Читать книгу: «Pierre»

CHAPTER ONE

‘Only the most exclusive clients are admitted to the Aura Clinic, Rosa. Celebrities, aristocracy, oligarchs. Even royalty,’ Nurse Jeannie explained as she took me through the routines on my first day here. ‘But there was quite a commotion when the poor young man in room 202 checked in. Excessive even by our standards. He’s our only client ever to have been accompanied by the police rather than his own security detail.’

‘They bring security with them?’ I looked at the rows of closed doors hiding all those sick, secretive people. ‘So they’re paranoid as well as rich?’

‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’ She slowed her pace beside me. ‘Some of them have good reason to look over their shoulders, believe me.’

I pointed at the guestlist she was holding, matched the name with the room number. ‘Levi? I’ve read about him and his brother. Powerful players in the arts world. That’s an Eastern European name, isn’t it? Transylvanian, like the vampires?’

Nurse Jeannie smiled. Her nose wrinkles like a cheeky kid’s when she smiles.

‘Funny you should say that. He does have something of the night about him. You know, that impenetrable air of mystery and tragedy. And danger. That deathly pale skin, that black hair.’

‘Goodness. You sound a bit smitten!’

‘He’s not my type. But I’m sorry for him.’ Her smile faded. ‘That vampirical air took him to the brink of a career in film. By all accounts he used to be drop-dead gorgeous.’

‘Used to be? Why, what’s happened to him?’

‘It was a hit and run. He was over from LA on family business and his brother’s ex-wife drove straight at him. It’s possible it was a case of mistaken identity, but he remains under police protection until she’s caught.’

‘Christ. Does everyone in this place have such a dramatic story?’

Nurse Jeannie tipped her head towards mine. ‘Not unless you count plastic surgery and hair transplants as dramatic.’

We continued our progress up the corridor, past room 198.

‘So this Mr Levi, is he terribly disfigured, like The English Patient?’ I tried to peer at the notes she was carrying. ‘Or is he brain-damaged?’

‘Neither. His head scans are clear. There’s existing scarring over his torso from a childhood fire and he sustained a fractured pelvis and two broken legs from this latest episode, but there’s only temporary facial abrasions. The problem goes deeper than that. It says here that he seemed fine initially. Demanding the use of a phone as soon as he was out of Acute Admissions, sorting out some crisis in Morocco.’ Nurse Jeannie ran her pencil down his records. ‘But since he’s been referred to the Aura Clinic he’s stopped talking. So you see, most physical injuries, the outward signs, can be fixed with time. It’s the internal, invisible destruction that’s harder to heal.’

I glanced over at Pierre Levi’s door, at the hefty guard perched on a jolly yellow-moulded plastic chair that was too small. Someone had obviously instructed him to try to be inconspicuous by wearing a cheap suit instead of a uniform, but it wasn’t working. He and the gun holster that bulged under his arm looked totally out of place in these hushed, convent-like surroundings.

‘Maybe he’s naturally silent.’

‘Not by reputation. That’s the sad thing. You probably know that he was a renowned artistic live wire, creating these risqué shows full of music and dance and colour. And behind the scenes he was famous for his hot temper and even hotter girlfriends.’ Nurse Jeannie smiled brightly as the guard glared at her. ‘Dr Venska says he’s withdrawn. Assessing him is proving to be a tough ask.’

‘You mean she may as well try to spin gold out of straw?’

‘A great way of putting it, Rosa. Those fairy tales sprang from centuries of human experience, didn’t they? But yes. No one knows if he’ll ever be the same up here.’ Nurse Jeannie tapped at one raised eyebrow under her choppy sandy fringe. ‘The light has gone out.’

The glow of pleasure at my new boss’s approval swelled to unpleasant heat as we marched on. They’d kitted me out with a regulation white uniform, but although it was too loose the combination of nerves and synthetic material was making me sweat.

‘When will I meet him?’

‘Not for a few weeks, until he’s cleared for general access. Not until they arrest his attacker.’

* * *

But today’s the day I officially come face to face with Pierre Levi.

The madwoman who nearly killed him has finally been caught in New York. Apparently she was planning to perform a hat trick by harming both his brother Gustav and Gustav’s fiancée. There’s been a flurry of press interest over the last few days, resulting in raised levels of noise and activity, phones ringing, doors flinging open and closed, disrupting this normally hushed, secretive institution. The staff have got all hot under the collar, patting their hair, smoothing their white coats, dancing attendance on the high-ranking detectives and film crews.

My post at the nurses’ station filing notes and my other tasks such as scrubbing floors have made it easy to hover about trying to eavesdrop on what’s going on in room 202.

This morning, though, the fuss has died down. I’m early for once, and the wards are quiet. They seem deserted, though that’s just an illusion. There’s always someone within earshot of an alarm button. I get changed and as I settle at the desk to await instructions I spot the colourful cover of Wow! magazine, left on the shelf.

Not surprisingly, given all the brouhaha round here yesterday, it falls open at an article about Pierre Levi. There are brief details of the hit and run that landed him in here, the campaign of hate and the arrest in New York of this Margot Levi person, but the few mugshots and long-range pictures of stretchers, ambulances or police cars are far outnumbered by a series of bright, swirling photographs taken inside what looks like an old-fashioned music hall.

The title of the piece is: THE WAY HE WAS.

In the main photograph a dark man is standing centre stage, dressed in the black frock coat, floppy white collar and dandyish ribbon tie of Toulouse-Lautrec and other debauched artists. He’s motionless, in sharp focus. His eyes are trained steadily on the camera despite the kaleidoscope of movement whirling around him, burlesque dancers in a blur of lace and feathers, high-kicking legs, outstretched arms, frilly knickers, grinning red mouths. It’s highly stylised, the female dancers reminiscent of the ballerinas of Degas, the males and the stage design recalling Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge in Paris during the fin de siècle era.

Photographs by Serena Folkes.

Those black eyes are burning into the lens, burning through to the photographer. To the viewer. They may not be clouded with pain and drugs in this picture, but they’re the same eyes that opened and looked at me, all too briefly, in room 202.

‘I’m not sure I should have authorised those interviews, trusted broadsheets or not.’ Nurse Jeannie interrupts my thoughts, making me jump. She is rushing down the corridor, adjusting her breast watch and the neat row of pens in her pocket. ‘Mr Levi’s absolutely exhausted. He’s a little more communicative, but mostly to grumble. Dr Venska and I are concerned that all this attention might set him back.’

‘You look pretty knackered yourself,’ I tell her, flicking the magazine into my basket of clean towels. I busy myself lifting a pile of Dr Venska’s files off the spare chair. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off for a moment?’

‘Between you and me, I’m quite high on all the excitement.’ Nurse Jeannie eyes the chair longingly, but remains leaning across the shelf above me. ‘But yes, I am tired. So, as most of the others are on other duties this morning, how about you help me get him ready for the day?’

I sit upright, still holding the files. They still feel suspiciously flimsy. ‘Really? I’m going to meet the mysterious man in room 202 at last?’

‘Not so mysterious, Rosa. Don’t deny you’ve managed a few sneaky peeks at him during your night shifts.’

My mouth drops open. ‘How do you know that?’

Nurse Jeannie points up at a neat little camera screwed to the ceiling. At the series of identical cameras, angled at intervals down the corridor.

‘Our clients pay a premium for guaranteed security, Rosa. Which is why we try to call them clients, or guests, rather than patients. So we make it our business to know pretty much everything that goes on within these walls.’

Heat spreads up my throat and into my cheeks. At least the CCTV cameras aren’t inside the rooms. At least they can’t read my mind. Can’t read the thoughts I have of awakening that particular client, like the Sleeping Beauty, with love’s first kiss on those firmly closed lips.

‘I’ve just, I’ve just been checking on him, Nurse. These summer nights –’

Nurse Jeannie smirks. ‘You about to break into that song from Grease?’

I hesitate. I have to prove that I’m trustworthy.

‘He often requests the garden doors to his room be left open. Sometimes when I’m taking a break outside he calls out.’

‘Don’t look so anxious, Rosa. You’re not doing any harm. But it’s best you put away any ministering-angel notions. He’ll more than likely ignore you.’ Nurse Jeannie rubs at her closely cropped hair. ‘By the way, you had the right to know the bare facts about his history but remember, discretion is our priority, even for part-timers.’ She leans closer over the desk. ‘Unless they’re having a baby, or dying, it’s top secret why our clients come here.’

‘Understood, Nurse Jeannie.’ I tug at the white plastic belt I have buckled round my waist to try to make the sack-like uniform fit me better, but all it does is bunch the fabric and make my breasts and hips look enormous. ‘So what’s our mission?’

‘Well, as you’ve undergone the appropriate training, we’ll give him a wash. Most of them look forward to being bathed like babies, but our man in room 202 doesn’t like it. He’s obsessive about hiding his old scars, which is odd, as he doesn’t seem to care about his new injuries. However, as you know, cleanliness and hygiene are essential for every resident, no matter how grand they are. It’s the one time when we can treat them all the same. No arguments.’ Nurse Jeannie raises her arm to knock at the door. ‘Oh, and take the belt off, Rosa. It’s not a regulation accessory.’

I undo the belt, leave it on my chair. I smooth down the frumpy uniform, but it’s wrinkled and sweaty where it’s been cinched round my waist. No time to sort it out, or change. I pick up the basket of towels, slide the magazine under the top one.

Jeannie opens the door and pushes me in ahead of her.

‘Mr Levi? I’d like to introduce you to our newest recruit, Rosa Cavalieri. She joined us about the same time as you did. Before that she was living in Rome. Not sure why she would leave such a beautiful city but – well, between you and me I’m guessing it’s to do with a broken heart.’

‘Nurse Jeannie, I told you that in confidence! Mr Levi doesn’t want to hear a load of crap about me!’ I put the basket of towels down and fiddle with the metal tab of my zip. ‘I thought you said discretion was our top priority?’

There’s a creak from the shadowy bed and what sounds like a snuffle of laughter. But somehow I doubt that’s possible. Not after Nurse Jeannie has painted a picture of this patient as a cross between the Elephant Man and Hannibal Lecter.

‘Just trying to inject some personal touches into the proceedings, Rosa.’ Nurse Jeannie steps over to the other side of the bed. ‘I believe you’re earning some extra pennies here two or three days a week while you – what’s your other job, Rosa? Waitressing, was it?’

‘Something like that. I do evening work. In a bar.’ I run the zip up and down beneath my throat. ‘I don’t want to tempt fate by telling you any more about it, if you don’t mind.’

‘See? She’s perfect for our purposes. A hard worker. And discreet to the death.’ Nurse Jeannie’s brusque Scottish accent melts a little. ‘So we decided to throw her in the deep end and give you a lovely scrub down, Mr Levi. I hope you don’t mind.’

There’s no answer. Maybe he’s passed out. It’s boiling in here. It’s one of the hottest July days we’ve had but the occupant of room 202 has the curtains pulled and, from the lack of traffic noise, the windows shut. Perspiration prickles along my scalp but at least my hair isn’t catching in my eyes and sticking in tendrils to my neck.

Nurse Jeannie might not have got my vital statistics right but before every shift she has taken to pinning my unruly curls into a knot because I’m useless at fixing my own coiffure.

‘Part of the dress code’, she declares, stroking my hair. ‘You shouldn’t hide those Bambi eyes. The patients need to see your expression.’

Since I last tiptoed into this room the bed has been pushed into the furthest corner, as far from the window as possible. Pierre Levi couldn’t have done it himself. He must have specifically ordered someone to move the bed for him. It’s as if he’s retreating from the summer heat. Trying to put off any more visitors. Or he’s sussed out my midnight flits.

All I can see is a huddle of white sheets beneath the hillock of a metal frame placed under the duvet to protect his legs.

‘Good morning, Mr Levi,’ I say, drawing closer. ‘How are you today?’

I pull at the zip but it has stuck. My fingers meet the warm skin of my throat and chest. The already loose top is gaping right down to my cleavage.

‘Do what you have to do, whatever your name is. But please. As little speaking as possible.’

Maybe it’s from conducting those newspaper interviews after weeks of silence, but Pierre Levi’s voice is rough and gravelly. Gruff with temper and sleepiness, and lack of use. I try to imagine that voice in happier, stronger times. Calling out directions on set, congratulating those dancers for a successful show, or giving thanks for an award.

Charming the pants off those hot dancers, fluttering around him, pecking like parakeets.

‘The minimum of disturbance, I promise, Mr Levi, but as you know I am the senior Matron and I have the right to speak when I deem fit,’ Nurse Jeannie murmurs, pulling back the curtains and kicking open the French doors to let in the air. ‘And as it’s the first time you’ve met Rosa, I must be allowed to instruct her on what’s required.’

The sunlight floods hungrily into the room, painting the plain furniture with its determined golden energy and giving everything shape and dimension.

The Aura Clinic is halfway between Kensington High Street and Cromwell Road and it’s good to hear the London noises. I’m a city girl, used to the honking of car horns and squealing tyres bouncing off old stone walls, the yelling and gesticulating of Roman drivers. I actively dislike the silence of the countryside. Cars and lorries, buses and bikes are the familiar hum of comfort for me. The backing track of my life.

‘I would prefer you to do the toilette, Nurse Jeannie,’ Mr Levi growls, wafting his hand in a camp fashion on the French word. ‘Not some junior trainee. You’ve seen it all before.’

‘Yes, but you can’t demand exclusive service from me, I’m afraid. All our staff are qualified to administer the toilette, as you call it, until you’re active enough to do it yourself.’ Jeannie pads back towards the bed. ‘Incidentally I’m afraid your brother won’t be visiting for a while. He’s been detained in New York. They have some happy news.’

A bee or wasp, heavy with pollen from the beautiful roses and flowers in the immaculate garden outside, nudges its way through the window and starts buzzing against the pane.

‘More news?’ he sighs, turning his head away from the light.

I keep my eyes on the bee, flailing uselessly against the smooth glass.

‘Not about the arrest this time. Personal news. Oh, dear, I thought you knew.’ Nurse Jeannie takes the sheet at the top and starts pleating it. ‘I’m sure they’ll want to tell you themselves.’

‘You’ve started, so you’d better finish, Matron. What is so important that Gustav has stayed in New York rather than coming back to London to see his sick brother?’

Any minute now that insistent drone of the bee will start to annoy me. It will annoy him, too. It seems to be getting louder.

‘Your brother’s fiancée – Serena, is it? – is going to have a baby.’

The silence in that room elongates like over-stretched elastic. A bird, alerted perhaps by a prowling cat in the grass, bursts from one of the perfectly clipped bushes near the window with a rising arpeggio of alarm. Pierre Levi remains totally silent.

‘Go into the bathroom and fill the big bowl with warm water, please, Rosa. You’ll see the special cleansing fluids and cloths in there, too.’ Nurse Jeannie continues folding the sheet down the bed, slowly uncovering Pierre’s body. ‘So, Mr Levi. You’re going to be an uncle!’

There’s something leaden in the silence emanating from the bed.

Time to take a really good look at him.

The whiteness of his skin, merging with the pillow, is accentuated by the bright daylight. If I hadn’t just heard his voice, reverberating with resentment, I could have sworn he was dead.

His eyes have remained closed since we walked in. He seems defeated, as if he’s offered no resistance and been beaten in a fight. His shoulders are broad, like a swimmer’s, but the effort of speaking to the reporter earlier, reliving the events, putting on a public persona, has visibly affected the rest of him. Despite being goaded into exercise by the physio, both in bed and in the pool, his arms are still too thin for a man of his size and build. The elbows and wrists too bony.

As Nurse Jeannie pulls the sheet down to his waist Pierre Levi screws his eyes tighter like a kid, and crosses those thin arms defensively over his chest. She unbuttons his old-fashioned pyjama jacket at the neck. The soft cotton has come open over his flat stomach, revealing a jet-black line of hair running south from his navel. Despite my semi-professional status it leads my gaze down, down towards the masculine shape, the forbidden bulge in the loose trousers.

‘Come on, Mr Levi. You know that when your eyes are shut we can still see you? We have to undo the shirt now.’

Nurse Jeannie’s voice has descended into a soothing murmur. Pierre’s black eyebrows draw together, but he lies back obediently as she undoes the remaining buttons and opens the shirt. She tries to roll him so she can remove the shirt altogether, but he grabs the sleeves to keep the shirt on.

‘Not today, Matron,’ he mumbles. ‘Not in front of the new girl.’

I glance back up to his bared torso. The cage of ribs is painfully visible. A cobweb of white burns snake over his chest, distorting the tissue. I’m glad Jeannie warned me, but scars, like spiders, have never fazed me. They represent an experience overcome. A badge of honour.

They’re a reminder that people like Pierre Levi and his fellow patients, for all their money and attitude, can’t avoid disaster or buy perfection. They’re not superhuman. Wealth and privilege can’t alter the fact that we’re all the same under the skin.

‘It’s not so bad getting undressed, Mr Levi,’ I joke, trying to close my gaping uniform. ‘I’m permanently having trouble with my outfit!’

He opens his eyes at last, but instead of looking at my face he immediately stares at the stuck zip. I look down, too. My plump breasts are plainly visible. In fact my futile efforts to conceal them are drawing attention to them even more.

There’s a flash of life beneath Pierre Levi’s black brows. Nothing like the intense, magnetic gaze I saw in that magazine, but could this be interest? Amusement? More likely to be disdain. I should probably feel uncomfortable, or affronted, being stared at like this. But I refuse.

He may be moody and arrogant but he’s still an injured man in a hospital bed. A good-looking injured man, probably horribly frustrated and definitely in a lot of pain.

The way he was.

Give the poor guy a break. He’s only human.

Take a good look, mate, I say to him silently. Call the shots if it makes you feel better but you can’t touch me. You’re just flesh and blood and, let’s face it, you’re lying there with a bunch of bust bones.

I will his eyes to meet mine. And when they do the dullness has cleared, as if he read my thoughts. That’s more like it. Those thick eyelashes flare round the black irises. It’s like facing down a wild animal. A wounded wild animal.

I raise one finger and run it slowly up the damp crack between my breasts. A little test. Pierre Levi’s eyes narrow, giving nothing away. I pull demurely at my uniform.

Now I see it. I see the wetness of Pierre Levi’s tongue as it runs over his lower lip.

Nurse Jeannie got it wrong. They all got it wrong. Despite the useless body, the lifeless eyes, the cold hostility. Those terrible scars. Or maybe because of all that.

He’s still alive. And he’s still drop-dead gorgeous.

‘Rosa? I need the soap and water over here, please. Time’s ticking on. We do have other clients to see to.’

Nurse Jeannie’s voice is more abrupt than it needs to be, senior Matron or not. I suspect the sternness is for the client’s benefit, not mine. I nod calmly and go into the bathroom to collect the bathing stuff. I’ve washed countless clients since I started here but this is different.

I stare at my reflection in the bright mirror. I know what I’ve just seen lying in that bed. A once thrusting, successful player, struck down by murderous intent, racked with pain and hiding from the world. But what does he see when he looks at me?

A dark-skinned girlish face flushed from the heat. Barely tamed black hair springing away from my damp face in crazy ringlets. My brown eyes look huge, even without make-up. Like one of those marmosets up a tree, watching for the enemy. It’s as if I’m trying to see right through the glass, through the wall into the sick room.

What else? Yes. The tops of my breasts bulging through the half-pulled zip like something out of a Carry On film. I tug at it again, but it doesn’t budge. I pull the stiff fabric together, and pick up the washing lotions.

I’m going to have to remember every bullet point of my training.

He’s a patient, not a person. A body, not a being.

When I come out of the bathroom the moment has gone. Pierre Levi has collapsed against the pillow again, his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see me, and he doesn’t want to see himself. Nurse Jeannie has moved the cage away from his legs and pulled the sheet and his pyjama trousers right down. I can’t see the legs. The more seriously broken left leg is encased in plaster. The right is wrapped in bandages. But the sheet has slipped away from his stomach, his groin, his bruised, swollen thighs. He is as naked as the day he was born.

And almost – almost – as helpless.

Nurse Jeannie stops talking and bends to her task with the soap and sponges. She directs me to hold the bowl while she runs the cloth over Pierre Levi’s eyes, behind his ears, nose and mouth, pushes his thick hair off his forehead so that it stands away in tufts. She squeezes the water out and takes a clean sponge to continue washing down his neck, over his chest. As she moves it slowly round each pec the nipples stiffen. She brushes the sponge across each tip, making it darken. His fingers curl into fists, but otherwise he doesn’t react.

It looks as if we are torturing him.

I stretch out and touch her hand, wet with soap and water.

‘Maybe we should stop this,’ I whisper, gulping on a ridiculous rush of tears. ‘He’s hating it.’

Nurse Jeannie’s face softens, but she shakes her head. She lays her hand on Pierre Levi’s chest.

‘You’ll feel better when you’re clean,’ she says quietly. ‘These restless nights you have.’

She squeezes the sponge, dribbles water playfully over his stomach, and starts to massage it in circular movements. My sister used to do that with her babies when they had colic.

With those long lashes fanned out over his cheeks and the hair pushed away from his eyes, Pierre’s face is more open and boyish. I long for him to catch me watching him. Maybe I could coax out another snuffle of laughter.