The familiar entrance hall, the combined and particular smell of cooking, dust, floor-polish and ether. Paul, head bowed, dizzy, near collapse, steadied himself at the concierge’s counter. M. Halfont came into the hall.
“Vous êtes le bienvenu!” he cried, taking Paul’s arm.
“Laissez!” ordered Dr. Bruneau. “Il sait très bien marcher.”
Sœur Rose, gaping and edentate under her eye-shade, waited at the lift shaft. The wounded, snail-pace lift groped upwards; through the arras, at the intersection of floor and ceiling, Paul glimpsed Emile’s massive, uniformed body, face pink and contented, emerging from a lavatory.
Sœur Rose led him to his room, helped him off with his clothes.
“No!” she cried, as he tried to get into bed. “I must weigh you first.”
Paul shook his head, bent double to regain his breath.
The door opened and in came M. Halfont. “What have you, Monsieur Davenant? Have you fever?”
“Monsieur doesn’t want me to weigh him,” protested Sœur Rose. Then to Paul: “How do you expect to get better if you don’t get weighed?” The telephone rang and she shuffled out into the corridor.
“She is simple,” explained M. Halfont. “When we get more sisters she relapse back into night nurse. Till ten days you are our one guest, then we receive guests from the Universel and at the same time new guests from a scheme. Everything here is altered—new politics, new policies. Le Docteur Bruneau will look after you. He is a very good medicine. Vernet is of course too a very good medicine, but in my mind—” he glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice—“in my mind Bruneau is still better.”
Sœur Rose came back into the room.
“On vous demande au Service Médical,” she sang out. In the darkened salle de scopie Dr. Bruneau was seated on the music stool, his head bent, his hands over his eyes; solemn reconsecration of the cathedral into which Paul had first blundered two years previously.
Sœur Rose supported him as he stood inside the X-ray cabinet; as usual he endeavoured to overhear Dr. Bruneau’s comments, as usual they were inaudible in the buzz of the mechanism. As he climbed out of the cabinet, Dr. Bruneau left the room.
“What did he say?”
“Little poems. Tiny little poems,” said Sœur Rose soothingly.
Back in bed he fell instantly into a poisoned, toxic sleep, waking with froth on his lips as Dr. Bruneau entered the room.
“Monsieur, I have come to set your mind at rest.”
The concept “Then I am all right,” impressed itself as irresistibly on Paul’s mind as a view on a view-finder. Dr. Bruneau continued:
“I mean—don’t misunderstand me—I mean I am willing to take complete charge of your case. Anyway I have been appointed by the Société to look after Dr. Vernet’s former patients. You would only be able to have Dr. Dubois in a supervisory capacity, and there is no need for that. I am expert in Dr. Vernet’s methods. I will treat you as he would have done.” He grinned, curled back his lips. “All right? Agreed?”
“How——” Paul stopped, held his breath to prevent himself from retching. “How ill am I?”
“We shall see. Puncture tomorrow.”
“Fluid?”
“A tank full. Can’t you feel it? Now have you made up your mind?” Dr. Bruneau took out a pencil and notebook and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”
Dr. Dubois was the rope ladder out of the pit, the light at the end of the tunnel, the safe-conduct out of enemy territory.
“I am Dr. Dubois’s patient,” said Paul weakly.
“That is just the point. You need not continue to be.”
“I must continue with him.”
“There is no must about it.”
“I——”
“Well?”
The effort to talk made Paul retch violently. He lay back panting on his pillows.
“Right. We will discuss it again tomorrow,” said Dr. Bruneau. “Do you need anything?”
Paul shook his head.
“Sœur Rose will give you something to help you sleep. Good-night.”
Good-night. Fluid. The adherence of the lung to the chest wall and the loss of the pneumothorax. The reopening of the lesions in the lung and relapse into his former condition …. A femme-de-chambre, middle-aged, her scalp showing through her thinning hair like the sun through clouds, brought the dinner tray which demonstrated that in respect of food the ‘new policy, new politics’ were none other than the ‘old policy, old politics’. Sœur Rose fussed and hobbled inquisitively about the room.
“A bit of a set-back?” she asked repeatedly, or: “What could have accounted for it?” Then through association of ideas: “Have you any news of the little Duchesne?”
She handed Paul one sleeping pill and, forgetting she had done so, returned a quarter of an hour later with a second. Paul swallowed both. He slept until the arrival, next morning, of Sœur Miriam.
“Alors, nous recommençons,” she said. She bound a ligature about his arm and extracted some blood for a sedimentation test. He fell asleep again. Half an hour later, unwashed and unshaved, he was summoned to the Service Médical.
“It’s like old times to be puncturing Monsieur Davenant,” said Dr. Bruneau nostalgically as Paul lay, chest bared, on the operating table. Sœur Miriam nodded agreement, covering Paul’s chest with the rug which had served on so many similar occasions in the past.
“Ten days of our undivided attention for Monsieur Davenant,” said Dr. Bruneau, filling a syringe with water and discharging it into the air.
“What day are they coming from the Universel?” asked Sœur Miriam.
“Friday week.”
“And the scheme from Holland?”
“The following Monday.”
“How many will there be altogether?”
“A hundred. A hundred and thirty. One never knows till they come.” Dr. Bruneau fitted a needle to the syringe. “What does it feel like to be our only guest, monsieur?” he asked. Paul turned away his head as Dr. Bruneau forced the anæsthetising needle, then the canulla, between his ribs. “It’s like pushing a pin through india-rubber,” complained Dr. Bruneau. He removed the trochar and attached a syringe to the mouth of the canulla. Paul twisted his chin to his shoulder and watched the syringe.
“This will be interesting,” said Dr. Bruneau, easing the plunger. Nothing happened. “No good!” Dr. Bruneau detached the syringe and tossed it into a bin. Sœur Miriam handed him a new syringe and this time a brilliant, emerald-coloured pus oozed into the container.
Dr. Bruneau held the syringe to the light. “Opaque and iridescent,” he said dreamily. “Packet-boats gliding down Ægean waters ….”
“It must be crawling,” Sœur Miriam’s voice rebuked the poet in Dr. Bruneau.
“Crawling,” agreed Dr. Bruneau, discharging the syringe into a receptacle and then refilling it. “Green Ægean waters lapping golden beaches of pestilence in the sun …. What have you been doing, Monsieur Davenant?”
“Look at the oil!” cried Sœur Miriam as Dr. Bruneau discharged the contents of another syringe.
“That’s where the microbes have been evoluting.”
“Ça alors!”
“A lot of the oil appears to have integrated with the pus, but it will separate later.”
“To get like that it must have been going on for months.”
“Certainly.”
“What will it have done to the pleura?”
“What indeed!”
“And Dr. Vernet said it was never to be touched!”
“Sœur Miriam, stop giving away state secrets!” Dr. Bruneau smiled conspiratorially at Paul. “Monsieur, ignore what we have been saying!”
“But he’s not a fool. He knows quite well.”
“You hear, monsieur, Sœur Miriam says that you are not a fool! You have made an impression on her—she’s never said that about a patient before.” He stopped syphoning the pus, and massaged the fingers of his right hand. “It’s hard work,” he complained; “you must have a mayonnaise mixer inside you to make it so thick.”
“So he’s back again with a new pleurisy,” said Sœur Miriam.
“It’s not a new pleurisy, it’s a continuation of the old.”
“You mean, the old one never stopped.”
“Precisely.”
“Then—well, how will it ever be stopped?”
“Evidently not by sealing it up with oil and disinfectant.” He turned to Paul. “Do not trouble yourself, monsieur, in these enlightened days there is always something we can do. If necessary we could strip down your ribs on the affected side and collapse the chest wall on to the lung: that would surely arrest the secretion.” Then to Sœur Miriam: “Kindly prepare a litre of distilled water. I will now wash out the pleura.” And whilst Sœur Miriam searched among the bottles in the medical cabinet, Dr. Bruneau, smiling down at Paul, rubbed the numb tips of his fingers up and down the flesh and ginger parting in his hair.
Dr. Bruneau tore into the room. “Are you strepto-resistant?”
“What?”
It was evening. Paul had fallen asleep over his supper tray. Under his arm, where he had been aspirated, a plover’s-egg bruise was forming.
“Strepto-resistant. Strepto-resistant. S-T-R-E-P-T——”
“I don’t know.” Paul rubbed his eyes.
Dr. Bruneau tossed his head with impatience. “How many grammes of strepto have you had?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Think, monsieur. Try and remember.”
“I have no idea.”
“You can’t not know.”
Paul did not reply. Dr. Bruneau gave a cry of exasperation. “I’m asking for your sake, not for mine. How long were you given it?”
“A few weeks.”
“A few weeks! A few months! A couple of years!” Dr. Bruneau waved his hands in the air.
“It had to be stopped because it was affecting my sense of balance.”
“That was only because it was administered intramuscularly. What I want to know is how much you had.”
“Can’t you see from my documents?”
“If I could, would I be here? Dr. Dubois has got your documents.”
“Can’t you ask him?”
“There is no need to bother Dr. Dubois.” Dr. Bruneau took three short steps towards the door, turned, and took one long step back.
“How are you feeling since the aspiration?”
“Better.”
“Less sick?”
“Yes.”
“Temperature?”
“Lower.”
Dr. Bruneau seized Paul’s temperature chart. “Zut! Down seven divisions! That’s quick service!” He looked at Paul intently.
“Monsieur, there is something I would like to do.”
“What?”
“I would like to put you some strepto in the pleura whether you are resistant or not. Get your dressing-gown and follow me.”
Paul followed Dr. Bruneau down the over-heated passage to the Service Médical. Dr. Bruneau switched on the lights.
“Get up on the table,” he ordered, at the same time unlocking the medical cupboard. “Strepto … Strepto … Ah, voilà,” he muttered. He picked up a phial, snapped off the top and drew the contents into a syringe.
Paul lay on his side, his forearm at ninety degrees, his hand resting on his head. Dr. Bruneau turned, syringe in hand.
“How did that get there?” he demanded, fingering the bruise below Paul’s armpit. “Now don’t go saying that I did it,” he added banteringly, then, changing his tone: “On your back, now—this won’t be pleasant. I can’t get in under your arm. I will have to go through the top of your chest ….”
“Secouez le bocal! Shake ze bot-tel!” It was the following morning. Dr. Bruneau had just given Paul a second interpleural injection of streptomycin.
“Secouez le bocal?”
“Like zis!” Dr. Bruneau dropped on all fours and shook himself like a dog which has just scrambled out of a pond. Then reverting to French: “Do this twice a day, your head lower than your body, your face first to the ground then to the ceiling.” He rolled over on his back, supported his buttocks with his hands and wagged and wriggled his trunk. “In this way the strepto will wash all round your chest wall,” he explained, getting to his feet and rubbing the dust from his clothes.
“I’m to have more injections?”
“One every day.”
“Then I am not strepto-resistant?”
“It turns out that you have never been tested. I am arranging for cultures to be grown.”
“If I am resistant the injections will do no good.”
“None.”
“What then?”
“Monsieur, you are always looking ahead. Wait till you hear the result.”
“How long will that be?”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks!”
“Now don’t complain. Your temperature is much lower, you’re feeling better ….”
“How long will I have to stay here?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”
“Was the fluid positive?”
“You are asking me seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Monsieur, the bacilli were standing on each other’s shoulders.”
Paul turned away; he resolved that he must obtain Dr. Dubois’s assessment of his condition without delay. On the way back to his room he came upon the femme-de-chambre with the thinning hair and she took his arm.
“I am all right,” he said, freeing himself. She laughed and followed him into his room. As he lay in bed, reflecting on how best he might get in touch with Dr. Dubois, she dusted and polished the furniture that was nearest to him. Suddenly, leaning forward, she tapped the top of his thigh with the tip of her broom. Paul looked at her in astonishment. She laughed and left the room.
Dr. Bruneau had made no further reference to the question of whether or not Paul intended to be supervised by Dr. Dubois; did this mean that Dr. Bruneau now assumed that he himself was in sole control? This was a matter about which there could be no procrastination; he would go down to the foyer and telephone Dr. Dubois immediately. As he threw aside the bed-clothes there was a knock at the door and in came Delmuth.
“Back to bed, sick mans,” he cried heartily. “How are you? Yesterday they tell me you are not receiving. Is true? Still, is no matter. Wait! I have a present for you from my wife. Is not much.” He searched in the lining of his overcoat. “Voilà.” He handed Paul a copy of Hymns, A. and M. Inside was stamped: English Church. Brisset.
Paul got back into bed. Delmuth looked at him critically.
“You are better or you could not walk, but your cheeks are ever too ripe. What is with your fever?” He sat down in the armchair.
The femme-de-chambre re-entered the room without knocking, looked from Delmuth to Paul, laughed and went out again. Delmuth clicked his tongue and slapped the arm of the chair which turned to flesh under his fingers. “Good-looking. Not much hair but very good-looking.” Then: “I was right about the location of our next meeting place. Is my trouble—I am always right.” He smiled complacently.
“Now what will they do to you? Have you thought? What do you think they will do to you?”
“Bruneau drew off fluid yesterday.”
“Was just fluid?”
“No. Pus.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I have already spoken with Bruneau of you.”
“What did he say?”
“Now you are interested!”
“What did he say?”
“That you were very well.”
“Will you tell me what he said?”
“That you surely represent England at the next Olympic Games.”
“Delmuth!”
“What do you want to know?”
“What he told you.”
“He was silent—like the pyramids.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you speak to him or not?”
“No.” Delmuth shook with laughter.
Paul stared at him in horror. He thought: ‘This man is my only friend in France.’
“Listen, old mans, you know the saying: ‘You die if you worry, you die if you don’t, so why not worry?’ Ho-ho-ho! You see? Why not worry? Ho-ho-ho! Why not die? I tell you now my treatment guide to the T.B.C. Is simple. First time ill—bed rest. First relapse—pneumothorax. Second relapse—thoracoplasty. Third, fourth, fifth and sixth relapse—extra pleural, lobectomy, pneumonectomy and pleuropneumonectomy. Then for the morale and to stop worry—pre-frontal leucotomy. You see? Easy. Fifty thousand francs, please.” Out came the grocer’s hand.
Delmuth’s expression changed. He got up, sat at the top of Paul’s bed and held Paul’s arm.
“Look, old mans—is all just a joke. You know this. Or we joke or we go mad. I was ill all the war—bombardments, German occupation, no food. And in this time I had still to support myself and my wife. You see? I know what it is to relapse. But for you is not so—you have no one, you are alone. One day you have no money. All right. Good. Your country has free welfare. You go back there and you still have bed and food!”
Paul got out of bed.
“Why you get up?”
“I must go down to the hall.”
“Why?”
“To telephone.” Paul put on his socks and dressing-gown.
“Who you telephone? Your mistress?”
“Never mind.”
“Who you telephone?” Delmuth barred Paul’s way to the door.
“Let me pass.”
“You telephone Lotus Flower! Since my wife is come she have someone else.”
Paul pushed Delmuth aside; in his present state of tension he would not have a moment of tranquillity until he had spoken with Dr. Dubois. Once outside his room, he realised that he was weaker than he had thought; his fever was returning; his pyjama jacket was adhering to his back. The lift was in operation. He steadied himself at the head of the stairs, then started to descend. The rapidity of his heart-beat forced him to sit down. When he got up again a movement inside his chest showed that the secretion was re-forming.
There was no directory in the telephone booth. Cursing his luck, Paul went in search of Emile. Emile was not to be found. Paul’s heart was again beating too quickly to allow him to remain standing; he shut himself in the telephone booth and sat on the chair. Then he noticed that someone had written the number of the Universel in pencil on the wall.
“Dr. Dubois is not here. Who is calling?” came the voice of Dr. Dubois’s secretary. Then: “Monsieur Davenant! But Dr. Dubois left here a quarter of an hour ago specially to see you before catching his train. Hurry back to your room or you will miss him.”
Paul replaced the receiver and returned as quickly as he could to his room. Delmuth was still there.
“Hello, sick mans.”
“Has Dubois——” Paul leant against the wall. “Has Dubois been here?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone. He could not wait.” Delmuth followed Paul into the passage. “You lose your time. He is in the train to Paris,” he shouted after him. “He say he will see you when he come back in one week ….”
Dusty, slothful flies like miniature hedgehogs, the oviparous, philoprogenitive, all-season nurslings of the primitive central-heating installation, were emerging from their places of concealment, dipping stridently across the room to Paul’s bedside lamp and, like their forebears eighteen months earlier, transforming the glass bowl into an illuminated, transparent hive. Eviction was complicated and purposeless—the swarm would return as to a carcase.
Paul’s supper tray lay in front of him; delivered at half-past six and now, at half-past ten, still uncollected, it would inevitably remain for the night. A book by Mauriac (open at a page on which the author asserted the belief that the virtual sum total of terrestrial unhappiness was the product of illicit sexual relationships) was supported against a tureen of grey, greasy soup. Intermittently Paul read a page, half a page, a few lines.
Delmuth had left at midday. Ten and a half hours gone; nine and a half hours to go. Then the arrival of the breakfast tray, the making of the bed, the summons to the Service Médical; then a further twenty hours to devote to Mauriac. When for a few seconds the flies were silent, Paul could hear the ticking of his watch.
The moment when the crags and valleys of past and future are flattened into the infinite desert of the present; the moment that in company, in mirth or in grief, seems non-potential to the human condition; the moment when the soul looks at itself in the mirror and sees there is no reflection. If Delmuth, Bruneau or Emile could have walked through the door, Paul would have wept with relief.