Mesmerised Read Online Free

dampness from perspiration. Opening the buttons on his nightshirt, I can see that the rash continues all over his torso. I sit down beside him, and feel swollen glands just above his throat. ‘Can I rinse this?’ I ask, taking a spatula out of my bag. She shows me to a tap in the kitchen. Cloudy water sputters forth. I wait until it runs clear, then on returning to the bedroom I tip Leon’s chin towards the light. ‘Can you open your mouth wide?’
    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