In praise of French doctors

From my hospital bed in Hyères I could look out of the window and see the old town and Edith Wharton’s old house, the Castel Sainte-Claire, away on the hillside. Christophe, a male nurse, came in to welcome me and take my temperature, pulse and blood pressure. He was masked and gloved against possible infection from the old Covid Dix-Neuf and he spoke English.

As he slipped on the finger thermometer and inflatable sleeve, he reminisced about his rugby-playing days. Thirty-five years ago, he said, he had competed against an English team who played rugby with a violence that was incredible. His opposite number on the English side had sharpened his boot studs with a file and this guy had devotedly raked and punched and otherwise fouled poor Christophe at every opportunity from kick-off to final whistle. He also did this thing that Christophe didn’t know the English word for so he mimed it with his fingers. ‘Gouged?’ I said. ‘Thank you. Gouged. Today I am so happy because I learn another word to increase my English vocabulary.’

But what truly amazed Christophe was that in the clubhouse afterwards this psychopathic Englishman had loved him like a brother. ‘He kiss me and hug me and he buy me so many drinks and then we dance together like this.’ He mimed unsteadily dancing with his arms around the Englishman’s neck. That violent enmity and love could happily co-exist within a single human breast was to Christophe a momentous discovery; literally and metaphorically an eye-opener. I admired this saintly individual and as he packed up his things I thanked him for his care and attention with all my heart. Now he looked worried, as though an Englishman’s heartfelt gratitude might change at any moment into a vicious assault.