Parenthesis, Albert Russo [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

PARENTHESIS

memoir by Albert Russo

excerpted from my award-winning novel
SHALOM TOWER SYNDROME (xlibris.com)


“How serious was it?”
“They had to break into his compartment on the Milano-Brussels Express ... tried with a sharp paper-cutter ... married, with a child ... just moved to Belgium ...”
Either she did it on purpose or thought they were far enough for me not to grasp what they were saying. The boyish-looking man whom she addressed as 'doctor' turned around to glance at me with that professional detachment which conceals, among other things, fear and hesitation.
“Eclectic background ... lived on three continents ... seems to have a good disposition ...”
They walked away. It was getting dark and cold and I felt hungry.

A stout, middle-aged Flemish nurse showed me to my room. It was in the annex, on the first floor, overlooking an orchard. At the other end stood the eighteenth-century mansion turned into a rest-house.
“I hope you will feel comfortable here,” said the nurse, rolling her r's dramatically. As I began to sneeze she proceeded:
“Pricking stuff, isn't it? We've had the place disinfected. I'll let in some fresh air. Ready? Take a long, deep breath!”
She braced her knees and flung the window wide open. After a few chilling seconds which allowed me to appreciate her brawny calves, she pulled down the shade.
“That's it. I'm off.now,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone. “Ah! If you need anything, just ring the bell to call the night nurse. I've left her instructions for your medicine. Cheerio, see you tomorrow.”
I heard the heavy thump of her steps and counted them as she walked down the staircase. I could still feel her presence lingering about, in an odor of warmed-over potato chips. My lungs became slowly impregnated with it until I got nausea.
Sat on the corner or the bed. It creaked in response. Got a fright. Eyes then roamed in a cold inspection from one object to another. Desk, empty flower pot, lithograph representing a plowman at work ... moth-eaten curtains, wash basin surmounted by a cracked mirror, solid mahogany wardrobe, desk again, ceiling, pink lampshade, desk once more. Drew left wrist close to ear, listened attentively to ticking of watch. Three knocks at the door.
“So, how is our new guest? We seldom have young folks around. It's a nice change. By the way, are you afraid of ghosts?”
She had a big, bony smile and the neck or a giraffe.
“No,” I caught myself answering. “Is it any business of yours?”
“The old lady who preceded you was a sleepwalker, and your next-door neighbor used to come and pay her nightly visits. He still does it sometimes. They had known each other for nine years. But don't Worry, he isn't dangerous.
I leapt to my feet as if someone had suddenly set the bed afire.
“Well,” I started shouting, “I'll lock myself in!”
“Calm down! I only wanted to warn you. Anyway, there are no keys here, except for the bathroom.”
I stood stockstill and stared at her ror awhile, until I finally consented to swallow the pills she handed me with a glass of water.
“That's better. You should undress and try to sleep. In the meantime, I'll tidy away your linen in the cupboard.”
I shook my head in a stern no. She didn't insist and was about to leave the room when I stretched out my arms to her: “Nurse, please, can I take a shower?”
“Of course ... call me Yvonne.... She spoke with a strong Walloon drawl and followed me right into the bathroom. I was in a fidget. The bottle of shampoo slipped out of my hands, with the towel. Couldn't she understand? Didn't they know what privacy meant in this place? Apparently not, for I had to strip naked in front of her, let her rub my back - where was my mother's gentle touch? - and dry me up as if I were a bundle of carrots.
“That's a good boy!” She made me blush to the point that I became obsessed with one thought: my body. Body and shame. Not the fears that had brought me here, not the austere walls of my new prison, not even the whining of a moribund patient upstairs seemed to bother me that night.
The bell chimes. We are summoned to the refectory: a wainscoted, creaking dining-room on the ground floor of the mansion. Just ten of us around the table. Presiding at each end, respectively: Mademoiselle Helene, a gentle fortyish brunette, and Madame Liliane, her assistant, younger, lean, platinum blonde, more talkative. They seem to get on fairly well. Very seldom hear them argue. Everybody seated except for the wind-broken Monsieur Lazarus and Mademoiselle Helene who's helping him to get into his chair. At each meal, the same ritual. Average age among the inmates: seventy- five. 'Gagagenarian' atmosphere.
No one crosses him/herself. Religion doesn't seem to be a matter of concern here. Perhaps they are prudish about it. It is quite disturbing to remind God of one's existence when skirting death becomes one's major pastime.
A gust of steamed food sweeps through the refectory as Leila pushes open the kitchen door, carrying a piteously huge tray. Roar of applause, initiated by Mlle Helen, who pays the bashful servant a generous compliment: “It'll be a treat, I can assume you, and a pleasant surprise for those of you who've never tasted real Algerian couscous!”
Toothless Monsieur Lazarus bursts into a fit of laughter. He almost swallows half of his napkin, chokes and sputters in his plate. Mme Liliane rushes over to the old man, pats him vigorously on the back until he is ready to drink some water.
I can hear Mr. Dupont gnash his teeth, in his own peculiar manner. Lofty and cynical, he suffers from asthma, doesn't talk much, but when it happens, no interruption is tolerated. Has two ways of approaching people. He either darts an eagle eye upon you - which means that you are interesting enough, although not necessarily sympathetic - or, he stares fixedly at his own image, reflected and multiplied in the cutlery, as if he were all by himself.
Someone is whispering to my left ... the ever-moaning and grumbling Countess: Austro-Hungarian, with some Russian blood, if I'm not mistaken. She's an alcoholic. Her wrinkled cheeks droop like those of an exhausted chubby cocker spaniel: “Hate that North African stuff! Heaven knows what she's put in the soup. Ha. soup! Vegetable porridge, yes! And those red peas over there; hot enough to pop your eyes out!”
Half-bent over his plate, Monsieur Lazarus falls asleep, munching a piece of boiled carrot.
Sudden bellowing of an animal in a slaughter house. The poor old man tries to clear his throat, pokes the monumental lady at his right in the ribs; he savagely rubs his Adam's apple with the other hand. A spoon lands in the plate of one of the inmates. Floundering in his chair, eyes wide open, tongue out, Monsieur Lazarus literally capsizes, head down.
Both Mlle Helene and her assistant get hold of him and drag the now unconscious mass out of the room. Silence for awhile. Not a sign of surprise, not a wink. Monsieur Dupont lifts an eyebrow of contempt. The monumental lady keeps staring - glassy, unperturbed expression of someone who is above such petty physical considerations. Leila's face has turned livid: “Anyone for some more couscous”' she probes in a faint voice. Her hand trembles as she is ladling out the soup. The Countess glares at Mr. Dupont and mutters: “How can you even hope to get cured with such pigs around you?” Her lips are rimmed with saliva. Mr. Dupont shrugs it off, then ignores her altogether.
Once the meal is over, most of the inmates retire to the adjoining salon, waiting for their cup of coffee.
The Countess cackles on, apparently indifferent to the fact that the monumental lady opposite her is not listening. In a nervy gesture, Mr. Dupont switches on the radio full blast, then lowers it, but not until the Countess has shut up. An educated man, conscious of his superiority, he imposes the choice of his programs on the others. He alwavs listens to the BBC's one o'clock news, monopolizing it, for no one else here understands English. Eventually, he lets them enjoy the boring 'Music-upon-request’ programme. After gulping his tepid beverage, he stands up, moves to the door and bids a vague goodbye.
The Countess, in want or companionship, turns to me: “Dreary place for a youngster like you, isn't it? I'm a grandmother, you know. You wouldn't think so, but I am. They've abandoned me, the rascals! Too much of a nuisance at home. That's why they sent me here. I'd rather be buried in the Pyramids than with these morganatic bums. They look like mummies anyway.”
Ten days of insulin coma therapy. Whirlwind or faces. Always the same trio: my handsome and bespectacled doctor, the fat Flemish nurse, and Yvonne, who is helping me get dressed. I am slowly awakening from that long woolly universe, teeming with shapeless forms - the so-called deep-sleep treatment.
My limbs and I behave like strangers; they seem reluctant to obey whosoever resides under that empty sound box which once contained a mind. Is it still there? If so, I don't recognize it.
A day or two later, I find myself sitting in the refectory. Total numbness. A vacuum. Then, sudden change when my eyes meet those of the girl who is waiting on us. Olive complexion, lustrous hair dotted with crystal drops; smile so sad that I wonder whether I should call it a smile. The trembling of my hands has ceased. I tentatively regain control of my senses. It hurts. All over. Wounds in the raw. As many needles as I have pores. Can't stand the sight of the people I am sharing this meal with. Is it the projection of a renewed outbreak of self-hatred? Room reeks of death. I smell it, breathe it, hear it. The perpetual wailings of Monsieur Lazarus. The hoarse, nerve-racking grunt of the Countess. Her new dentures, already black with nicotine - she had all her teeth pulled out a month ago. Mr. Dupont, who's hissing like a snake ready to strike. And the monumental lady, ever so mute, immovable; for all I know, she might have reached the hereafter a long time ago, unless she's practicing the language of the dead - sepulchral silence. I wonder if they have such a thing as an absorption centre down, or up, there, whichever the case may be. Do they apply a form of apartheid - soul segregation, that is? The only one to be spared my harsh judgement is Leila. Why she in particular? Except for the monumental lady, to me, Leila is the most inscrutable character around. There has never been between us more than a laconic exchange of courtesies. A hushed “How are you today?” or an impersonal “Bon appetit!” accompanied by that bleak and somewhat indomitable smile or hers. Maybe it's the sheen of her iris.
Snow