"Gavi, there is someone for you at the reception."
This one sentence of her colleague Natalie is already arousing her mistrust. It had been three days since her nocturnal misadventure in Camden Town, and the more time passed, the more she felt coming the moment when she would hear about the crippled Jew again.
There, she is convinced that this visitor has something to do with this story, even before asking falsely detached, without taking the eyes of the file of a patient she completes, annotating the last care lavished. "What does he look like?"
"Well ... Jew, like most locals ..." Natalie replies, shrugging her shoulders with incomprehension.
"Did he growl?" Gavina insists, looking up at her.
"Uh ... how's that?" She shakes her head with a confused pout.
"Forget it, I'll see." Gavina finally gave in, she had her answer, Natalie would have known what she meant if he was the one she was thinking about. Moreover, she could hardly imagine him coming to speak to her in person. "Can you finish the report please?" "Of course."
She was no longer responsible on paper, but the years spent in this position and the experience counted far more in the eyes of her colleagues. Nothing had changed in reality, they still considered her responsible.
Leaving the waiting room, she sees at the end of the corridor the dark silhouette that she recognizes by the two wavy strands that protrude from the hat.
He watches the opposite corridor, on the lookout for her appearance. Her footsteps softened by her soft sandals, she arrives in his back without a sound.
"Ishmael, you're not with your boyfriend to carry me to the exit, you think you can handle me alone?"
He turns around hurriedly, trying to hide his embarrassment behind his raised eyebrows.
"What do you want ?" she continues with a sigh of annoyance.
"Mr. Solomons wants to see you, he's asking for your medical expertise." He replies, clasping his hands in a slow, controlled movement.
Gavina, hands in the pockets of her blue blouse de rigueur, looks at him from top to bottom with a mocking grin.
"My medical expertise, huh ... I'm sure he has very good Jewish doctors who would love to polish his boots, I'm just an Italian nurse: I do not work at home and certainly not for him." She starts slowly in a firm tone, which contrasts with the slight smile on her face.
Ishmael stamps briefly, trying to keep a neutral face. "You will be paid." He Insists.
Her smile grows, cheekily displaying her jubilation. "I could not care less about it even if I tried, you see? Tell him he can go to hell, exactly like that."
He opens his mouth again but suddenly she turns on her heels and goes back to where she came from, without even turning her head, leaving him standing in front of the reception desk.
"See you tomorrow !" Gavina answers on the fly to the other nurses who have finished their guard. She hangs her blouse at the coat rack and puts on her coat. Grabbing her purse, she trots to the exit so as not to be too far behind her colleagues.
As soon as she pushes the large glass door of the exit, a voice sounds behind her. "Gavina!"
She freezes, cursing herself for having dragged on again, the heavy door closing in front of her as if to illustrate the trap that was closing in on her.
"Gavina, have you finished Mr. Craig's file?" The man said, coming up behind her back.
She turns around, hiding her annoyance behind a polite smile. "No, Dr. Eddison, I'll take care of it tomorrow morning."
He raises his face with a stern expression, in his eyes shines a bad light. "No, I need it now." He insists.
But suddenly his face enlightens and from bad, the glow in his gaze becomes unhealthy. "You have better things to do, perhaps?" he adds in a sweet tone.
He steps forward a little more, lowering his face to her, voluntarily invading the space that Gavina tries to preserve by crossing her arms over her chest. His smell of cold tobacco and ether attacks her nostrils; the sharpness of his breath does not help.
"Do you have something planned tonight?" he continues, a mean smile growing on his face. He speaks less loudly, almost in her ear, like a confidence.
A cold sweat runs down her spine, Gavina moves back and her heel hits the door behind her. His eagerness became more and more evident, less and less feigned. So far Eddison had kept a certain amount of composure, always approaching her for professional reasons, at least in appearance, and keeping his distance despite the urgent glances he constantly addressed to her. But his sudden insistence and the almost physical pressure he exerts on her, shake her more than she would have thought possible.
Feeling her heart accelerate in her chest, she tries to ponder the words that are about to come out of her mouth, aware that at the next aggressive rebuff on her part, he will probably make her life a living hell, instead of having her fired.
The door suddenly opens behind her. A breath of fresh air surprises her, dissipating the tension around them.
"Miss Sanna, your car is waiting for you." Say a voice she recognizes before even turning around.
Dr. Eddison's gaze wavers confusedly between her and the intruder, before asking with a contrite air, "But who are you?"
"Mr. Sol ..."
"I'm sorry Dr. Eddison I'm expected," she loose before Ishmael was able to answer, trying to hide her relief. "You will have Mr. Craig's record at the first hour tomorrow morning."
Quickly placing a hand on Ishmael's chest, Gavina invites him to step back until the door closes behind them. The Solomons man obeyed but did not turn around, coldly staring at Dr. Eddison, who remained quiet on the other side of the glass door.
"Stop doing that, you're going to get me into trouble." She presses him in a low voice, watching his little intimidation game out of the corner of her eye as they walk away to the parking lot.
"Why did you cut me?" He reproaches, turning in the direction of the march. "I had only to say the name of Mr. Solomons and he would never have approached you again."
"This is not your problem, okay? It's my job here, you cannot land like that, when your boss feels like it !" she retorts, her tone sharp. "And I have no desire to be associated with him ... And what are you still doing here anyway? Have I not already sent you graze this morning?"
"Mr. Solomons is not the type to go to hell." He retorts with amusement.
"It's because you have not put enough conviction in it." She sighs.
"Fortunately for you, if I had not been there ..."
She stops abruptly.
"If you had not been there what?" she snaps, suddenly raising her voice, trembling with anger at Ishmael's hint. "Eddison would have fucked me against the door? Come on, lad, luckily for him! You spared him from being humiliated by a woman, and so much the better for my job, but I know how to defend myself alone. Are we clear? "
The young man looks at her with a surprised look, "Very clear ..." he answers in a low voice.
She stares at him for a few moments, before resuming her walk towards the big black car, which she supposes to be that of Solomons, followed immediately by Ishmael.
"I did not hear "thank you" though." he adds ironically.
She shakes her head and then jokes while rolling her eyes. "I'm coming with you this time; I think it speaks for itself, right?"
Despite the growing darkness of the falling night, Gavina notices that they are not at the bakery. Rich houses line the sidewalks on both sides of the deserted street.
Arrived in the vestibule of one of them in the wake of Ishmael, he then leads her upstairs and opens a door, inviting her to enter with a wave of the hand. Remaining behind, he closes the door without entering the room.
The room is dimly lit. Behind a large dark wood desk covered with papers, thick curtains completely hide the windows facing her and a faint smell of tea and coal floats in the heavy air of the room, warmed by the fire that burns in the hearth near her.
"Well, I almost waited! Are you there to heal me, yeah?" grumbles a gruff, heavy voice.
Turning her head in surprise, she barely discerns Alfred Solomons lying on a long sofa in the darkest corner of the room.
She sighs, shaking her head. "Why would I be here otherwise?"
"How should I know, lass? Huh? To tell me to go fuck myself, face to face, perhaps?" He replies.
"Do not tempt me ..." she laughs softly.
"Hm. All right, show me what you are worth, Samaritan woman."
"Wait." She interrupts immediately, suspicious. "Is it a test? Because I'm not going to be your personal nurse, let it be clear between us."
Solomons utters a short, sonorous laugh that does not express any amusement. "How Ishmael convinced you to come, I'd like to know, yeah! It's not a fucking test, Miss Sanna, my fucking back is stuck, and my damn sciatica is back again. I've been stranded here since yesterday like a fucking wreck! "He roars.
Interrupted, Gavina finally approaches the couch. She first notices a large leather briefcase on the floor, similar to that of doctors, before discerning Solomons, lying on his back, wearing a simple pants and shirtless, leaning against a cushion.
On the pedestal near him piled up papers and newspapers, surmounted by a pair of gilded spectacles. Next to it lies a tray containing a richly decorated porcelain teapot and an empty cup, which leaves scarcely room for a lamp whose flame is extinguished. Its brass foot is blackened by the patina of time and a box of matches sits in precarious balance.
It is on these unimportant details of the decoration that Gavina voluntarily lingers. To see a shirtless, or even completely naked man, was part of her daily life, but when she saw him, she was immediately struck by his appearance. He did not look exactly the same as when she met him. Rid of his coat and his clothes, his body appeared much more athletic. The firm-looking muscles of his chest and belly were outlined beneath his smooth-grain skin. Tattoos dotted his arms and his slightly hairy chest, which, lying down, seemed much wider and imposing than before. His hands, fingers intertwined, nonchalantly placed on the skin under his belly button, leaned on the waistband of his pants whose fabric formed a suggestive hump where his crotch was.
He no longer looked like a tired old man, on the contrary, she saw there a seductive man in full strength of age.
If it had not been for his facial hair and his peculiar way of speaking, she would hardly have recognized him. This stark contrast with what she expected to see had taken her by surprise, piquing her interest, the kind she had not felt in a long time. Just a glance, and her first reaction was then to look away, to clear her mind, before getting to stare at him curiously with her mouth open and her imagination boiling.
Despite the pain and the electric shocks that overwhelm his back, Gavina's sudden mutism and shifty eyes do not escape him, he then emits an interrogative mumble.
"What is it?" She tiptoes the leather briefcase on the floor, her hands firmly clutching her bag, trying to distract his attention. "Does the doctor to whom it belongs lie somewhere in the house?" She turns her eyes to him, taking care not to leave his gaze.
An amused pout stealthily grows on his face before turning into a grimace, his body contracting and writhing with pain at the occurrence of a new discharge in the lower back.
"Aargh, fuck ... Stop playing, will you, and do something!" He wails.
The memory of her own frustration during their meeting comes back to her immediately. He is defenseless and at her mercy, the opportunity is too good not to return the favor.
She then forgets her confusion, viciously amused to hear him whine. "But what do you want me to do exactly, and without equipment?" she chuckles, a smile on the corner of her mouth.
"Ya think the fucking bag is there to decorate my floor?" he gets angry, emitting a new cry of pain.
"Sweet Jesus, if it's not sad to see a man scream like that for a little boo ..." she sighs, ostensibly ironic.
Solomons sits up painfully in the couch, frowning and looking almost incredulous. He stares at her for a moment and understands at her brazenly pleased expression that she's playing him.
He then nods, eyes narrowed and a frowning pout under his thick beard. "I see, mm... enjoying the moment, innit?"
"No, I'm savoring it actually... a sweet victory ..." she says with a satisfied smile, her hands clasped behind her back, swaying back and forth.
He sighs heavily, turning a resigned look towards the floor. "All right, all right ... you won this one, happy now, yeah?"
"Good !" she exclaims, triumphantly, as he shakes his head and lets it fall back on his pillow, definitely defeated.
Taking off her coat, she throws it on the arm of the sofa near his feet before approaching the table. She scrapes a match and ignites the wick of the lamp before exploring the contents of the briefcase under the curious gaze of Solomons.
"Sciatica you say?"
"Yeah, it's been torturing me slowly for years. Now it's been tryin' to kill me, I think."
She gives him a serious look, the duty making her impervious to the trouble she had felt earlier. "If the pain is so intense ..."
"It fucking is" he interrupts harshly.
"... these are epidural injections you need, I'm not supposed to do that kind of care as a nurse ..." she continues, ignoring him.
"But you've done it already, haven't you?" he cuts again, a bit of apprehension in his voice.
She stares at him indecipherably, deciding whether she should yield to his need to be reassured, and then decides she won't. "Turn on your stomach." She orders.
He obeyed after a few seconds of hesitation, scrutinizing first any sign of mockery on the face of Gavina who remains impassive waiting to see him do. Carefully, he leans on the cushions and slowly turns his pelvis, giving a sigh of relief when he finishes his rotation, arms folded under his chin, his face buried in the pillow.
After rubbing her hands with the alcohol found in the bag, Gavina extracts a pouch containing syringes and a small glass bottle filled with needles.
Turning his face towards her, he watches her assemble a syringe before seizing a vial filled with a transparent liquid whose label is hidden by her hand.
"Learned this during the war, right?" He repeats, saying it more than he asks for it this time, his voice as deep and soft as as an invitation to confide.
She looks at him for a few moments, astonished at his warm attitude suddenly and realizing the closeness of his face and the sweetness in his eyes, creating a kind of intimacy between them. Almost unconsciously she smiled at him, invaded by an incongruous sense of quietness, as if she had known this man forever.
He returns a warm smile, small folds forming under his eyes, adding tenderness to his expression, and the temperature of the room seems to go up a notch. It is then that she becomes aware of the absurdity of the situation. She has just felt close to this man, a mobster, without pity or embarrassment, and who seems to enjoy nothing more than to put her in impossible situations.
Recovering her senses, she shakes her head and focuses on filling her syringe, fleeing her eyes again.
"What was good at the front" she begins, striving to adopt a neutral face and dispel the charm of the moment, "it did not matter what your position was, whether you knew how to do something or not, and if you did not know it well, you learned it very quickly because a life depended on it, all the time."
She stands up without a glance at him, aware that he is undoubtedly happy to have destabilized her for a moment. The syringe in one hand, ready for use, a cotton dipped in alcohol in the other, she approaches his back and kneels; the sofa is too low to proceed otherwise.
She then delicately rubs the cotton at the base of the ileocostal muscle, in small circular motions, right next to the spine and at the edge of the waistband of his pants that she pushes back slightly from the back of her hand. Then she plants the needle.
"Fuck!" he grunts at once, involuntarily contracting the muscles of his back.
"What? It hurts?" she wonders sincerely, emptying the syringe into the flesh.
"You could at least warn for fucks' sake!" he complains, raising his head, looking furiously out of the corner of his eye.
"Uh, calm down soldier!" she retorts, falsely annoyed, rubbing the sting with the cotton. "You must hang on, old man, it was the most fun part ..."
She gets up and returns to the briefcase with a mocking smile, assemble a new syringe and fill it with another liquid, the needle longer than the previous one.
He grunts in response, rubbing his forehead against his hands as she sits back near the couch.
"Here, put it under your belly," she orders, handing him a cushion. He grabbed it, still grumbling, slowly lifting his pelvis, fearing a new wave of pain. Its arch thus rounded, the vertebrae will be more spaced, freeing more space for the passage of the needle.
The operation is more delicate this time; she must be perfectly perpendicular to the area she must inject. Poor movement or pressure on the needle and he may never be able to stand again.
Looking from left to right along the body lying on the couch, she looks how she could put herself to carry out her task, refusing to admit from the outset that the only position she would have liked to avoid is the only one appropriate. But she does not find anything better. In a silent breath, she resigns herself.
"Hem ... I'm going to have to sit on you." she declares in one go, in the most natural way possible.
"Hm?" he says, looking up puzzled. "You do not tire of humiliating me anymore."
"I'm serious ... That's it or you go to the hospital ..." she adds harshly.
"All right, all right, you're the professional ... And if you like mixing business and pleasure, who am I to judge, right?"
His mischievous look leaves no doubt about his intentions, their little game of "who will have the last word" was not over, and far from him the idea of losing a new round apparently.
She shakes her head, trying to keep her mind cold and insensitive to his provocation. She takes off her boots with the tips of her feet and then moves forward. She straddles his pelvis, sliding a knee between the back of the sofa and his hip, while trying to keep her balance, keeping her hands in the air so as not to risk defiling the needle.
Solomons slightly swivels his pelvis - he sweats a little, the skin of his back shines sweetly in the yellow and orange glow of the flame of the lamp - to make room for her when she climbs her second knee and sticks it to his other hip.
Her dress slips and rises on her thighs, stretched by the spread of her legs - his shoulders roll gently under his skin like waves when he repositions his arms under his head. But she is still too low; if she sits she will end up on the back of his thighs and will have to lean forward uncomfortably to reach the lumbar area.
She waffles for a moment then decides and slides her knees along his hips. Her dress goes back this time and frankly ends up flush with her panties. She rejoices internally that he cannot watch the scene but at the same time, Solomons is strangely silent while she waddles over him and it makes her uncomfortable.
"Well ... why are you saying nothing suddenly?"
"Hm ... I was wondering if you were doing this kind of gymnastics often, are you really going to put your italian ass on mine?" He teases.
"Yes ... it's a problem?"
"Oh no, you should just know that the fabric of these pants is very thin ..." his heavy, rocky, overhearing voice grips her.
Something contracts convulsively with his words; she knows exactly what it is. It is located in her lower abdomen and in medical language it is called the perineum. But in the language of her body, this is what happens when she is suddenly excited and her heart accelerates, pumping blood faster through her veins to try to cool the fire that is smoldering under her skin.
Fuck it, he will not have it, he's just teasing her, it would be stupid to fall for it.
So she sits down, and then she immediately doubts that it's still a game when she feels shudder against her sex the muscles of his buttocks under the soft flesh that covers them, and that she sees his back rise and grow under the deep breath he takes. It trembles softly as he releases it.
Inside her it contorts again uncontrollably and she annoys "Stop it, all right? I'm not here for fun."
She can see his beard stretch under heis smile. "Holy shit, relax, lass, I'm the patient here!" he exclaims, barely concealing his amusement.
She grits her teeth and refocuses, closing her eyes. It must be an eternity that she was not so close to a man, and what to say about riding one. But this is really not the time to reconsider her non-existent sex life and to wonder why it is this man who brings these reflections to the surface.
"I am quite relaxed, old man. Fortunately for you!" she retorts, her tone not at all casual making him chuckle.
She lowers her eyes to the base of her back and disinfects the area where she is going to point the needle. She puts her hand flat, feeling with her fingertips the hollows that separate her vertebrae above the skin and the flesh. She also feels the warmth of his skin and a roar that rolls inside his abdomen like a purr at her touch.
"Oh by the way ..." she resumes.
"Hmm ...?"
"It'll be extremely painful." she warns coldly with a hint of cruel jubilation.
His body stretches and his breathing blocks, preparing for the worst. She inserts the needle and guides it through the muscle, gently pushing it in until she feels the resistance of the membrane that surrounds the epidural space. He emits a weak wailing, as restrained. She can feel the tension of his body that is accentuated between her legs. She presses a little more than a millimeter, feeling the membrane give way, and presses the piston. In a continuous gesture, she removes the needle as soon as the piston is fully depressed, then blows. With her free hand she may hold some pressure on his skin. She glances behind her and sees his feet and toes squirm.
She pats his back and says, "It's over."
"What ?! Really?" He asks, turning his head, stunned.
"It was a joke, old man, the first injection was anesthetic, you weren't going to feel it that much!" she exclaims, a playful tone as she sits up on her legs and jumps from the couch to the floor.
Throwing the empty syringe into the briefcase, she puts on her shoes without giving him a single glance. If she manages to leave before he can recover, she will claim a new victory.
"What you doin', lass? You think you can fool me and leave like this?" His voice rolls in his throat like thunder threatening to approach.
"Don't stand up !" she orders, picking up her coat from behind so that he can't turn around and see the mocking tune she barely conceals. "Stay lying down, it's important." She adds, discreetly running to the door, picking up her bag on her way.
"How long?" He growls, planted on his elbows, not daring to move any further. But she is no longer there.