‘There. Done.’

Throat sore, new lungs. Anouk opens her mouth, and, as if coming up from deep water, inhales.

END

Epilogue

Camille Debord

Une Caserne de Pompiers, Nice, France, 1967

In a small community room at the local fire department, Camille Debord sits in a semicircle with ten other students, here to learn the latest method of artificial respiration that could, promises her family doctor, save her heart-sick husband were he to suffer cardiac arrest and stop breathing at home. Her and her husband’s lives have changed utterly since he was diagnosed, and Camille is not going to take this sitting down.

The instructor looks like he should be in the army – probably he was. Wearing a soft-grey shirt and dark-blue slacks, he sits on the matted floor so that all the students can see what he’s doing to the manikin that lies next to him. The doll has been introduced as Resusci Anne and she looks like she could be sleeping, lying there stiffly with her arms at her sides. Her hair, her wig, is curly-soft and light brown, and she’s dressed respectfully in a white blouse and blue cardigan, and also wears loose-fitting slacks. She’s even got shoes, white tennis shoes. From where Camille sits, it’s difficult to get a good look at the manikin’s face.

The instructor goes through the method step by step, demonstrating the precise way to tilt the head back in order to clear the airway, and how to achieve a tight seal around the mouth. It all looks a bit intimate. Camille is grateful the manikin is female. Once the demonstration is over, the instructor invites someone to volunteer to go first.

‘I will,’ says Camille, standing from her chair. Camille is the oldest person in the room by a good few decades.

The other students watch as the old woman, petite and with an open face, makes her way to the centre of the mat and kneels down alongside the manikin. Her movements are mechanical and quick, like a bird. Like a swallow.

She strokes a curl of hair off the manikin’s forehead. ‘Salut, Anne,’ she whispers. Now close up, Camille takes a moment to study the manikin’s face. It’s moon-round and soft, perfectly symmetrical, the high, round cheeks of a young girl. There’s a hint of life behind the closed eyelids. The mouth is open and there are holes in the nostrils.

‘Maintenant,’ says the instructor, ‘what’s the first thing we do?’

Camille nudges the manikin’s shoulder and asks if she’s all right, trying to elicit a response that of course will never come. It feels a little ridiculous to be doing this, but it could save her husband’s life. It’s important. She continues. She puts her hand under the manikin’s neck and angles it so that her chin is raised. Path open. Airway cleared.

Camille presses down on the manikin’s chin with one thumb, and squeezes the manikin’s nose shut with her other thumb and forefinger. She gently tilts the head back further so the mouth opens, draws breath from deep down in her diaphragm and leans forward. She closes her eyes, wraps her dry lips around the waiting mouth of the doll named Anne, and exhales. The doll’s chest rises with Camille’s own breath.