engulfing her in joy or destroying her.
A woman of about fifty in a velvet dressing gown opened the door to him. As soon as she saw Thibault, her expression brightened.
‘You again!’
Neither the address, nor the place, let alone the woman’s face, were familiar to him.
‘Sorry?’
‘You were the one who called a fortnight ago.’
He let it go. He thought that the woman must have confused him with another doctor. He followed her in, looking around as he went. The sideboard in the living room, the porcelain knick-knacks, the thick curtains in the bedroom, didn’t look familiar either. Nor did this woman’s thin body, her pink nylon nightdress, or her long painted nails. After he listened to her chest, Thibault asked if she had kept her last prescription so that he’d know what treatment she’d been prescribed. The headed paper she showed him had his name on it. He spent a few seconds looking at the prescription, with his own writing on it and the date – 8 May – when he had indeed done a 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift.
During a shift it’s not unusual for him to see two or three patients he knows. But normally he can remember them.
The woman had all the symptoms of a secondary bronchial infection. He wrote out a new prescription with his right hand, as he has done for years, although he is left-handed. He looked around one last time. Hand on heart – what was left of it – he could have sworn that he had never before set foot in this apartment. Yet he’d been there twelve days previously.
He has only eight fingers. Five on one hand and three on the other. That is part of him, the missing part, a thing defined by its absence. It’s a moment of his life, a date, an approximate time. A moment inscribed on his body. Or rather subtracted from it. It happened one Saturday night at the end of his second year as a medical student.
Thibault was studying at Caen. He went home to his parents one weekend a month. He used to meet his old school friends for a drink and then they’d go to the Marechalerie, a disco about twenty miles from home. Four or five of them would pile into Pierre’s van. They’d drink spirits at the bar, dance a bit, look at the girls. That evening he and Pierre had had an argument about nothing, and then things had escalated, something that went back a long way had come up out of nowhere. He was studying medicine and Pierre had failed his bac. He was living in Caen and Pierre was working in his father’s garage. Girls liked him; they noticed his fine hands. Pierre was well over six foot and weighed about nineteen stone. Pierre was dead drunk. He had pushed Thibault several times. He was shouting above the music: ‘I don’t give a fuck about your pretty-boy face and your nice family.’ People cleared a space around them. They were asked to leave. Around three in the morning, they got into the van. Thibault sat in the passenger seat, the two others were in the back. Pierre was still outside, furious and refusing to get behind the wheel until Thibault got out. Till he beat it. Till he pissed off. He’d just have to walk home. The door on Thibault’s side was open. Pierre stood there and demanded that he get out. They argued back and forth for a few more minutes, the voices of the two others protesting above theirs. At exactly the same moment they both gave in. Thibault put his hand on the door frame to get out just as Pierre slammed the door shut with incredible force. The van shook. Thibault cried out. His hand was trapped and the door was jammed. Each of them in turn pulled, rattled and kicked it. Inside, Thibault was struggling not to lose consciousness. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, panicky and confused, their movements slowed by alcohol, insults being fired off on all sides, and him, alone in the cab, his hand held fast by the metal. Half an hour, an hour, maybe more. Perhaps he fainted. When they managed to get it open, Thibault’s hand was literally crushed
A woman of about fifty in a velvet dressing gown opened the door to him. As soon as she saw Thibault, her expression brightened.
‘You again!’
Neither the address, nor the place, let alone the woman’s face, were familiar to him.
‘Sorry?’
‘You were the one who called a fortnight ago.’
He let it go. He thought that the woman must have confused him with another doctor. He followed her in, looking around as he went. The sideboard in the living room, the porcelain knick-knacks, the thick curtains in the bedroom, didn’t look familiar either. Nor did this woman’s thin body, her pink nylon nightdress, or her long painted nails. After he listened to her chest, Thibault asked if she had kept her last prescription so that he’d know what treatment she’d been prescribed. The headed paper she showed him had his name on it. He spent a few seconds looking at the prescription, with his own writing on it and the date – 8 May – when he had indeed done a 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift.
During a shift it’s not unusual for him to see two or three patients he knows. But normally he can remember them.
The woman had all the symptoms of a secondary bronchial infection. He wrote out a new prescription with his right hand, as he has done for years, although he is left-handed. He looked around one last time. Hand on heart – what was left of it – he could have sworn that he had never before set foot in this apartment. Yet he’d been there twelve days previously.
He has only eight fingers. Five on one hand and three on the other. That is part of him, the missing part, a thing defined by its absence. It’s a moment of his life, a date, an approximate time. A moment inscribed on his body. Or rather subtracted from it. It happened one Saturday night at the end of his second year as a medical student.
Thibault was studying at Caen. He went home to his parents one weekend a month. He used to meet his old school friends for a drink and then they’d go to the Marechalerie, a disco about twenty miles from home. Four or five of them would pile into Pierre’s van. They’d drink spirits at the bar, dance a bit, look at the girls. That evening he and Pierre had had an argument about nothing, and then things had escalated, something that went back a long way had come up out of nowhere. He was studying medicine and Pierre had failed his bac. He was living in Caen and Pierre was working in his father’s garage. Girls liked him; they noticed his fine hands. Pierre was well over six foot and weighed about nineteen stone. Pierre was dead drunk. He had pushed Thibault several times. He was shouting above the music: ‘I don’t give a fuck about your pretty-boy face and your nice family.’ People cleared a space around them. They were asked to leave. Around three in the morning, they got into the van. Thibault sat in the passenger seat, the two others were in the back. Pierre was still outside, furious and refusing to get behind the wheel until Thibault got out. Till he beat it. Till he pissed off. He’d just have to walk home. The door on Thibault’s side was open. Pierre stood there and demanded that he get out. They argued back and forth for a few more minutes, the voices of the two others protesting above theirs. At exactly the same moment they both gave in. Thibault put his hand on the door frame to get out just as Pierre slammed the door shut with incredible force. The van shook. Thibault cried out. His hand was trapped and the door was jammed. Each of them in turn pulled, rattled and kicked it. Inside, Thibault was struggling not to lose consciousness. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, panicky and confused, their movements slowed by alcohol, insults being fired off on all sides, and him, alone in the cab, his hand held fast by the metal. Half an hour, an hour, maybe more. Perhaps he fainted. When they managed to get it open, Thibault’s hand was literally crushed
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