray, which she does. Then she smiles. 'A mixture of plain biscuits, with one or two chocolate ones.' The woman hovers. 'I've put clean towels on the chair for your bath. I'll see you up there, and let me know if you need a top-up.' Only now does the woman turn to leave.

'You know where my office is if you need to speak to me. We just need to examine you for a few days.' The tea has gone cold. In the useless afternoon light, I have sat in silence and cast my mind back across the past few years. My cheeks are tight with dried tears. If only I had a photograph, so that people could see who I was. Whenever I fell over, they would be able to look into my bag and see Eva. This hospital worries me. They have dressed me in slippers and a dressing gown. They have taken my suitcase. They have fed me lunch that was carved for a child. This tall doctor, with long fingers to match his long legs. Now he leans back and stretches. Then he stands and walks a few paces. I expect a less animated gait from a man of his height. But there is a curious optimism to his movement. Again he sits, this time on the edge of his desk, his knees forming twin-pointed hillocks on which he now rests his flat palms. He leans over me. 'You see, one must have patience. It takes time. Last night, the people in the pub, they were frightened when you started shouting. Do you remember?' I do not know what in the world he is talking about. 'When they brought you here, we just gave you something to make you sleep, that's all. You've been doing very nicely.' Now I feel the doctor's bony hands on mine. 'Why did you write the letter, Eva? Mr Alston. I mean, Gerry. He has a wife and child. As you can imagine, this has caused him some difficulties.' He takes his hands from mine. 'Did you write the letter so that you might prove something to somebody, is that it?' He does not seem to understand that I do not talk. Last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words. 'Ah well, we'll get Marjorie to brew you some more tea. Then you have a nice hot bath and take a nap. I think you'll like your new room. We can speak again later.' I scrutinize this doctor's face, but then I realize that he cannot see, on my shoulder, the butterfly that I have become.