eight years before Lazarus had signed on as resident physician.
My first customer had been a brute.
"You daft, daft boy." She sighed. "I don't think you half know what you've got yourself into. No matter." Her eyes went from icy to a warm, sympathetic blue, and she patted my elbow. "I don't forget me boys, Ira. However bad it gets, you always have a home here. Don't forget that. Now," she said, clearing her throat, "I'll put the word out about the Chinese girl and the statue, you can be sure about that. But were there anything else you needed as long as you're here?"
∗ ∗ ∗
The woman couldn't refrain from chortling as I peeled off my Whitechapel trousers and silk underthings. She dragged in a stool for me to stand on, to better inspect the area, she'd said, but I couldn't help thinking this humiliation was a bit of good-natured revenge on her part. Shivering up there in no more than my shirt and waistcoat, not five steps from a crowded waiting room, the mingled odors of vomit and disinfectant fighting for prominence in the stuffy little dispensary, I felt like a medical school display. Nonetheless, if Nurse Brand could tell me anything about the abominable itch that had settled over my genital region, I'd stand on that stool every day and twice on Sunday for the rest of my life.
"Nothing," she declared, stepping back at last.
"Nothing? How can there be nothing?"
"I'm only telling you what I see, and that's nothing. No sores, no rash, no sign of infestation--"
"But my bollocks are as red as a tomato," I cried.
"Only 'cause you've been scratchin' 'em. Didn't your mother ever tell you... No," she said in a chastened tone. "No, I suppose she didn't. It only makes it worse to scratch."
"Makes what worse?"
She shrugged.
"I don't know what to tell you, Ira. I don't see a thing. Are you havin' other symptoms?"
I frowned. There weren't any other symptoms to speak of, but that didn't mean they wouldn't come later. It wasn't as if it were totally unexpected. In my former line of work, no one went six months without some little burn or drip. But this was different. I could feel it. My palms were suddenly slick with sweat; I wiped them on my shirt.
"God's bollocks, I'm diseased," I muttered.
"Don't be stupid. And don't blaspheme." The nurse tossed me my drawers as I hopped down from the stool. "Are you sure it's not..." She tapped her temple with a long, square finger.
"You think I'm making this up?"
I shook out the drawers and loosened the drawstring. The silk felt cool and smooth between my fingers, but the thought of putting anything over my lower regions filled me with dread.
"It's happened before," she said. "Like that time...no, it were more than once, when you convinced yourself you had consumption..."
"It's not like that, Pearl!"
"Or maybe you're just feeling nostalgic. Remember when you coshed your own noggin with a bottle so's you'd have an excuse to pester the doctor?"
"I did not give myself a malevolent genital pox to get Timothy Lazarus's attention!"
"I'm happy to hear it," said a voice in the doorway.
We both looked over in horror, to where the good doctor stood, looking fresh as a daisy in a crisp shirt and brown trousers, his purple lump of a nose the only indication that he'd spent half the night wrestling on the floor of a Whitechapel dollyshop.
"Medical problems, Adler?" he asked. His voice sounded nasal and tired.
"Nothing that's any business of yours, Tim."
He glanced from the nurse to me. Looking closer, I saw his eyes were as red as mine felt. I derived no small satisfaction from the fact he'd probably stumbled out of bed with an unbelievable opium headache. He circled his left shoulder and winced.
"Come now," he sighed. "If you're having problems below stairs, you could do worse than confiding in an old friend."
"I suppose you'd enjoy going through my pubic hair with a lice comb," I mumbled. Avoiding his eyes, I shimmied into my drawers.
"Or you could let me have a look at your
My first customer had been a brute.
"You daft, daft boy." She sighed. "I don't think you half know what you've got yourself into. No matter." Her eyes went from icy to a warm, sympathetic blue, and she patted my elbow. "I don't forget me boys, Ira. However bad it gets, you always have a home here. Don't forget that. Now," she said, clearing her throat, "I'll put the word out about the Chinese girl and the statue, you can be sure about that. But were there anything else you needed as long as you're here?"
∗ ∗ ∗
The woman couldn't refrain from chortling as I peeled off my Whitechapel trousers and silk underthings. She dragged in a stool for me to stand on, to better inspect the area, she'd said, but I couldn't help thinking this humiliation was a bit of good-natured revenge on her part. Shivering up there in no more than my shirt and waistcoat, not five steps from a crowded waiting room, the mingled odors of vomit and disinfectant fighting for prominence in the stuffy little dispensary, I felt like a medical school display. Nonetheless, if Nurse Brand could tell me anything about the abominable itch that had settled over my genital region, I'd stand on that stool every day and twice on Sunday for the rest of my life.
"Nothing," she declared, stepping back at last.
"Nothing? How can there be nothing?"
"I'm only telling you what I see, and that's nothing. No sores, no rash, no sign of infestation--"
"But my bollocks are as red as a tomato," I cried.
"Only 'cause you've been scratchin' 'em. Didn't your mother ever tell you... No," she said in a chastened tone. "No, I suppose she didn't. It only makes it worse to scratch."
"Makes what worse?"
She shrugged.
"I don't know what to tell you, Ira. I don't see a thing. Are you havin' other symptoms?"
I frowned. There weren't any other symptoms to speak of, but that didn't mean they wouldn't come later. It wasn't as if it were totally unexpected. In my former line of work, no one went six months without some little burn or drip. But this was different. I could feel it. My palms were suddenly slick with sweat; I wiped them on my shirt.
"God's bollocks, I'm diseased," I muttered.
"Don't be stupid. And don't blaspheme." The nurse tossed me my drawers as I hopped down from the stool. "Are you sure it's not..." She tapped her temple with a long, square finger.
"You think I'm making this up?"
I shook out the drawers and loosened the drawstring. The silk felt cool and smooth between my fingers, but the thought of putting anything over my lower regions filled me with dread.
"It's happened before," she said. "Like that time...no, it were more than once, when you convinced yourself you had consumption..."
"It's not like that, Pearl!"
"Or maybe you're just feeling nostalgic. Remember when you coshed your own noggin with a bottle so's you'd have an excuse to pester the doctor?"
"I did not give myself a malevolent genital pox to get Timothy Lazarus's attention!"
"I'm happy to hear it," said a voice in the doorway.
We both looked over in horror, to where the good doctor stood, looking fresh as a daisy in a crisp shirt and brown trousers, his purple lump of a nose the only indication that he'd spent half the night wrestling on the floor of a Whitechapel dollyshop.
"Medical problems, Adler?" he asked. His voice sounded nasal and tired.
"Nothing that's any business of yours, Tim."
He glanced from the nurse to me. Looking closer, I saw his eyes were as red as mine felt. I derived no small satisfaction from the fact he'd probably stumbled out of bed with an unbelievable opium headache. He circled his left shoulder and winced.
"Come now," he sighed. "If you're having problems below stairs, you could do worse than confiding in an old friend."
"I suppose you'd enjoy going through my pubic hair with a lice comb," I mumbled. Avoiding his eyes, I shimmied into my drawers.
"Or you could let me have a look at your
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