Hugo Hamilton - Every Single Minute

I know she must be freezing by now. We have been there for a long time and she has said nothing about being cold. I have no idea that she is shivering, not until I get her back to the car and Manfred says it. After he lifts her back in and he turns around to me, folding up the wheelchair.

Your mother is shivering, he says.

So we get her back to the hotel as quickly as possible. We don’t have far to go, only around the corner. We could easily walk it, but it’s too late and she’s too cold and this is not the time to take our time. And when she gets back to the Adlon, she says she’ll be fine. I tell her that she’s shivering but she denies it. And then of course she goes missing and when I find her at last in the basement of the hotel, she is definitely shivering.

The only thing for me to do is to give her a bath. I have to get her warm again. I have to get the life back into her. I get her up to the room and run the water and it comes gushing out very fast. Big brass taps. And a lovely heavy stopper on a chain. It’s a very spacious bath and the bathroom is full of steam, there’s a nice echo around the tiles of water flowing into water.

Her hands are cold and I have to rub them to try and get the heat back into them. I take each one of her hands into my hands and rub as fast as I can. I rub her wrists as though I’m putting a shine on them with the heel of my hand. Then I do the same with the feet. I get the shoes off, the red canvas shoes which are absolutely no use for the cold, even with socks on. They’re only good for the summer. I start rubbing her feet and the ankles, with both of my hands moving like a machine to get the circulation going.

I’m running around preparing the towels, very large, thick towels, laying them out on a chair. I put all the bath salts available into the bath and almost half a bottle of the amber stuff that makes the whole bath bubble up so you can hardly see the clear green water underneath. I don’t know how much is enough. Nothing is enough and I add a drop of the other jade bottle as well. So the scent around the bathroom is comforting, the lighting is soft and maybe that will begin to get her back to herself again.

You’ll soon be warm again, I tell her.

She can’t speak. She seems to have no feeling at all. She’s not even conscious of me removing her clothes and her eyes are glazed over, hardly even aware that she’s in a hotel bathroom with the bath filling up right next to her and the foam rising.

Her arms are gone floppy. It’s easy to lift them and take her blue jumper off, but I have to make sure not to drop her arms each time, they have no energy in them to stay up by themselves. It takes a while for me to get the bra undone and she doesn’t help. I slip her clothes off and place them on a chair. I switch off the water and test it with my hand and add a bit more cold, then I test it again with my elbow, the way you do for a baby.

I’ve completely overdone it with the foam.

I place her arms around me to lift her up out of the wheelchair. I manage to lift one leg up over the rim of the bath and into the water, then the other, so she’s standing in the bath and I’m holding on to her. I let her sink down slowly and the temperature seems just right. Only when she’s sitting down in the warm water and her senses are slowly coming back to her, then she can finally begin to speak again.

Thanks, Liam, she says.

She’s sitting forward with her knees up and her arms around her knees. The foam comes all the way up around her neck, right over the rim of the bath, separating into lumps and falling out on the floor. I can hear the foam crackling, balls of it sticking to my arms.

And then her body gives a big shake. As though she’s got a fright. Her body shudders with all that sudden warmth around her. Her mouth makes a sound, something she can’t stop herself saying, only it’s not a word, just the sound of her calling out. Like she’s shivering in reverse now, shivering with the heat. Shivering with the life coming back into her. Because it’s quite a shock, going from such a cold place with all those grey columns to such a warm place inside the hotel bathroom.

I dip the face-cloth into the water with all the soap and I lay it out across her back. Her skin is very smooth, very soft to touch. I can feel her breathing under my hand. She is leaning forward with her hands up to her face and I rub the cloth very lightly around in circles.

It’s all right, I tell her.

Because I know she’s crying. I can feel it in her back, the movement in her body. I can’t see her face, but I know from the quiet rhythm in her back that she is crying and all I can do is keep rubbing the cloth around and around in circles, telling her it’s OK.

Everything is fine now, don’t worry.

She’s only crying because she’s getting warm. She’s beginning to feel her own pulse and her own blood moving. The life is coming back into her, that’s why she’s crying. She’s crying because she’s alive and she’s feeling better now, back to herself again. She is crying for the cold and the warm. She is crying for all the cold and all the warm and all the cold again.

There I am on the train, going east. I would love to have been able to tell her about this. I wish I could have told her about continuing the journey, beyond Berlin. I made a stop along the way, near the Polish border. A photographer invited me to visit a farm where he has set up a camera that you can walk into. A box camera, if you like, only life-size. It’s nothing more than a room or a shed made out of salvaged wood, no windows. It’s lined from the inside with blackout material, every bit of daylight is blocked out except for one tiny pinhole of light coming in. Even the door is covered with heavy black curtains so that when you walk in you’re in complete darkness. You can’t even see your own hand in front of you. I could hear children giggling right behind me. It turned out they were sitting on the floor and they could see me stumbling around like a blind man. It took a while for me to get accustomed to the dark, and the light. Until the room slowly became brighter and I could see everything turned upside-down on the walls. That’s what they had all come to see. Everything gets turned upside-down, I knew that from school, but I had never actually seen it for myself. The sky and the clouds were down close to the floor. And up near the ceiling, a line of upside-down trees and houses with red roofs. Then I saw the children and their mothers sitting around me, while their fathers were outside, jumping upside-down with their arms in the air, falling out of the sky. That was it, I stayed there for a while inside the box camera, looking at the world on its head, then I left and got back on the train.

Many thanks to Peter Straus, Nicholas Pearson, Olly Rowse, Robert Lacey, Colm Tóibín, Daniel Arsand, Vera Michalski-Hoffmann, Petra Eggers, Georg Reuchlein, Charles A. Heimbold, Joseph Lennon, John and Kathy Immerwahr, and especially to Mary (Boyce) Doorly (Limerick/Ottawa — February 2012) who gave me the title Every Single Minute .