Little Hands Clapping (19 page)

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it is a terrible shame that these people do what they do, but they will have exhausted every other avenue, and it is helpful for all concerned when they do it in the museum. This way they have not died in vain. You see, Hans, if our supply was to dry up, who knows how downhearted it would make me? Maybe I would even become too despondent to cure people.’ He threw a small fatty chunk in the air, and the dog leapt up and caught it. ‘If you look at it that way, these poor souls are just like you and I – servants of Hippocrates.’

The doctor was feeling more optimistic than he had for a long time. With the nights drawing in, and people’s thoughts turning ever darker, he was sure it wouldn’t be long before somebody was to arrive at the museum in search of release from their troubles. And in the meantime he had a whole body waiting for him.

When his plate was clean he went through to the garage and opened the freezer. There it was, naked and ready, crystals of ice brilliant white against the skin. The doctor had eaten a Vietnamese woman before, and a Turkish man, but this would be his first taste of such dark brown, almost black, flesh. He felt a little embarrassed about having been so wary of it, and for the last time he reminded himself that he was a doctor, that his training and experience told him the flavour would be much the same as if it had been any other colour. ‘Even at very low temperatures,’ he called through to Hans, who had stayed in the kitchen, ‘food cannot be frozen indefinitely.’ It was time to get on with it. He assembled his equipment and started getting the body ready.

By the time the job was finished the man was in pieces: some parts were defrosting on trays in the refrigerator, and others were hanging from hooks. A few bits had been set aside for Hans, and anything unsalvageable had been thrown into a black plastic sack. The doctor swabbed the floor, and all that was left to do was clean himself up and change into a fresh pair of pyjamas, then he would be able to unwind in bed with a glass of water and a leaf through one of his photograph albums.

As he turned off the light he saw that a small red indicator was shining from the empty freezer where the body had lain curled up for such a long time. He walked over to the socket on the wall and was about to pull out the plug when he stopped. He decided to leave it on. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be empty for long. Somewhere somebody would be on their way.

By the time the sun came up and she could see out of the window, Madalena’s train had left the city and was passing through countryside. She felt numb. Then she felt sick. Then came a raging pain, as if insects were trapped inside her body and struggling to scrape their way out through her skin. One by one these insects gave up, and she felt numb again. She hoped this would last, but soon the nausea returned, and the scraping. Her eyeballs throbbed.

The train slowed to a halt. She had taken the first one going in the right direction, and it seemed to be stopping at every station along the way. There would be three changes before she reached her destination. It was going to be a long journey. She looked up to see that somebody had sat down in the seat across from hers. She knew she mustn’t draw attention to herself, that she had to get there without anybody finding out what was happening to her.

She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

Not far from Doctor Fröhlicher’s house was a large park where people would go to walk their dogs. Often the doctor would take Hans there, and for a while he would merge with his surroundings, the complications of his life ebbing away as he became just another man taking a stroll with his dog.

In the clear light of the Sunday morning he stood on the path in his coat and scarf, and watched Hans run across the grass, his paws marking green tracks through the frost as he hurried to play with a familiar Afghan hound. For a few minutes he lost himself in the serenity of the scene, happy just to watch his dog. His heart sank as he heard a pair of feet scrape to a halt beside him. He knew what this meant: one of his patients had seen him, and had decided to pass the time with a little light conversation. As always this conversation would begin with some mild observations about the weather and the glossiness of Hans’ coat, followed by some words of admiration for
men of medicine
. Then, lost for what to say next, the patient would start making small talk about anything medical that entered their mind. He reminded himself that this was one of the hazards of the job. On his first day at medical college he and his fellow students had been taught that everybody feels the need to make polite conversation with doctors, but very few people know how to go about it, and once the civilities are over they flounder. Before they were taught anything about healing the sick they learned a number of techniques for coping with the tedium of such encounters. Remembering his training, he readied himself for this familiar ordeal. He turned in the direction of the sound, and it was just as he had supposed: his patient Irmgard Klopstock was smiling up at him, her short, grey hair peeping out from her woolly hat. He returned her smile.

‘Good morning, Doctor Fröhlicher,’ she said, her voice quavering, as if it was on the edge of nervous laughter.

‘Good morning, Frau Klopstock.’

‘It’s very cold today – the first really cold day of the year.’

Doctor Fröhlicher nodded, and returned his gaze to Hans. Together they watched him play.

‘Hans is such a lovely dog. And what a glossy coat he has – you must feed him only the finest food.’

The doctor acknowledged this with a smile and a nod.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, doctor, but it is so reassuring to see you relaxing. You deserve it. I have nothing but admiration for you men of medicine. You all work so hard.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, impatient for her to continue her walk so he could go back to unwinding, ‘but it’s just a job like any other.’

‘No, no, you are being modest. You work very hard.’

Although obliged to deny it with a shake of his head, he agreed with her. Doctors did indeed work exceptionally hard, and he knew he worked harder than most. Since Ute died he had only ever taken three days off each year, one on her birthday, one on their wedding anniversary and one on the date of her death, and only then if they fell on weekdays.

‘You are tireless,’ she said.

‘As a matter of fact, Frau Klopstock,’ he said, ‘I am rather tired at the moment.’ It was true. With so much on his mind he had been having some difficulty sleeping, and he hoped she would take the hint and carry on with her walk.

Frau Klopstock mistook the comment for a joke. ‘Oh, Doctor Fröhlicher, I have always admired your sunny way. I will never forget your wonderful bedside manner when I had that problem with my . . .’

She stopped, and Doctor Fröhlicher carried on looking at Hans.

‘Oh, I’m being silly. You are, after all, a man of medicine. There’s no need for me to be bashful with you . . . When I had that problem with my anus, Doctor Fröhlicher, and you were so patient with me. You went out of your way to put me at my ease.’

The doctor recalled the problem. He had indeed been patient with her, but he was always especially patient with people who came to him with such troubles. Every doctor has an area of particular interest, and this area interested him greatly, so much so that the probing and the observations could almost count as a hobby. He would take investigatory photographs which, strictly speaking, did not need to be taken, and which, once taken, ought really to have remained among confidential files; they really shouldn’t have found their way into a series of albums that he kept on top of his wardrobe, and which he would sometimes leaf through last thing at night. He smiled at the memory of Frau Klopstock’s difficulty, and told himself that at some point over the weekend he would make himself a mug of hot chocolate and have another look at the pictures.

‘And then there was the time I had that terrible pain in my shoulder. It just wouldn’t go away, and, doctor, I came to you . . .’ And thus continued a full summary of her recent medical history. With the highlight over so early, the remainder was quite unexceptional. There were aches, rashes, viruses and a toe that was not broken after all, just badly bruised. The only moment of drama came when she recounted the difficulty she and her husband Franz had experienced in their attempts to conceive a child. Marrying late in life they had known it was likely to be difficult, but, as she explained, it was still very saddening to find that it was a biological impossibility. When her exhaustive account of his prescription of a mild topical fungicide for an easily combated skin complaint ended with a sigh, it was clear that she had finished, and Doctor Fröhlicher supposed he should say something.

‘But you are well now?’

‘Oh yes, doctor. Although I have lately been suffering from an occasional very slight toothache.’

‘I suggest you see your dentist about that.’

‘Oh, of course. I was just mentioning it, since you asked. After all, I’m sure you’re interested in medical difficulties no matter where they occur in the body, aren’t you, doctor? Oh look, here comes Hans.’

The Afghan hound had been called away, and the Labrador ran up to his master and rubbed against his legs.

‘It has been very nice talking to you, Frau Klopstock,’ said the doctor, ‘but we really must be off now.’ He put Hans on his lead, and began to walk away. After a few paces Hans stopped, and began to choke. Nothing came up. The doctor could feel Frau Klopstock’s eyes following them, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before she said something.

‘Poor Hans,’ she said, as she glided towards them.

‘He will be fine. I expect he has just been eating twigs or fallen leaves.’ Doctor Fröhlicher patted Hans’ rump, and they made it a few more paces before the dog started to choke again. This time whatever it was that had been bothering him came up and lay on the ground, steaming in the cold air. Doctor Fröhlicher led Hans along, but they had only gone a few paces when his patient’s voice called from behind.

‘Doctor Fröhlicher,’ she said.

He turned to see her bent over, staring down at the pile of vomit.

‘Oh, Doctor Fröhlicher,’ her voice was quavering even more than usual, and her hand was pressed to her heart. ‘I think you should come here. Hans does indeed seem to have brought up some leaves and, I think, a very small twig. But it’s not only that, doctor – he also seems to have produced something else . . .’ She looked up. ‘Something rather extraordinary.’

Doctor Fröhlicher walked back towards the scene of Hans’ choking fit. And there, in the middle of a puddle of slime, lay a large, dark brown penis.

The doctor had to think fast. ‘I am very sorry that Hans has embarrassed you in this way, Frau Klopstock,’ he said. ‘Please look away.’ She closed her eyes and he took a small plastic dog-mess bag from his pocket, bent down and picked it up. He tied the bag shut.

‘You may open your eyes.’ He lowered his voice and moved his head towards hers, emphasising that he was taking her into his confidence. His mind raced as he calculated the best thing to say, and the most doctorly vocabulary to use. ‘I am afraid, Frau Klopstock, that what you have just witnessed is something of a hazard of my profession. A general practitioner’s dog will often find himself party to very unfortunate, in this case tragic, incidents. And sometimes, in the mayhem of a medical emergency, the innocent hound, knowing no better, will . . . sample a foodstuff that he ought not to have sampled.’ He cast his eyes in the direction of the parcel in his hand.

‘Oh, Doctor Fröhlicher, I had no idea. How terrible – for you, and of course for the poor soul.’

‘I am, as you say, a
man of medicine
. It’s all part of a day’s work for me. However, you are absolutely correct to observe that this kind of episode is indeed awful. I can assure you, though, that I shall personally reunite this part of the poor man’s anatomy with the rest of his remains in good time for his interment.’

She nodded.

‘And of course, Frau Klopstock,’ he said, ‘you will understand that this all-too-commonplace aspect of the job is not one which the profession wishes to advertise. I have no doubt, though, that I can count on your tact in this matter – for the sake of the departed, of course.’

‘Doctor Fröhlicher, my lips are sealed. After all, it would be little comfort for the poor man’s family to know that this awful incident had occurred – here in a public park, as well. You doctors never cease to amaze me with your dedication and discretion.’

‘As I said, it is just a job like any other. Now if you will excuse me, Hans and I really must head home. We have something of a busy day ahead.’ He put the plastic bag in his coat pocket. ‘Come, Hans,’ he said, and they walked away.

When they had gone only a few metres Hans stopped, and once again began to retch. Something came out, but Doctor Fröhlicher, impatient to get away, pulled his dog along, not looking to see what had emerged this time. Frau Klopstock, on the other hand, found herself overwhelmed with curiosity and was unable to resist going to see what Hans had brought up. The doctor was stopped once again by the sound of her voice.

‘Doctor,’ she called. ‘Doctor Fröhlicher, your dog has just vomited something that looks to me like a . . . oh dear . . . oh, doctor, I wonder what the medical term is?’ She didn’t want to appear foolish by using the wrong words. She looked at the wrinkles, and the wire-like hair, and thought back to her Human Biology lessons at school. At last the phrase appeared in her mind, and her eyes lit up. ‘Doctor, it appears to be . . .’ she put her hand to her mouth. Remembering the importance of discretion, she continued in a stage whisper, ‘. . . it appears to be a scrotal sac.’

After sitting on a station bench for almost two hours, Madalena boarded her second train. As it idled at the platform she took a pen and pad from her bag and started making notes. She wrote that she felt as if she was being attacked by the world and by herself, and as if barbs were tearing at her skin. She read this back and could see how inadequate it was, how it didn’t come close to capturing how she really felt. Knowing she had to do better she carried on, writing that she hated herself, that she was an idiot, and a liar, and dangerous. She said she could see no light, that she knew she could never be a worthwhile person, or a happy one. This was more like it, but as she went on it became clear that so many of the feelings that were assaulting her couldn’t be pinned down by language: they were unique to her, and there was no reason for anybody to have come up with words for them. There were so many of them too, each one different from the next. She thought for a moment of the eyes of a fly, but flies’ eyes were orderly, and her feelings were a mess. To capture and record them she would have to create a whole new lexicon, and that would be pointless because only she would be able to understand it, and anyway most of these feelings didn’t give her nearly enough time to evaluate them, they just burst into her life for a moment, spitting their venom before going away to be replaced by something similar in its ferocity but different in every other way.