Yelena Moskovich - Virtuoso

“No no no no…!”

She let go of the body and drew her hands to her scalp, then dropped her hands down to her sides.

“Dominique no…!”

She climbed onto the bed and leaned her ear near Dominique’s mouth. She couldn’t feel any breath there. She put her two fingers on her throat, then to her wrists, but couldn’t find a pulse.

“No, No!”

She pulled Dominique’s body up again by her armpits and tilted her weight against herself, then slid her clumsily off the bed, then lay her on the rose-coloured carpet.

She got on her knees beside the body, then sprung back up again and went to the phone at the bedside, picked up the receiver, her hand shaking and rattling the plastic device against her cheekbone.

She dialled and said no no no as it rang.

When the front desk picked up, she tried to say it, but her mouth kept stuttering, “P-p-pa-pa-po-por-por favor por favor-or-rh-EMERGENCY!! AMBULANCE!!” The receiver slid from her grip and fell down onto the carpet and bounced. The voice of the front desk clerk was still rattling out, but she was back on her knees now at Dominique’s body.

“Okay okay, okay okay,” she told herself.

She placed the heel of her left hand just below the sternum, then her right on top, and began to pump, un deux trois quatre cinq six … until she reached trente , thirty. Then she leaned down, pulled the corner of the bed sheet to wipe the cold saliva from Dominique’s mouth, tilted Dominique’s head back, lifted her chin up with two fingers, pinched Dominique’s nose, and put her mouth completely over her wife’s and breathed one long breath. Her mouth tasted sour and spoiled. She looked to see if her chest was rising. There was no movement. She turned to her again, put her mouth over Dominique’s and gave her one long, strong breath, then a second. She looked at her chest. It was as still as the mountains. She put her palm back on Dominique’s sternum and began to pump, un deux trois quatre cinq six … She leaned down, pinched Dominique’s nose, put her lips firmly over Dominique’s and exhaled, exhaled, exhaled…

—un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix onze douze treize quatorze quinze seize dix-sept dix-huit dix-neuf vingt vingt-et-un vingt-deux vingt-trois vingt-quatre vingt-cinq vingt-six vingt-sept vingt-huit vingt-neuf trentre—

“DOMINIQUE!” she screamed.

She leaned down and gave her two more breaths.

Un deux trois quatre—

There was a knock on a door.

She kept pumping.

She heard the beep and the sliding door and the footsteps on the carpet. He stopped at the doorway to the bedroom.

“ Meu Deus …” he said under his breath.

She looked up. He had acne all over his face and his hotel-shirt was slightly untucked.

“AMBULANCE!” Aimée shouted in English.

The young man began nodding but stood still.

Aimée crawled over to him and started pushing at his legs, until he stumbled back, then ran off. She turned towards Dominique and put her palms to her chest again and began to pump. Droplets rolled off her and hit Dominique’s chest, and slid down her ribs. Aimée thought, why is she sweating?

Un deux trois quatre cinq six…

“Please, please, please, please.”

Another droplet hit Dominique’s neck and rolled down into the dip between her collarbones. Aimée drew her hand to her face and realised that the droplets were tears coming from her own eyes. She smeared her cheeks dry and wiped her nose against the back of her hand, then leaned back down and gave Dominique two more breaths.

“Please…”

Aimée took two fingers in a hook and pushed them to the back of Dominique’s throat, feeling the mucus gathered there, fishing to the right then to the left, but Dominique wouldn’t lurch or vomit. She took her fingers out and grabbed Dominique by her shoulders, shaking, and screaming at her face.

“DOMINIQUE!!”

The whirling sound of the ambulance filled the street. More footsteps. The manager was pacing, pushing the young clerk out of the way. A dark-skinned woman with a fringe, and a blue-eyed, red-bearded man behind her, both wearing forest-green trousers and a matching button-up short-sleeve shirt, tucked in and belted.

“ Fala Português ?” the woman said, leaning down.

“I don’t speak Portuguese!” Aimée yelled back. “We’re on holiday here!”

“Please, Madame,” the man said in a nasal tone, buzzing his consonants. “Please, move aside.”

Aimée looked up at the man, but all she could see was the patch above his heart with the thin red snake.

The woman touched her shoulder and repeated, in a more determined tone, “Please, Madame, come here, Madame…” She pulled Aimée up and led her away from the listless body of Dominique lying on the rose carpet.

The man was already on his knees, his fingers at Dominique’s neck, then wrist.

Aimée screamed from behind the woman, “I checked already!”

“Are you a doctor?” the woman asked in a soft voice.

“No… but… my father is… I—” she began pushing past the woman, yelling, “I already checked all that, please, please, she’s going to die!” The woman held her back by her shoulders. It was almost a hug.

“I understand, Madame. Please help us. Can you tell me what medication this woman has taken?”

“It’s not ‘this woman’! She’s my wife!” Aimée screamed, trying to see beyond the woman to what the man was doing on the floor with Dominique.

“I understand. Can you please tell me what medication your wife has taken?”

“I… don’t know… I don’t know…”

The man was unzipping a pouch and getting the defibrillator out. He stuck the wires on her chest, then on her side. Aimée was trying to nudge herself past the woman, looking over her shoulder into the bedroom.

“Clear,” the man pronounced in Portuguese and Aimée saw Dominique’s body jump up and fall back to the carpet.

The woman was suddenly holding a square packet of pills in front of Aimée’s face.

“Are these hers?” she asked.

“Uh… yes, they’re just… anti-histamines, they’re not… lethal…”

Then the woman was holding a cap-less empty plastic bottle of medication, unfamiliar to Aimée, the ingredients written on the label with bulky print, “m”s or “z”s or “d”s…

“And this, Madame?” the woman asked.

“Clear,” the man said again from the bedroom. Aimée jerked towards the doorway, she could see Dominique’s chest pulled up, then thrown back down against the rose-threaded ground.

“I… don’t… know,” Aimée was saying, trying to get past the woman, who kept trying to get her to sit down.

The woman pulled up her walkie-talkie and said something in a hushed Portuguese. Another man was coming in, wearing all forest green, along with the manager. The forest-green man had a stretcher. Aimée began to scream at the sign of the stretcher. Afaste-se, Madame, por favor , Step aside, she felt her eyelashes on fire, DOMINIQUE!! Estapa de lado, Madame , move aside, DOMINIQUE!! Aimée’s hands grabbing at things that turn soft, pillows, blankets, towels, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING Por favor , Madame , GET OFF ME, Por favor , DOMINIQUE PLEASE, Aimée’s reaching out her fingers, Meu Deus , PLEASE DON’T GO, Por favor , Madame! Then she’s gripping through forest-green fibres and thin red snakes, for the body, somewhere, within the leaves of hands, flesh, just beyond the fingertips, Dominique, fleeting across those woods, where rows of trees are scratching out the daylight from her eyes.