THE PIANO AND PITCHER

by
Alan Ram

Five twenty six. Who�s going to come in now? Nobody. Nobody, or if they do, I�m not serving them. It�s my shop, madam, it�s my own delicatessen, I can shut when I want, But it�s not half past yet, I know it�s not, but my skin is on fire, it needs attention.

I can close the door a couple of minutes early if I like, to attend to my bodily comfort.

I sniff my fingers, oh lovely, lovely, what a stink, what a pong.

My skin is alive, it�s talking to me, it�s saying please sooth me. I have this appalling, intolerable fire in the skin. When did it start, you want to know? How long has it been troubling you? I can�t remember, it comes and goes, it�s been coming on today, this morning, this afternoon, till now. It�s like insects itching in your body, minute burrowing insects, termites digging away under the skin, or like acid eating at your skin from the inside, you have no idea, imagine what you can imagine and multiply it a thousand times and you still won�t get near it.

My skin is alive, and on fire, and when that�s the case the only thing I can guarantee to calm it is a piece of brie in the right condition.

There are probably those who prefer a gorgonzola, it spreads fine and the smell could make you wild if you�re that way inclined. Or a cambozola, or a French triple cream of some sort. But I�ve settled on brie.

Five twenty eight. I�ll give it one more minute.

I�m counting. Fifty�fifty one� fifty two� Please, nobody come in the shop now. NOBODY COME IN NOW! If anybody comes in now wanting serving, I�ll explode.

Fifty nine�sixty.

I walk out into the street, and take hold of the shop shutters and start pulling them down. I get three quarters of the way, then stop and make as though I�ve forgotten something. Oh curses, my face says, I still have something to attend to inside. And I bob down under the shutters and I�m back in the shop, and I lock and bolt the door.

I lie down on my back over by the shutters, and peer out. I can see the sky, and the tops of people, their heads and shoulders, going about their business.

My skin is abraded, sore and itching, and crying out for brie. I�m wearing cotton. Cotton, you might think to yourself, it�s nothing up against the skin, you suppose it will be quite soft against the flesh, cotton trousers, cotton underwear, cotton shirt, summer wear, not even the harsh fibres of winter, but that�s all you know.

Brie that�s past the stage of ripeness is the perfect thing, brie that�s collapsing and falling in on itself, more like honey than cheese from the texture point of view. You smear it on the suffering skin and rub it in gently with soft circular motions, with your finger ends if you like, with your palm, with the whole hand if you like, as long as it�s gentle, like a murmur, like a hint of a lullaby if it was a sound, the vocal equivalent would be a little murmur, or the suggestion of a lullaby. You use as much as you like, it�s important not to stint on the brie.

It was known to the Romans, it�s a folk remedy practised widely for hundreds or thousands of years. It�s used to this day off the beaten track in parts of Europe, in bits of Romania and Sicily, and remote corners of France, in Greece, maybe even in North Africa.

I have the perfect cheese sitting on the counter and I�m feasting my eyes on it now.

I hitch my shirt above my waist, and tie it in place with my belt. I pull my trousers and undergarment below my knees, well out of the way. I don�t want soft French cheese on my shirt, which is aqua blue, a sort of aqua, or on my trousers, which are lightweight summer cotton and pale sand in colour. I don�t want comment at the cleaners: do you happen to know what these marks are, sir?

I have a hundred grams of cheese loaded on my fingers, poised and ready.

I apply the cheese as I�ve already suggested, or described, using a little more here, a little less there, feeling my way, adapting the motion however seems necessary or right. And I begin to experience the medicinal properties that have been known since way back, and which are recorded and catalogued. I�ve no idea of the science involved, I�m not a chemist, or a doctor. But soft cheeses are good for instance against chapping and chaffing of all kinds, against bites of insects such as horse flies or mosquitoes or wasps, and the stings of nettles, and also broken skin the result of flogging or superficial sword or dagger wounds.

And now what?

Am I going to straighten my clothes and go out into the street and walk along to The Piano and Pitcher for a drink as I am, with nearly a kilo of brie spread about between waist and knee, and let�s make no bones about it stinking of cheese, and with the inevitable stains or seepage that are obvious to the naked eye? I don�t think so.

I need the contents of my briefcase.

I walked into the shop this morning swinging my briefcase, and left it on a box in the stockroom. And now it�s to hand. I carried it through from the stockroom and it�s conveniently situated next to me, leaning against the chill cabinet.

I open the briefcase and take out a pair of towelling pants. I leave the roll of cling film and the second pair of pants where they are for now. I�ve brought two identical pairs of pants, and if I wanted I could wear both, I could put one on over the top of the other, I have exceptionally slim hips, I have slender buttocks, I could dress myself in both and no one would notice, but I doubt if it will be necessary.

The pants are freshly laundered, washable pants that have never been badly marked and there isn�t a mark on them now, with extra padding at both front and back. I find them comfortable and practical.

I remove my shoes, then my trousers and my undergarment, and I put the pants on.

Let me make it clear, there�s nothing wrong with my bladder, or with my bowels, there�s no weakness or inadequacy in those regards, the pants are only there to trap and absorb the cheese. I can go a whole day only relieving myself once in the morning and last thing at night, and not necessarily then because I need to. And I have one bowel movement, regularly, after breakfast, I just do it, I hardly give it a thought, three minutes and I�m in and out of the bathroom and set up for the day.

And let me also stress I�m not interested in the feel of cling film against me, I get no pleasure from wrapping myself in layers of thin transparent plastic designed for leftover chicken, or half sandwiches, or spare sausages. None at all.

I wind the cling film around myself from waist to knee, from below the waist to above the knee. I apply sufficient layers, what I feel is appropriate, I trust my judgement, four layers as a rule of thumb, but there is no book I can consult, there�s no website so far as I know.

Then, when that�s done, to make sure, I put my face down against my thigh, I sit myself on the floor and pull my leg up and press my nose against the cling film, and sniff. And I can see the cheese underneath but there�s no smell of cheese at all, only the odour of plastic, if you can call it an odour.

I can take myself off to The Piano And Pitcher now with perfect confidence on the smell front.

I�ll be perched on a bar stool and the landlord or one of the regulars will say, let�s keep names out of it, you�re looking well, yes I�m feeling well, you have a touch of colour in your cheeks, have you been out in the sun by any chance? I was doing a spot of gardening last weekend,you look as though you�ve caught the sun, it suits you. And someone will ask what�ll you have, are you staying for another? and I�ll say well, if you�re twisting my arm a half and a packet of dry roasted, if you�ll stretch to that. And there�ll no aroma, no pong, no stink, no what�s that smell? can you smell something? it could be cheese, it�s like old socks, it smells like a toilet in here, what on earth is it? There won�t be a word about smell from anyone, there�ll be nothing to smell.

I tuck my shirt in and straighten it. I button my trousers.

The cheese is doing its work. The temperature�s rising nicely under the cling film, my pores are opening, there�s a release of moisture, call it sweat, call it body fluid, say excreted, it�s excreting and mixing and acting together with the cheese, what a concoction. In an hour there�ll be nothing left of my symptoms to speak of, and my skin will be like the conscience of a baby. I�ll be as comfortable as though I was lying on a beach on a warm day with gentle breezes wafting over me.

From where I�m standing in the middle of the shop I examine the floor for signs of cheese. Nothing. But there might be morsels of cheese that are not obvious to the eye. I get down on my hands and knees and move around, feeling the floor with my fingers. There are bits of grit, or less than grit, tiny amounts of dirt or whatever you would call it, but no cheese.

I stand up and give my trousers a final check. They�re hanging perfectly, and unmarked. I feel round the back, but there doesn�t seem to be anything out of place, no dampness or stickiness. Through four or five layers of cling film? It�s not likely.

I leave the premises by the back door. Then I walk round to the front of the shop, and pull the shutters fully down, and lock them.

I turn and walk up the road towards The Piano And Pitcher. Walk�s the wrong word, I amble in fact, with my hands in my pockets. A smile would be nice, I decide. I let a little smile play on my lips, as though I�m enjoying myself, as though I�m enjoying a private joke. There he goes, he certainly looks in a good mood, it�ll be a relief to him to be out in the fresh air after a hard day serving customers in that little delicatessen of his he runs.

I start whistling, it�s not any particular tune, just a general whistling sound. And my skin�s more or less calm. I�m aware of it but not excessively, there�s no distinct combustion, certainly no conflagration anymore, I wouldn�t say my skin is on fire.

It�s a good remedy, I�ve found a good remedy, if it works it�s a good remedy.

� Alan Ram
Reproduced with permission