Free The Restoration of Otto Laird by Nigel Packer Page A

needed for his nightly ablutions. After taking off his clothing, he gathered up the materials and headed for the bathroom.
    Back at home, the lighting was dim and discreet, allowing him to wash in a welcome soft focus. It was bright enough for him to see what he was doing, yet hazy enough to allow him to avoid the graphic detail. When he switched on the bathroom light now, however, and saw himself naked in its full-length mirror, Otto gasped in shock. The bathroom itself was luxuriously appointed: large sunken tub, marble tiles and a bidet. But its lighting was the stuff of nightmares. By creating a strong chiaroscuro effect, bathing parts of the room in a lurid brightness while hiding others in shadow, it threw his body into pitilessly stark relief. Not only did it emphasise every nook, cranny, scar, wrinkle, sag, vein, liver-spot and blemish on his grey and collapsing body, it elevated them all to some kind of hyper-reality.
    â€˜Well,’ said Otto, transfixed and repulsed by his own reflection, ‘there’s nothing beautiful about this raw material.’
    He was amazed at his own skin, which appeared to have acquired the shade and texture of beaten concrete. For one surreal moment, he saw himself metamorphose into one of his own buildings; one in urgent need of heavy maintenance.
    When did this happen? he asked himself. I know my body is on the downward slide – it has been for the past forty years or so. But I didn’t realise things had sunk quite this low.
    Were the lights at home in the villa really that flattering? Or had the ones in the hotel bathroom been installed by a sadist? There was no sign now of the dashing silver gentleman in the blue blazer and cravat. What a cruel illusion that had turned out to be.
    Fighting back squeamishness, Otto began to study the scars from his operations, then the other marks and blemishes recording a long, long lifetime of accidents, injuries and illnesses. He had taken quite a battering. The knots and weals remained etched upon his flesh, as deep and vivid as a Dürer woodcut. Each one represented a different memory – a different crisis or trauma in his life. Otto ran his fingers across these marks in fascination, recalling each incident, when he could, and wondering how on earth he had managed to get this far at all. He marvelled at the resilience of the human body, of the human beings who suffered these blows and still kept bouncing back. All was laid before him here, nothing now was hidden. In the unforgiving light of the hotel bathroom, Otto had become a living map of almost a century of pain.
    Twenty minutes later, he re-emerged from the bathroom. It was too late to call Anika – he would do it in the morning. He put on his pyjamas – yes, hide it all away now, please – and climbed into one side of the large double bed. Stretching behind him, he rearranged the pillows to his satisfaction, then set and checked the alarm clock that would wake him far too soon.
    Perhaps they should list me, he thought, reaching out to the bedside light to welcome darkness.

Eight
    Otto telephoned Angelo the next morning, to tell him he wasn’t feeling too good. In truth he felt fine; surprisingly so, given what he had witnessed in the bathroom mirror the previous evening. He felt oddly rejuvenated – mentally, at least – and decided to cancel their sightseeing in order to pursue an alternative itinerary.
    â€˜Do you need a doctor?’ asked Angelo, sounding concerned.
    â€˜I need a conservator,’ Otto replied. ‘But there’s nothing especially wrong with me this morning, if that’s what you mean. I’m feeling a little tired, that is all, and would like a quiet day reading in the hotel.’
    After telephoning Anika, he repeated the previous night’s procedure, but found that by opening the curtains and propping open the bathroom door he could avoid switching on any lights. While showering, he drew up a shortlist of