Julia Franck - Back to Back

Sometimes the tea is served black, usually not. We don’t have any coffee for the patients. If a patient brings coffee we brew it when we have time, but that doesn’t often happen. She reached up to the top cupboard, and then closed the cupboard door again with a practised movement. He could see the outline of her panties under her white coat. Sometimes we’ll be sending you to fetch the cart with the meals, or to take it back to the kitchen later. Depending on what we have delivered, there are also fruit juices, sauerkraut and apples. But only with the doctor’s permission, not all the patients can or should drink fruit juice.

As she recited all this, she licked her upper lip now and then. It happened so quickly that Thomas had to stare at her mouth if he wasn’t to miss it.

Is something the matter? She had a very wide, large mouth, and her delicate lips were almost violet. She was probably cold. You’re staring so. Is something wrong?

Thomas heard her ask, and had to tell himself to stop staring, blink, tear his gaze away from her mouth and look back at her eyes.

No, nothing.

Tell me what I just told you.

He liked her slightly husky voice, and repeated: And up there in the bags there’s camomile, peppermint and fruit teas. Sometimes it’s served black, usually not. We don’t have any coffee for the patients. If a patient brings coffee we brew it when we have time, but that doesn’t often –

— Happen, she said, laughing with satisfaction now. That’s good. You notice everything. Her laugh disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

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.