Rupert Thomson: The Insult

In the end I gave them the substance of our conversation. I’d felt it only fair, I said, to bring the engagement to an end. I talked of selflessness (my own) and the need, at certain times, for sacrifice. By the time I’d finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. It was all I could do not to wind up with the words, ‘And she was such a lovely girl …’

During the week that followed, Claudia wrote to me every day, sometimes more than once, catching both the morning and the afternoon post with an efficiency that seemed to augur well for her career in law. Nurse Janssen took it upon herself to read the letters to me. Terrible, heart-wrenching letters they were, too, full of pleading and regret. Fortunately, I’d never been much of a listener; within seconds of hearing the words My dearest Martin, my mind would be somewhere else entirely; there were times when I even drifted off to sleep, exhausted after having been awake for most of the night. I was only dimly aware of the tremble in Nurse Janssen’s voice as Claudia reaffirmed her undying love for me or begged me to reconsider — though, once, Nurse Janssen had to break off altogether, and the rustle of starched cotton told me she was searching the pockets of her uniform for a tissue.

‘Are you all right, Nurse?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said tearily. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ A quick blast and then a sigh. ‘Tell me, Martin, have you spoken to her?’

I told her that contact would only raise the poor girl’s hopes. It was better to maintain a silence, no matter how punishing that might be — for everyone.

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘I am.’

At the end of that week, just after midnight, the door to the ward swung open and, unexpectedly, Nurse Janssen appeared. My first reaction was one of dread; another letter had arrived — delivered by hand, no doubt — and she’d come in to read it to me. It must be something urgent — a threat of suicide, perhaps. I could think of no other reason for Nurse Janssen being there at midnight. I’d heard the hour strike and, like all regular staff, Nurse Janssen went off duty at nine. I peered at her as she approached, but I could see nothing resembling a letter in her hand.

Smulders was mumbling. ‘All trains … delayed … signal failure …’

Nurse Janssen stopped at the foot of my bed. I didn’t understand what she was doing, and she didn’t seem about to offer an explanation. In fact, now I thought about it, her behaviour seemed strangely automatic, trance-like. Could it be that she was walking in her sleep?

As I stared at her, she removed her starched white hat and let it fall silently to the floor. Then she reached up and began to unpin her hair, her bare arms forming a pale diamond-shape against the darkness. Her hair tumbled on to her shoulders. She tilted her head to one side, so her hair hung down, vertical as a curtain, and bounced the tips of it on her upturned hand, as though testing its weight. It was an overwhelmingly erotic gesture. I propped myself higher on my pillows, but couldn’t bring myself to speak.

She didn’t seem to be aware of me at all. First she kicked off one shoe, then the other. Her hands lifted simultaneously to the top button of her cotton blouse, which slowly parted beneath her fingers. White lace showed underneath. She eased out of the blouse, her breasts pushing forwards, the points of her shoulders smooth and round. I watched the blouse float to the floor behind her.

‘… delays of up to an hour … try the buffet… east side of the station … hot coffee and fresh rolls …’

Nurse Janssen casually leaned sideways, the skin creasing between her right hip and her bottom rib, and unfastened the catch on her skirt. The zipper’s I became a V. She began to push the skirt down, over her hips. It was tight. She had to shift her weight from one foot to the other; she almost had to wriggle. The skirt dropped to her ankles and she stepped out of it.

Now she reached both hands behind her, her top teeth gripping her bottom lip. Her breasts rose in their lace cups, then toppled forwards as the bra came loose. They were much as I’d imagined them: a heavy curve up to the nipples, which were wide and dark. Bending over, she slipped her thumbs inside her knickers. Her hair drifted across her face, concealing it. Light caught her breasts as they swung out into the air and trembled. I came into my hand.

Smiling faintly, as if aware of her effect on me, she straightened up again.

‘Nurse?’ I whispered.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was still smiling, though. Blissfully. Into the distance.

‘I’m talking to you, Nurse.’

She knelt at the foot of the bed and began to gather up her clothes.

‘Nurse?’ I spoke more loudly now. ‘Don’t go yet.’

‘… apologise for the delay … pleasant journey …’ In the next bed, Smulders coughed. ‘Do hope you’ll travel with us again …’

Nurse Janssen wouldn’t speak to me. Once she was dressed she simply turned away and walked off down the ward and out through the swing-doors. I lay in bed and stared up into the air. The darkness pulsed. I could feel the sperm drying on my stomach and my thighs. I could imagine the brittle, shiny crust, as delicate as flies’ wings, or glue. I wondered at what I’d witnessed, tried to make sense of it. She had no way of knowing I could see her, so she couldn’t have been doing it for my benefit. It had to have been some pleasure of her own, a private fantasy that she was acting out — unless …

It seemed far-fetched — laughable, really — but it was the only other explanation I could think of. I remembered how she’d cried when I told her I was breaking off my engagement. I knew how moved she’d been by that decision. Well, maybe this was her way of rewarding me. Some kind of symbolic tribute to my selflessness, performed in my honour, with no expectation of acknowledgement. Like the offerings people used to make to gods.

I began to stay awake at night, my eyes fixed on the doors at the far end of the ward. Would there be a repeat performance? And, if so, would she come up with a new routine, something more inventive, more exotic? (Not that I was complaining.) But I waited for a week and Nurse Janssen didn’t reappear — at least, not when she wasn’t supposed to. Her reward, if that was what it was, suddenly seemed a rather meagre one. I wished she’d thought of something more conventional. Flowers, for instance. Or even a brand-new pair of rubber balls. It was the beginning of a period of great restlessness.

One night I could stand it no longer. I decided to go for a walk. At two or three in the morning, there were hardly any staff on duty. I put on my dressing-gown and reached for my white cane. I carried it with me at all times now, like a disguise. After all, I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. If I was caught, I was just a blind man who’d got lost on his way to the lavatory.

I moved down the ward and out into the hallway. To my left was the notorious broom cupboard. Ahead of me, I found another set of doors. I pushed through them. An empty corridor confronted me, all cream walls and gleaming linoleum. It stretched away into the distance. It stretched so far, I couldn’t see an end to it.

I began to walk.

Silence. Only the trees shifting beyond the narrow windows and the tinkering of fluorescent lights. Something about the stillness unsettled me. It seemed to be constantly on the verge of becoming movement. It was like the stillness in horror films — stillness as anticipation, stillness as the prelude to a shock. I walked the length of the corridor, then turned left. Another corridor, almost identical. Shorter, though. With orange doors on both sides.

This corridor had different acoustics. For instance: the sound of my footsteps seemed to be coming not from where I actually was but from a point five metres behind me. I wondered what would happen if I used my voice.