With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  Bushcatti did not like hospitals: sick people made him sick like he was at death’s door; sick people made him feel like he was living on borrowed time, but the great man had to be seen at the hospital. He had to be seen to care about the sick and dying – some of whom regarded him as a walking cure. Sick people consumed his confidence and made him unwell.

  With his guards planted outside, and kicking dirt like it was infected, the great man was introduced in turn to each equally energized and exhausted doctor; to each tiresome, nit-picking administrator. He shook each hand, and each time said much the same thing - that they were doing an excellent job - moving on to the next before the previous had the time to construct a reply or express themselves in any way. The great man was not interested in replies right now, only visibility. (He was passing through: it was all he did these days.) Adolphinus trailed behind, not shaking hands, barely smiling, and saying little. And in return, he was generally ignored, except by his SRO: Ingel watched his chief watch his chief, like a little boy watching a bigger boy playing with his toys, and dropping them when done. Pathetic, thought Ingel.

  Introductions done, Doctor Varvareo invited his special guest to explore the wards and meet the nurses and patients – those who were not too sick to receive a visit from the greatest man in the land. Bushcatti said he would be delighted, whilst at the same time detesting the idea. With that, Bushcatti was led on, into what he regarded as a small hell on earth; Adolphinus at his side, Paminio, and Ingel bringing up the rear. Paminio was on the lookout for anything which might go wrong – like a patient throwing up in front of his master. Ingel was on the lookout for familiar faces; wishing to avoid them. Adolphinus was on the lookout for Timothy.

  Nurses and patients alike went rigid as the great man descended upon them. One man wet the bed. Only the ward sisters, solid and sincere, could hold their own. Though they too stood stiff-necked, like soldiers standing to attention.

  Like the good actor and politician he was, Bushcatti performed well: giving the impression that he cared about the sick; their diseases and disorders, and their recovery. Over and over, he told the nurses, that they were doing an excellent job, quickly withdrawing when he caught sight of blood, fresh or dried, on their otherwise pure-white uniforms. Over and over he told the patients to ‘get well soon’, even those who were asleep. He listened to what they had to say and nodded in all the right places as they bored him to death with their sad tales of hardship. They were soulmates in sickness; soulmates lost in a soup. At all times, Bushcatti was careful not to get too close, and if a patient reached out to touch him – worse still embrace him – he dropped the smile and moved on quickly. He blew through the wards like a cold gust of stale, slightly-smelly air.

  There were different wards for different patients; each with different pay rates and levels of service, and hence, recovery rates. There were only monks and novices in the Monk wards: they had the best nurses and the best beds, and all at a discount. They slept in the cleanest sheets and under the thickest blankets and received the most attention from the nurses. Tradesmen resided in the Trade ward while all other male riff-raff and lowlife were confined to the Peasant ward. Women and children had their own ward. Women who were well enough had to wash and clean and prepare food for other patients. One, old and shrunken, and shivering in her dirty, hospital-standard bed shirt held out her hand and begged to be blessed. She smelt of decay. She had escaped from her ward. The two chiefs pretended not to notice her and walked on past, fast.

  Curtain rails proliferated; breaking up all the space into digestible chunks; interrupting the eye, shouting hands off! There were metal-framed beds, some rusty relics, and tapestries on the walls, alongside drawings and paintings donated by monks – both patients and doctors alike. Chamber pots of various sizes came (empty) and went (sometimes full to the rim) according to need and speed. Everywhere there were glass bottles: some safe, clean, and empty; some filled with mysterious liquids of assorted colours – not to be sniffed at – some filled with urine. Empty bottles were often left to roll around on the floor, else kicked aside. In time, they got collected up and washed by an orderly – one driven to the task by a ward sister. In the corners and behind beds, there were canvas bags filled to breaking with smelly, dirty laundry. This was not a place for visitors, only sick people.

  The hospital had been established a generation earlier to deal with an epidemic, but now it was showing its age. In places, the plaster had dropped off the walls and ceilings, as if attacked by a disease. There were cracks in the floor tiles, some protruding to cause trip-ups occasionally. At night and in winter, freezing cold air blew in through gaps in the window frames, or through cracks in the glass itself. Badly broken windows were boarded up. It was a sick hospital. It needed to recover.

  Paminio, bored stiff, reminded himself that this was a well-paid job. Ingel, also bored stiff, began to think bad thoughts – thoughts that blocked up his brain. You are so fucking proud of this place, this place where you are a god. It makes me sick. Shame it has to be filled with sick people. Isn’t that right Adolphinus? Then he saw her, and the headache vanished: here was a fresh face; an innocent face; a spot of sunshine on the ward – in the world. Here was a new nurse on the ward: young, innocent, wishing to please; delicate but determined to do good. Here, amongst the sick and dying, the girl radiated warmth – even happiness - and he wanted to warm his hands in her fire. Suddenly, Ingel wanted her to make him good, and it hurt. He needed her to hold him, hug him, and kiss him better. He wanted to crack her open like an egg and peer inside. He had to know if she had a beautiful mind. Was she as delicate on the inside as on the outside? Was she easy to break? He wanted her all for himself. He could not share such an angel. Suddenly his sister came into view and a shiver ran down his spine.

  When Senior Ward Sister Miuccia was introduced to the great man, she made a point of looking put out and refused to curtsey. Instead, she held out her hand for the great man to shake. After some hesitation, he did. She did not engage in small talk, and broke off in a hurry, only saying that she was busy and had to return to her work – her patients needed her. She saw it as her duty to always look busy. Adolphinus was not surprised. The Senior Doctor was not pleased. As a rule, he kept his distance from her: he did not like her smell. On a bad day, she made him feel ill.

  When she was gone, Adolphinus whispered into his chief’s ear that he had just met the sister of the SRO. Bushcatti nodded. Now it made sense: that cold, brittle, stony-faced nurse was the sister of the cold, brittle, stony-faced SRO. Cut from the same cloth. But she was not entirely gone; she was merely keeping her distance: unnoticed, Miuccia watched the chief of all chiefs intently; not sure if he was friend or foe; and not sure if it mattered. Then her brother came into view, and a shiver ran down her spine.

  Ingel cornered his sister, and, pinning her against the wall like one of his misbehaving monks, whispered into her ear, telling her to pass on an invitation to his girl.

  ‘Invitation?’ asked Miuccia.

  ‘Dinner.’

  ‘Just dinner?’

  ‘Just dinner.’

  ‘Ask me nicely.’

  ‘I am asking you nicely.’

  ‘By your standards, I suppose you are. Say, please.’

  ‘Please. What’s her name?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I want to know her name.’

  ‘Laylinia. Laylinia, I believe.’ Miuccia looked her brother in the eye. ‘Be nice to this one.’

  ‘I will. She’s beautiful.’

  ‘Now let me get back to work.’

  ‘Saving sick people?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And that Timothy, he’s been moved?’

  ‘Moved, yes. Out of sight and out of mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Get back to your chief.’

  ‘Your chief too
.’

  Tour of the wards all done – bar the Mental Ward - Bushcatti finally had to meet the man in the wheelchair, the very special patient. He was led on by a sister, down a long passage, past many private rooms, to that one special room, accompanied only by Adolphinus. Bad thoughts threatened Adolphinus: bad thoughts of another room, a secure room in a secure part of the hospital – a prison by any other name where the total, absolute crazies were kept. Such people were too much, even for the mental ward. He could not wipe the sweat from his brow: no matter how hard he wiped, it returned. Suddenly Bushcatti spoke to him, and he was back in the here and now.

  ‘Are you going in first?’

  It was not a question.

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Well go on then.’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  Bushcatti held his breath and ignored his discomfort as he entered the room: a dodgy, dicky stomach; a sick feeling inside. And there he was, stuck in his wheelchair: a chief brought low; a chief humiliated by a broken body. This was not how a chief should be seen. This chief should be dead, thought Bushcatti. Adolphinus drew close. Bushcatti held back, if afraid of infection.

  ‘How does he communicate, if his speech is impaired?’

  ‘He can talk, just with difficulty, or else he writes it down. There, next to him on the table, he has his pencil and paper.’

  Chief Fiolotti, retired, heard every word they said. Bushcatti felt required to speak. But he could think of nothing to say. Looking was hard enough.

  ‘Greetings Fiolotti. It’s me, Bushcatti. But then you know that.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Well, Fiolotti, tell me, is Adolphinus up to the job? The job of chief of all chief monks?’

  Fiolotti looked hard at his successor and began to mumble. Adolphinus looked back hard.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  Fiolotti reached for his pencil and paper and began writing down his reply, while Bushcatti grew impatient and Adolphinus grew nervous. Finally, he held up the piece of paper to reveal his message. Adolphinus read it out, relieved.

  ‘On balance, he is a good man, and capable.’

  ‘On balance? What does that mean?’

  ‘Never mind him, Your Excellency. He always talks in riddles.’

  Fiolotti looked up at his friend, once his protégé, with a heavy heart and a stare which was asking a hard question; as if he had had the weight of the world dumped on his shoulders, and he could not shake it off. Adolphinus looked away. He had had enough of his old friend for one day. Bushcatti had also had enough and left the room. Adolphinus squeezed the hand of his old friend before doing likewise.

  ‘Strange reaction,’ said Bushcatti, safely back outside - back where the air smelt better.

  ‘That’s his way,’ said Adolphinus. ‘He lives in riddles now, and he’s spooked by new faces.’

  ‘Is he happy like that? Barely alive? Powerless?’

  ‘He’s still alive, so he should be.’

  Back at the monastery, Bushcatti collapsed onto his bed, worn out and worn down by the weight of his office, declaring to his personal assistant that he was not to be disturbed, ever again. Paminio got the message, as did Adolphinus.

  ***

  Evening time and Ingel sat at his table, perfectly still; his peace disturbed only slightly by the odd outburst from his pet crow. And then there was the knock on the door he had been waiting for, and one of his men said his guest had arrived. The nurse Laylinia had arrived on time: a good start as far as Ingel was concerned. Dinner was ready. He was ready.

  ‘Show her in,’ he said.

  His man promptly directed her into the room, then was gone, in a flash, before she could thank him. She acted like she had been arrested and stood awaiting instructions. Ingel introduced himself. Laylinia did likewise. He invited her to sit. She sat down as instructed, looking around the room as if getting her bearings, as if looking for clues as to what the evening had in store. She saw the crow in its cage. It was watching her intently, as was Ingel. He offered to pour her a glass of wine. Thanking him, she watched her glass slowly fill: for her wine was a luxury. There was food laid out across the table: various snacks in small bowls. No hot food: Ingel did not want the evening to be disturbed, disrupted, or complicated. This was his time, his place, his space, his conquest.

  The stale policeman and the fresh nurse sat opposite each other, worlds apart. She was tense and showed it. He was tense and hid it. He struggled at first to get her to talk for she had nothing to say: it was just ‘thank you’, ‘yes sir’, ‘no sir’.

  ‘Stop calling me sir,’ Ingel said in an outburst, clearly irritated.

  That made her stop, though it did not seem right to her to not address this man as ‘sir’.

  The nurse kept her hands in her lap when she was not picking at the food or sipping the wine – fantastic wine; she had never tasted anything so good. This man had class, good taste, and good manners. Her father would be pleased, her mother reassured.

  Out of uniform, she looked plain but still delicate, still beautiful in his mind. And what did she look like without any clothes on? As his mind raced ahead, he quickly stamped on such thoughts. This was the first encounter, over dinner; nothing more, for now.

  Lifted up by food and wine, she began to relax and engage. Here was class, she decided, a man of manners and grace; a man of thoughts. He asked about her job but did not take in the details, preferring just to listen to the sound of her voice. She talked of her wish to be a nurse – a dream fulfilled. Ingel wished her every success and promised to put a good word in with his sister. Her father was a tradesman, she explained, her mother a seamstress. ‘Good solid professions,’ said Ingel, which made her blush. When she asked him about his job, he said he did not discuss his work – then corrected himself, saying he could not discuss his work.

  She asked him what was it like to live the life of a monk. No idea, he said, which left her groping for another question. ‘I am not a monk,’ he explained. ‘I am a policeman. I am the Senior Religious Observance Officer for this monastery, he explained. I ensure all monks and novices observe the rules of their religious order. And I punish those who do not’. She was impressed and slightly scared, and glad that she was a nurse and not a monk.

  Ingel plied the nurse with drink, forcing her to join him in a toast first to His Most Esteemed Excellency Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti, then to His Esteemed Excellency Chief Monk Adolphinus; and later to all the hard-working doctors and nurses at the hospital. He made her laugh when he told her a joke about his sister. He made her almost split her sides when he mimicked his sister’s stern voice issuing orders. She quickly began to unravel – but found the experience enjoyable, delightful, and intoxicating. Life was suddenly daringly delicious. His total attention, aimed squarely at her, like blind faith, and his politeness – the politeness of an educated man, a thinking man – lowered her defences, and enticed her to speculate on a great romance ahead. It left her wide open to the seduction of first the mind, and then the body.

  Laylinia the nurse had not entered this room in total innocence. This man was the chief monk’s righthand man. His sister was the most senior sister in the hospital. This man exercised power. This man had wealth. This man came from a good family. This man was a good catch. Catch yourself a good man before it’s too late, her mother had told her many times to the point of exhaustion. There’s more to life than nursing the sick better, and those looks won’t last.

  Ingel the policeman was a man of many parts: part of him wanted to find love, experience it, cage it; part of him regarded such desires as dangerous, a weakness, fantasy; another part of him could live only in the dark, afraid to come out into the light; another part of him lived only to exercise brutality over others, and revenge; another part of him could barely cope with it all. What had happened to Ingel the inn
ocent little boy? The parts added up to a complicated whole – a whole with a big hole in its centre where normally the soul was expected to be found.

  Fascinated by the crow – and impressed by his name – Laylinia stood up and asked to take a closer look. Of course, said Ingel, and was quick to join her by her side, wishing to get close. Under surveillance, and feeling threatened, Craccus began to squawk loudly and flap his wings at the dangerous humans. Laylinia took a step back, almost tripping over the uneven floor tiles. Ingel saw his chance and jumped to her rescue. He grabbed her and held her steady. She thanked him. He said, ‘no thanks was required.’ A true gentleman, she thought. He did not let go, but she did not protest. Up close, she smelt sweet, like she was made of sugar. She was sweating: he wanted to lick it off. He wanted to bite a piece of her off and chew it over slowly.

  She did not complain when his hand began to roam. It settled on her waist where it found satisfaction, adventure. He pulled her in closer. She turned towards him, into him, and allowed him to kiss her. Stop at the kisses, she told herself. Kissing is safe. You get to know your man through kissing, her older sister had told her once.

  Both were breathing deeply now as their bodies began to overheat. She looked up into his eyes as if searching for clues, as if determined to read him; and he was locked in, unable to look away. Suddenly, she was the one on the take, on the make; the one wishing to steal and he knew it. The air smelt of sex and both struggled to contain themselves. She wanted him to fall in love with her, and be her man for life, and he knew it.