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LES MASSEUSES
The crone leads me into the back room. There are two beds pushed together, and the Old One grumbles and dabs with a towel at the damp patch in the mattress where sour rain has leaked in. If she is the one to perform the ceremony, I don't mind. She won't be agile, but her hands may be strong. And experienced. And I'll have my eyes closed anyway. But, no. There are two young women wearing inscrutable maquillage and pink nylon tabliers. I'm down to my pants. "Do I take these off?" "C'est comme vous voulez" Businesslike. So I do and lie face down, quiet. This is the moment when the sunlight should enter the cave. But there comes a clink of bottles and the indecent smell of warm oils, spices, incense. The light is low, warm. The women arrange a collation on the other mattress: votive candles, bowls of fruit salad, sherbet in long-stemmed glasses. They kneel on the bed and speak— to each other—in whispers. No. They are not going to touch me.
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