These Good Hands

by Carol Bruneau

  Around us fell such quiet you could hear dust settle. A taller girl, naked as day, strutted past, muscles yielding to some inner current, while another (her twin?) moved as through a dream stripped of thou-shalt-nots. Circling, they slipped past, the soft flexing of limbs vibrations you could almost feel. Just when I felt dumb and peeled my eyes away, another man appeared, supplearsed as a Marly horse. Around and around he strutted in a silent rhythm with the others — a soundless ballet, each perfecting a pas de seul. A dance of flexion, a musical of the imagination, it evidenced a heaven our brother — our dear Paul, for all his prudishness-to-come — would gladly have died to enter.

  When it ended Monsieur drew me aside. Hand at my waist, he whisked me to where the woman squatted. Guileless, sharpkneed, thighs spread wide, kohl-rimmed eyes blazing, she might’ve been a cancan girl from Pigalle or the seediest stretch of rue Saint-Denis.

  “Look closely — pay attention.” His voice had a banker’s rasp. Stroking her thigh, he placed my palm there. The cool of her skin gave me chills. Was I choosing a cut of well-marbled meat for Maman at the butcher’s? Monsieur’s hand guided mine. I saw through my fingertips: skin rougher than it looked, a firmness that was hungrily pliant.

  “Perfection?” he breathed into my ear, then strode off to reposition the others and prod the man into a half-kneeling crouch.

  The rosy, canine hang of testicles is what we saw.

  Forgetting us, Monsieur returned to his posing woman. Gave her a slap, forcing her into a deeper squat, flaying her open. Her hips were a walnut’s lobes, thighs etched with a dishwater-blue light, reminding me of our cook whose bust I’d done in plaster, of our maid’s nimble fingers. It piqued an urge to fly back to our apartment — not to see our bookworm brother or spoiled sister, and certainly not our dear Maman, but to observe the help at their chores, hands like birds.

  My friend huddled beside the cold stove and observed Monsieur’s man from across the room, as if he were an explosive device she mustn’t get close to. Busily she inspected a plaster shin, her hand falling away when Monsieur rushed to nudge the man’s elbow to his thigh.

  “Hopeless, hopeless — I pay you to sleep? Try looking like there’s a brain in your head!”

  The Master began pinching and pummelling a lump of clay, spitting on it as he worked to keep it moist. Faded from his sight, my friend was as wan as the fellow from school who’d gone off to do Monsieur’s labour, chiselling, spruing, casting, pouring plaster — the domain of anyone lucky enough to apprentice here.

  Job description: Praticien/Praticienne: Practitioner, one who enables. From pratique: method, practice; clientèle. Related to practical: businesslike, convenient. Expedient, advantageous, profitable. A sibling of pratiquer: to exercise; to frequent; to open; to build; to cut. To practise not all that different from being a churchgoer, our brother might say.

  Was being a model also required?

  Once more Monsieur was beside me. Shyly, it seemed, he stroked his beard. “You’re good with marble, I hear. Have you the patience to pose, too, Mademoiselle?” Out of the blue it sounded playful, like the things Papa said to thwart Maman.

  We’d discussed this, over pots of tea and an asphyxiating number of cigarettes. How we would not model to foot the rent for our studio, tiny as it was and just steps from home. We would refuse distractions from our work, would starve before we’d take off our clothes!

  My friend stood. “I can tell you right now, sir,” she spoke for me, “Mademoiselle does not.”

  “C’est impossible,” I declared, glancing at her. I hope you know I meant it, too, that I’d have sooner licked the pavement than bare myself and have some old goat finger me with his eyes.

  Except, except — until then, no one had shown me the gift of sight. True sight. What it was, what it is to see through one’s fingertips. Nor had I felt towards anyone before that the slimmest debt of gratitude.

  Can you blame me?

  Like our Paul, I write for the certainty of writing, and send you a kiss.

  — Mademoiselle

  5

  TO PASS MY LIFE IN PURITY ...

  MONTDEVERGUES ASYLUM

  25 AUGUST 1943

  23H15

  So much for a daily examination, of conscience or activity! There’s no end to the troubles our guests suffer from: pernicious anemia, phlebitis, pinworm, pink eye, palpitations, etc., in addition to psychoneurosis, paresis, neurasthenia, schizophrenia. At times one might as well be an IV drip on a pole being pulled in a hundred directions. The treatable physical ailments provide a lull, a normalcy, to be valued given the workload — our efforts being of less therapeutic value than custodial, I suspect. Three full shifts passed before the chance arose, with the pair of us working elbow to elbow on charts, for me to put it to my supervisor: “So Dr. Cadieu wants privacy for the patient — fine. But, allowing her a key?”

  Head’s response was swift — “So she can come and go as she pleases, of course” — as if I were brainless to ask. “Cadieu has her way of doing things. Our dear doctor would retire if there were someone to replace her — so difficult, with the war.”

  “France is hardly … well, yes, thanks be to Vichy —”

  The way she eyed me, I instantly wished to retract it. But if the Maréchal and his friends weren’t so eager to accommodate les fritz, things wouldn’t be so bad. So the clergy in Lyon says, those above the sisters, some of them, anyway.

  “We’ll let the politicians run the country, shall we? They wouldn’t presume to run things here — nor would we want them to.” Giving me a pitying look, Head chuckled, her sternness stemming the possibility of further chit-chat. The thought of doddering old Pétain wiping a guest’s face, or worse, brought a smile to mine. “As long as Cadieu’s in charge, see that Mademoiselle gets her exercise,” she instructed. “As long as she’s capable of getting up and around, she must be encouraged to do so.”

  “And the rules for her?” Of course I respected protocol, thanks to the sisters; I only sought clarity.

  Forcing a smile, Head rhymed the rules off. “Mademoiselle is to have no contact with the outside world. No visitors, no correspondence of any kind.”

  It was difficult to mask my surprise. “But what possible harm —?”

  “Family orders. What does ‘sequestration’ mean to you, Poitier? Too much for you to absorb?”

  I truly hadn’t meant to be chippy. Though it wasn’t easy, I ignored Head’s tone. “No time whatsoever with family or friends? At her age she can’t have many left.”

  “As you know, undue excitement leaves patients unnecessarily agitated. Buffering them has always been the logical course. The most anyone can hope for our guests is a measure of peace. One way or another, by now we expect Mademoiselle has found a little.”

  I was well versed in the Essentials of Medicine’s tip that the psychoneurotic be shielded from as much of the world and its obligations as possible, protected from all that irritated or depressed her. “But, various therapies — surely —”

  “For our benefit, Poitier. To let us think we’re helping.” She was awfully abrupt. “As I told you, the rainy spring set Mademoiselle back. Her confusion’s returned.”

  “Her diagnosis — the original prognosis, I mean?”

  “Persecution mania — perhaps. It was so long ago. But you can appreciate the family’s wishes.” She chose her words carefully. “Anything the guest expresses stays contained. I can’t stress enough, any letters she writes mustn’t under any circumstances leave these grounds — unless in some rare, unusual instance, and the directeur approves it. Any she receives are to be screened by him as well.” She quickly consulted her watch. “Above all, we respect the families’ instructions. Do I make myself clear?”

  ***

  IT WAS FRIDAY, day of days, the one slated for baths, top to tail. The washroom was on the first floor, with two porcelain tubs, both grainy with use, to do the entire pavilion. Novice and I took the guests fifteen at a time, managing to strip a
nd scrub one and all. The orderlies had their work cut out keeping the tubs filled, ensuring the water — what we managed to keep off the floor, that is, trying to conserve as much as possible — wasn’t too cold or too hot. The poor things shivered despite the heat.

  “Cleanliness matters, as Nightingale is our guide,” I quipped to Novice, who, with an orderly’s help, wrestled a flailing guest into her greyish bath. I coaxed those who resisted but could respond to reason: “Now now, how can you expect to feel better smelling like that?”

  Given the numbers, it was impossible to do everyone before breakfast. Head Nurse urged us to aim to finish before lunch or, at the latest, Quiet Time, so once each group was washed and dried, it was a scramble getting them dressed, buttoning buttons, snapping snaps, et cetera. I got the orderlies to replenish the hot water while I went to rally Mademoiselle and the second-floor guests, having left them till last.

  Mademoiselle was sitting on her bedside, bundled as usual, the cat at her feet washing its nether parts. It had gotten used to my interruptions. Not so the patient, who clamped her mouth shut while I took her pulse and gave her hands an inspection. The day before, I’d asked to see her feet; as expected, they were yellow and swollen, the toes of the left quite gnarled.

  “Bath time!” I announced, offering my arm for support. The patient didn’t budge. “Come, please. We’ll have you smelling like a rose,” I said. “You’ll feel better for it.”

  Holding on to her hat as if it were bejewelled, she gave an indignant hoot. “You think I mind my stink, Polange Soitier?” But she rose — mystery of mysteries — and with my aid tottered into the hall. Count my lucky stars, I thought. She moved at a pace so doggedly compliant, who knew what was in her head?

  She’d been writing again, that much I guessed. Likely seated at her little table since breakfast, tossing more word salad onto paper she’d wangled from somewhere.

  Novice had already corralled the rest of the second-floor group, who huddled waiting to be undressed. Steamy light bounced from the tiles. The taps’ dripping, a fluty metronome, added a brightness to the whimpering and keening. Orderlies bustled in and out, the steaming water they added suspiciously grimy against the gritty porcelain.

  Head Nurse helped us strip the guests, fortunately for me, because Mademoiselle dug her heels in and hung back. With her noggin held high and her foolish hat sliding down, she cried, “Don’t hurt me!” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Gently but firmly I drew her in among the others. An urchin off some wintry, northern street is how she appeared against their nakedness. Except for their lively vocals, most were cadaver-like, that pale and wasted. The effects of time and gravity on the female body, the wizening of certain parts, never cease to amaze me — not to mention the ravages of illness, the mind’s decline hastening the body’s. At one point I had to look away. To think a normal, healthy female had at least some of this to look forward to, parts going south.

  I reached for the buttons on Mademoiselle’s coat.

  “I’ve been baptized, Poitier Solange, if you care to check. I’m sure the scoundrels holding me have records!” In the greenish light the patient’s face resembled chamois-cloth, her jaw sagging. “You needn’t worry about my salvation!”

  I tightened my grip on her wrist. Always the real and present danger of a geriatric falling and breaking a hip, the floor slick after all their thrashing. I succeeded in peeling off the coat, to the amusement of a calmer guest who risked a smile. A few bellowed with laughter, including a girl who I tried not to notice was smeared with feces and was better left to Novice. Sniffling, another folded herself into a ball and rocked herself until Head arrived, with an off-putting ease, to help us coax her into a tub.

  An orderly came with fresh, steaming water. As I directed him, my grip on Mademoiselle loosened slightly and she lurched backwards. The soles of her shoes slid out from under her, a dull clang rising as she collided with the tub. Luckily Novice broke her fall, but not sufficiently to prevent an outcry. “How much more must I suffer to prove your cruelty?” the patient gasped with breathless satisfaction. “I forbid you to rummage under my clothes!”

  “Nurse Poitier!” Head’s shrillness cut above the din of the others joining in to mimic Mademoiselle’s outburst. “There’s no point forcing her. I would expect better judgment; you know she’s better left alone.”

  “Yes, but —”

  Plucking at her coat, Mademoiselle hobbled out, leaving the rest to be quieted.

  “Well?” Head said, exasperated, in the midst of dunking a thrasher. Despite water everywhere, drenching her apron, she had the wherewithal to bark, “Go after her, for goodness’ sake. See that she’s all right. Novice and I will finish up.”

  For one so frail, Mademoiselle was quick on her feet. She’d almost made it to the stairwell before I could apprehend her. “Who are you, my mother?” She shook me off.

  It took every effort, every ounce of patience not to scold. “Goodness, no. Do I remind you of her, your mother?” Instantly I thought better of saying it.

  “Goodness, no,” Mademoiselle mimicked. In the stairwell’s dimness she looked hungry-eyed, the set-to having sapped her strength. “But since you seem to mistake me for a child …” She clutched the railing.

  “If you say so.” Keep the upper hand, I told myself.

  To my surprise, my relief, she let me escort her upstairs. She sighed, “Make it quick, then. I’m very busy. I have no time for your nonsense. But if you must.” Once rested in bed, still wearing those gamey clothes, she didn’t object when I went to check for injuries. She lay quite still, in fact, eyes screwed shut as I lifted her hem and, one after the other, rolled down laddered stockings gartered to equally ragged drawers. Socks would’ve been much easier, but everyone must be allowed her little vanity. A bit of a marvel, the guest managing these herself. A welt on her thigh already showed signs of bruising, the skin unbroken at least. While I was at it, I took the liberty of turning the patient sideways, the bedsprings chiming in protest. There was something else. As suspected, there was an ulcerated spot in the lumbar region, the beginning of what all too easily could become a bedsore. “Well, Mademoiselle — at least your legs work. As long as they do, exercise is important. Too much lying down — you know. Use it or lose it,” I said, then wished I hadn’t. It was how I’d spoken to wounded soldiers sent to Lyon for rehab.

  The old woman gave me a look. Bitter approval? “Like any gift — unless you use it, it will eat you alive?” She sucked what remained of her teeth, smiling her pitiful smile.

  “I suppose. Now that you’ve been up — I don’t know what you have against water — and since Quiet Time is any time you like, apparently, we should see to a walk.”

  The cat leapt up and stretched out on her papers. “But I have my writing,” the patient huffed. “And I have nothing against water, Miss Soitier. It’s being around lunatics that I can’t bear. Would you mind very much, Soitier Polange, being stripped naked before a bunch of raving imbeciles? I doubt that you’d enjoy it. Perhaps you have no such experience?”

  Forcing a practical smile, I bit my tongue. Of course I do not, and trust that I never will, though perhaps I had come close to it once, lying on an examining table, feet in stirrups. Just thinking it was enough to make me flush — though more precisely, it was the room’s swelter that caused the blood to rush to my face. Not even noon and each of the floors hot as Hades.

  Her eyes pierced mine. “You have a family, Poitier Solange? People who care for you?”

  Patience, I told myself. “Please. The name is Solange Poitier — Nurse to you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Let’s get you outside, shall we? The air will do you good.” I braced for resistance, but Mademoiselle had turned pensive.

  “All those creatures with their hanging dugs, like overbred bitches. Do you know, Nurse Solange — once, I paid a model who looked like that?”

  Disassociation, a textbook case. When was the last time she’d seen herself? No point in stir
ring her up, of course.

  “Never mind, now. Let’s see how far we can get before it’s too hot.”

  ***

  THE RIBBON FROM which Mademoiselle’s key dangled was just long enough to not require unpinning. Sure enough, it worked not only on the second but on the first and ground floors as well. Outside, the air barely stirred the ivy spilling over the wall. Even the birds seemed stymied by the heat. Guests relegated as gardeners weeded flowerbeds and pruned hedges, the cat-pee scent of box wafting up. They moved as if they had forever to finish their chores, which in a way they did.

  Already high, the sun was blinding. Pushing at her hat, Mademoiselle squinted even in the shade, taking snail steps as I led her past the chapel. A short but steep flight of concrete steps led to the roadway which linked buildings arranged more or less like spokes around it. Helping the infirm negotiate stairs was old hat, and I happily shared tips physiotherapists provide to crutch-users: Lead with the left foot going down: right foot heavenward, left goes to hell.

  “You make me laugh, Miss Solange. As if I’ve never done stairs.”

  The sprawl of stucco and clay roofs shimmered in the heat, summoning an eerie languor. The grounds were deserted, save for the gardeners. Mademoiselle seemed to know her way, trudging through the maze of pavilions, past Admin and the directeur’s blue-shuttered villa, and along the paved allée of well-trimmed planes that led to the gate. A large black car festooned with little Vichy flags crept towards, then slowly past us. Taking a little rest, we watched it stop outside the directeur’s, the only building whose windows looked welcoming.

  “A picnic day,” the patient murmured, and shut her eyes, savouring something, it was hard to imagine what. The scent of fresh-cut lavender perhaps, from beyond the hospital’s fields where, just visible to us, work gangs of able-bodied guests gathered some sort of harvest. “There. You see it, Miss Solange” — the old woman pointed upwards at nothing, or the cloudless sky — “as pure and good to me as to you a sheet without a wrinkle?”