Mesmerised (3 page)

His throat is inflamed and pussy. I replace the covers on top of him, pull down his lower eyelids and look into his glassy eyes; his pupils are dilated. He begins to cough, a dry, barking sound.

‘Is he eating?’

‘He asked for raw vegetables, but he didn’t eat them. His throat hurt.’

‘Is this what he normally eats?’

‘No, no,’ Suzanne laughs as if the premise is amusing.

‘Is he drinking?’

‘Only a few sips, if I insist.’

‘He has a high fever.’

‘Yes, this is what made Edouard worry and stay at home today instead of going to the
Café de Bade.’

I take my case on my lap and hunt through the bottles for some
Belladonna and ask Suzanne to fetch me a spoon. I tip one pillule onto it then tip it straight into Leon’s mouth. From a sheaf of small square papers I take one and sprinkle some sediment of Belladonna onto it, then wrap it into an envelope.

‘If he has a bad night pour this powder into his mouth,’ I say, handing the paper to Suzanne. ‘I’ll come by sometime tomorrow.’

‘I have another envelope just like this from Doctor De Bellio for Edouard. How can I tell them apart?’

I take my pen from my jacket pocket and ask for Leon’s surname.

Suzanne hesitates.

‘His surname is
Kalle. ‘K-A-L-L-E,’ she says.

I write it
on the corner of the waxed paper. Suzanne does not ask and I don’t wish to alarm her but my diagnosis for Leon is Scarlet Fever.

Bathing is not easy. It is no wonder that so many of the population avoid the performance. My bath is tin rather than cast iron, so that I can manoeuvre it into the main room.

I carry
the great vessel with some difficulty, and place it on the rug between my living and work area. I light the fire so I won’t catch cold, then begin the long and laborious process of heating large pans of water on the stove.

As I do this I think of Edouard. It is well known that he spends at least three nights a week at his mother’s house, and uses her address for all his correspondence. The logical assumption is that Leon is his son, and Suzanne is the mother. So, Edouard is living with Suzanne to do the right thing by her, whilst at the same time pursuing his career and his freedom. Perhaps his parents have tolerated this behaviour as long as the relationship is not alluded to and the boy is not known to be his own or Suzanne’s. I understand that it is all about saving face, and yet, this situation is bothering me. Something is not
quite right with my assumption.

An abrasive bar of
pearlash soap waits for me on the arm of an adjacent chair. It’s getting dark and I am very tired, pleased to strip off and soak. Steam rises. The fire mesmerises with its leaping flames and the ghost of an acrid scent clings to my nostrils. I lay my head on the side of the bath and grow sleepy but I am troubled.

It’s an old memory. I was a twelve-year-old boy. It was a Sunday afternoon
. A trail of black threads crossed the sky. Thick soot entered my parent’s house through cracks in the window frames. My mother and father held handkerchiefs over their mouths trying to stifle their coughs and I rushed outside to investigate. Wafting heat made the air hazy. The whole village had come out to see what was happening, blocking my way, so I ducked and dived through the throng.

‘Everybody’s out so don’t go any
nearer,’ an old hunchback said, grabbing hold of my arm.

The inn was on fire. I heard the sound of horses in distress and wrenched my arm away.
I ran like a river that spilled over its dam. As I neared the inferno my skin pricked and reddened but I was determined to get to the barn. Only seconds before the roof collapsed I kicked down the large doors and ran backwards, five stallions rushing past me like a glorious wind.

I lie there, for some time, watching black shadows dance upon the wall, then move over to the sofa wrapped in a towel, letting the fire penetrate with its warmth. I think about this morning at the Café de Bade: the speeches, the camaraderie, the calling out, the solemn backslapping and shaking of hands. The cartoonist who works for the newspaper,
L’Avenir Nationale
, as he sat on a stool by the bar and drew the scene – an image that will be presented to the populace by breakfast tomorrow morning.

And something wonderful
. She wore a white lace dress that was both demure and shapely. Her eyes quietly demanded my attention. I looked away but found myself magnetically pulled towards her. She lifted the back of her hand to her lips and laughed. Her amusement created boldness inside me and without thinking I approached her.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘I’m
Doctor Paul Gachet, from Lille.’

‘Blanche Elisabeth
Castets. I am a musician,’ she said.

We agreed that I would call at her house on Saturday at eleven. We’d go for a walk.

‘And will this suit your parents?’ I asked.

‘
Doctor Gachet, if I had parents, I doubt I would be here now. Both my parents died in the cholera epidemic. I live in their house, alone.’

‘And you play an instrument.’

‘I play the violin – self-taught, for a living.’

‘I have patients who will be waiting for me,’ I said, glancing at my watch.

‘Until the weekend then,’ she replied, embracing me with a smile that captured and accompanied me for the best part of an hour whilst I made my way home.

La
Salpêtrière

April 1
7th

‘The physician’s high and only mission is to restore the sick to health, to cure, as it is termed.’

Samuel Hahnemann
, The Organon of Medicine.

The room is arranged like an auditorium. Twenty doctors and students sit on low chairs. These men are expectant, hoping to witness mastery over the human mind. Magic has been medically adopted here, and the place vibrates with the frisson of conversation.

We have been kept waiting for over fifteen minutes but no one seems to care. The sun peers through the clouds and throws a devilish heat into the room through a large picture window. I pull my collar away from my neck just a
s he appears with his entourage. His audience is silenced.

‘Good morning gentlemen.’

He receives a rumble in reply.

‘For those of you who don’t know me I am
Doctor Jean-Martin Charcot, Head of Neurology here at La Salpêtrière. This is a beautiful morning, don’t you think?’ He pulls his jacket sleeves towards the heels of his hands. ‘I intend to give you a powerful demonstration that will change the way you think about the human brain. I have with me my helpers and a patient named Manon.’ Charcot stands with his right hand on his heart, a handsome man, slightly hunched, with white swept-back hair and a serious demeanour. ‘Come here Manon.’

My poor
Manon has not been looking forward to this charade. She wouldn’t let anyone come near her this morning. Now she stands with her head bowed, still in her nightgown, and with the heaviest of frowns upon her face. Her hair is oily from fear and sweat and the way it hangs limply mirrors her mood.

‘Madame
Bottard, can you bring Manon over here?’

Marguerite
Bottard is short and squat with grey, wiry wisps escaping her bonnet.

‘Ce
rtainly Doctor.’

S
he places her hands on Manon’s shoulders and guides the patient towards Charcot.

‘No, let her stand back a little so there is space between us and stay behind her, only slightly to the left
, so these gentlemen can see. Thank you nurse, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Charcot smiles with some difficulty and Marguerite blooms. Charcot pulls a gold watch on a long chain from his top jacket pocket, testing its weight in his hands.

‘Hypnotism, gentleman, is not just entertainment for the café-concert. It is supreme power over the neurological functions of the human brain. Please watch carefully. Look up
Manon!’

Marguerite shoves the patient from behind. She falls forward a step and looks up at Charcot. He starts to swing his pocket watch before her eyes.

‘Do not blink. Just watch, Manon.’

Her head flops towards her chest.

‘Look up!’ Charcot cries.

Manon
lifts her head again and Charcot clicks his fingers suddenly in her line of vision.

‘Your grief will come out!’

Marguerite Bottard licks her lips and smooths her pinafore with her hands.

Manon
lifts herself up and yells heartily for several moments. Then her eyes focus on something in the middle distance. For several seconds she is quiet. She starts to cry. ‘Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. I can’t go through this again. No, no, no, don’t make me go through this again.’ And she collapses in a sobbing heap.

‘Aha!’ Charcot turns towards us medics, a slight smile appearing on his thin lips as if he has just won the war. He bends down and
clicks his fingers once again in front of Manon’s face. She doesn’t move. The sound of her weeping is unnerving. I’m not the only one to squirm in my seat.

The nurse and a student haul
Manon off the floor. They make a support with their arms behind her back and walk her out through the door. We hear their footsteps slapping marble into the distance.

‘So you see gentlemen, we have power at our liberty to overwhelm our patients. We can transfix them. We can ignite their emotions. We can induce hysteria. And this morning you have witnessed
just an iota of our capabilities as scientists and physicians. Gentlemen, we are on the threshold of great discovery.’

At H
ome

April
17th, eve

‘Besides the stomach, the tongue and the mouth are the parts most susceptible to the medicinal influences; but the interior of the nose is more especially so … .’

Samuel Hahnemann
, Organon of Medicine.

My kitchen/dispensary is almost finished. There are now half a dozen shelves along the wall facing the window. They support my brown bottles of mother tinctures:
Chamomilla
, Calendula, Arnica – all plants from the
compositae
family. Pulsatilla,
Staphisagria
, Aconite from the
ranunculaceae
, and so on and so forth.

I have twenty-
one of these bottles all in all, and one very large, transparent, glass decanter, which is full of pure alcohol. I keep it on the floor. My high-potency liquid remedies are in a big cupboard at the top, in medium-sized blue bottles. Crude minerals that I have collected over the years are at the bottom. Next to the cupboard is an Admiral’s chest with over a hundred small drawers filled with little vials of pillules: different remedies, in different potencies, in alphabetical order. Opposite are the sink, the gas stove and the surface where I make and dispense.

My pharmacy has a semi-circular window with frosted glass that shields me from the sight of the well. There is no gaslight, so I have quite a few candles burning on plates. Moonshine stubs the window. I sit on a stool in front of the worktop grinding down
phosphorus with a porcelain pestle and mortar. Voices rise up through the well and squeeze through the glass.

‘My God, I’ll hit you if you ever come home with another woman’s sweat on your clothes.’
– Two shadows in the window like puppets. Both have an arm raised as if to strike. I try to concentrate on Phosphorus.

‘You’l
l not hit me because I’ll hit you first.’

‘Th
en I will cut off your balls to make soup.’

‘But you won’t, my dear, because
I will have murdered you first. But tell me, why are we fighting when nothing has happened, Mathilde? We’re fighting and nothing’s happened, don’t you see?’ he begins to laugh.

‘I see. I see. Oh, Jean,
it’s funny, isn’t it?’ She laughs too.

The silhouettes merge.

I reach for the sterilised Egyptian kohl pot on the shelf. It brims with sugar powder. I fold small pieces of paper in a particular way, lay them out on the worktable and pour a small amount of powder onto each of them. Only one gets the phosphorus. Individually, I weigh them on a pair of brass scales. They must all weigh exactly the same.

Piano music seeps in from another apartment. I must make sure that I don’t forget which paper contains the
phosphorus as I wash the pestle and mortar thoroughly with soap and water, before putting them in the oven to dry. I pour the phosphorus into a clean mortar and add the contents of another envelope. Then I mill the mixture with a pestle for six minutes and, with a spatula, scrape the contents down into the bowl for four. I do this for an hour, with the addition of the contents of another envelope after each twenty minutes. It is a hypnotic affair. At first, I am conscious that my wrist is quite weak. Then that sensation dissipates as white powder circles around and around in the bowl like shifting clouds. A ring forms. I see an albino monk’s head. There is the chinking of china. There is the grazing of a spatula in downward motions from the sides. An avalanche that ends in gentle snowfalls that bank against the sides of the container and pushed into the centre becomes a mountain range. Candlelight. Fire. White fire. Phosphorus. The substance becomes finer. My pestle starts to glide. I have no body. Just a mind expanding like a balloon. Thoughts vie for my attention. Of how deeply Manon grieves. I see Camille’s kind face superimposed upon a portrait of his impoverished family. I feel as if it is me experiencing poverty and rejection. I push the mortar away from me. Drops of blood are falling from my nose onto my arm. I have, thankfully, saved the contents of my proving experiment. I escape into my consulting room, crying. Enormous sobs of vicarious sorrow. Feeling alone, older than my years, exhausted and thirsty, I sit on the chair in front of my desk, pinch my nose and start to pant.

I am experiencing the true nature of
Phosphorus.