Free Mesmerised by Michelle Shine Page A

a moment to see if she’d say more.
    ‘When is your cough worse?’
    ‘At night, when I am outside in the cold.’
    ‘Is there anything that makes it better?’
    ‘Warmth. Hot drinks. When you rubbed my back the other night.’
    ‘Any other symptoms?’
    She does not answer and I can see from her face that it is a wilful silence. I place my hand on her shoulder.
    ‘I need to know.’
    ‘Sometimes there is blood when I cough into the handkerchief.’
    I have been writing and listening and observing and taking notes. Some gravy from my fork falls onto the page. It appears to me like the blood on my arm that fell from my nose. I think of giving Phosphorus immediately. When the problem began she was feeling sympathetic to the plight of another, this is how I felt when I was making the remedy.
    Sympathy equals Phosphorus.
    ‘I have your remedy. I am in the middle of making it. I will do it tonight,’ I say.
    She places a hand on my thigh and mouths the word ‘no’. She takes my plate into the kitchen and when she comes back she kneels before me. She reaches for my hand, pulls me down until I am kneeling too. I feel the heat from her fingers in my hair. There is an invisible cloud of patchouli perfume. I want to touch but I am afraid of hurting her. ‘Oh Christ,’ I mutter, but she has found my lips with a finger and then the warmth of her breath is upon me and I am aware of her lips, her tongue … .
    With first light, I open my front door and two painted canvases lean against the wall. One is a gold, bejewelled jug on a tarnished background with a message attached to it. The note says, ‘Thanks for all your help,’ and like the painting is signed Victorine Meurent. The other artwork is of the countryside around Paris and boasts rich green foliage. It is signed Camille Pissaro.
    I hang Camille’s over the fireplace and Victorine’s on the wall behind my desk. When I look upon these two works, I breathe a lighter air. The spirit of the artist is not confined to the canvas. It flies around the room and sits on my cheek like a kiss of hope.

 
     
     
     
    My Mentor, Clemens
    May 4 th (A reflection)
     
    ‘When we see men of worth, we should think of equalling them; when we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inward and examine ourselves.’
    Gustav Courbet
     
    Emotions hang out like shirttails and are not so easy to tuck in . I’ve set up an easel, placed paints on top of a board, but when feelings grab, they stun, and now I’m sitting on the windowsill watching the view of the street two stories below.
    There’s a man down there I think I recognise , a grey haired gentleman with a youngish face. He holds an ebony cane with an elaborate gold pommel in one hand as he brushes the dust off his clothes with the other. He looks up at this building and I jolt my head backwards so as not to be seen. He looks down again, checks his watch, then walks off towards La Chapelle. The man is Alain Desmarais. As his carriage pulls away in the opposite direction, huge red and yellow wheels catch me in their circular motion. They turn back the years to 1848, a lecture hall:
     
    ‘You drill holes here and here.’ Doctor Jacques Canard pointed at a drawing of a skull, with a stubby finger. ‘It helps with malaise.’
    ‘But has it ever cured anyone?’ I called out.
    ‘Monsieur Gachet, you always pose the most irksome of questions, probably because you wish to be perceived as someone a lot cleverer than you really are. I would like to remind you, and everyone else at this point, that you are not learning to be gods here, you are learning to become physicians. It will be your job to help manage suffering, not to become a healer. Monsieur Gachet, if that is your ambition I suggest you enrol at The Institute of Psychic Studies. That is if you can ever find it from your lowly position down here on Earth.’
    With laughter ringing in my ears, I walked out, resisting the temptation to slam the door.
     
    ‘Well,