The only additional time we needed was to unlock all the padlocks and get to the bedroom. You turned on the air conditioner, put your glasses on the table, tossed your mobile phone onto the bed. As you stripped me of my clothes, hurrying to get everything off, I was unbuttoning your shirt. You still had your shirt on when I was only in my … I stood there in nothing but the leopard-print panty, shielding my breasts with my arms. I seemed to be standing like that for hours. Then I saw that you were surprised, saw you shrink back in hatred. Your loathing transformed into rage, rage changed to disappointment, then disappointment gave way to tears. Weeping, you left the flat.

Much, much later, I collapsed onto the bed. Lying on my back, I tried to release all the tears I’d been making such a tremendous effort to suppress. No one could hear me, but I said the words anyway. ‘Can we ever have pure sex again? Does it ever happen that way with human beings? Pure sex? The way it happened between the red dog and the black dog – effortlessly.’

The next day you told me, ‘Happiness now is like the bird that flew out of the white hoarding – it may be real, or it may be only imagined, a trick of the eye – we don’t really want to know.’

21

The doctor confirmed that my blood count was sufficiently high for the surgery to go ahead. But neither he nor we had taken into account the other conditions that needed to be filled. 10.2 per cent haemoglobin is no guarantee of eligibility. We soon realised our mistake. We learned that, among other things, one of the most important requirements is a signature. Ideally that of a close relative, though a friend or well-wisher would also do. A name and address were also required. Who were the nursing authorities to summon if the patient needed something? Who, for that matter, would take charge if the patient were to die during the surgery? Someone had to sign, to confirm that they were aware of the various risks, and that they took the responsibility upon themselves.

Not that any of this was running through my mind at the time. Nor through yours, perhaps. We went to the nursing home early in the morning. The operation was scheduled for that same evening. As the final stage in the admission procedure, they held the form out to you. Naturally, they assumed that you were my guardian. And you accepted the form without demur.

Midway through filling out the form you paused and looked at me. ‘The risk bond has to be signed,’ you said.

I felt a stab of doubt. ‘What do we do?’ I asked. ‘Can you assume the risk?’

‘Risk?’ you repeated. ‘If anyone’s risking anything right now, it’s me. But they want to know our relationship. “What is the relationship between the patient and the signatory?”’