Madeleine's Ghost by Robert Girardi Page B

was foul. “I want to ask you something, and you’ve got to tell me the truth.”
    I nodded.
    â€œYou have a nice face, but so do a lot of people who aren’t so nice. Can I trust you?”
    â€œI’m Molesworth’s roommate,” I said. “If you don’t remember.”
    â€œYes, I remember, but that’s not my question. Are you a gentleman?” She asked this without a trace of irony, in the same tone perhapsthat the woman in the portrait on the wall would have used 150 years before.
    â€œYes,” I said. “A gentleman.”
    She closed her eyes. “O.K.,” she said. “I can’t get up. I can hardly move. I’m frozen solid. You’re going to have to do something for me.…”
    I went into the bathroom and stood gawking for a second. Built for the ablutions of another era, the bathroom was as large as the rest of the apartment put together, with an old claw-foot tub, a bidet, and a sink with dual faucets, one for cold water, one for hot, worn brass fish-head fixtures all around. Turn-of-the-century tilework wound around the walls halfway up. A fanlight overlooked the traffic of the faubourg. I cracked the louvers a little, just enough to admit the gray afternoon and ran a bath hot as I could make it without burning my elbow. Then I went back into the small living room and stood over her.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “Your bath.”
    â€œYou’re going to have to—”
    I shook my head.
    â€œPlease,” she said, sounding pitiful.
    â€œDo you always rely on the kindness of strangers?” I said, but the reference escaped her, and with great effort, she held up her arms.
    I helped her into the bathroom and showed her the greenish bathwater steaming under its fish-head spigot.
    â€œThere,” I said with an airy wave of the hand.
    â€œI can’t do it.” She turned toward me, teeth chattering. “My clothes. Please …” Her skin looked gray in the gray light and felt like ice.
    I began to undress her, squinting as if peeling an onion. She stood stiff and unblinking as I undid the zipper on her dress and it fell to the floor. Then I knelt and unbuckled her shoes and held her ankles and pulled her cold feet out of them and stood and backed away.
    â€œThe rest,” she said. “What’s the difference now?”
    â€œO.K.,” I said. “Think of me as your doctor.” But when I undid the clasp on her bra, she closed her eyes, and she kept them closed as I rolledher panties down the curve of her hip. Her nakedness gleamed against the dull tiles of the bathroom. I tried not to think at all, and I took her hand and led her to the tub. She lifted one foot over the water, but when her toe broke the surface, she pulled back with a small cry.
    â€œI can’t,” she said. “It’s too hot.”
    â€œYou’ve got to,” I said.
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œSlowly.”
    Breathing through her teeth, she put one foot in the water, a millimeter at a time. Then, hand on my shoulder, she put in the other. A tear rolled down her cheek and splashed lightly on the surface. Still holding on to my arm, she crouched down, steam rising from her cold flesh. I tried not to look; it was impossible. I looked away and still saw her reflection in the silvered mirror, her breasts floating in the water. She slid under finally, her black hair spreading on the surface like ink. A bubble rose, then another, and at last she pushed up, breathing hard, and leaned her head back against the tub.
    â€œO.K.,” she said. “I think I’ll be O.K. now.”
    â€œGood,” I said. “I draw the line at scrubbing your back.”
    I went out of the bathroom without a word and put on my coat and gathered my books. From inside the bathroom now came that bath sound of splashing water and the sound of her breath.
    â€œAntoinette,” I called in, “I’m going to take