1001 Nights Cast

Old tired bodies. Some more so than others but almost all of them are into their eighties. And each of them mounts the table in their own fashion. Some slide straight onto their bellies and then shimmy up towards the headrest. Others sit in the middle and then sort of roll sideways. Some hold onto me, others have no need. Some grunt, some puff and snort, some are silent, but all sigh with relief once installed and the massage has begun.

Madame Dupius jumps up onto the table like a person less than half her age. She reminds me very much of my mother. She has the same colouring. She has the same small, fine-boned body. She always greets me in her blue dressing gown. Like the one mum wore. She does have another less tatty but this one is the one she likes. Can’t bear to toss it out. And besides, the other is kept for good—in case she has to go into hospital. She’s at ease enough with me to don the blue number and I’m glad she feels that way. She peels it off and mounts the table.

I always massage her back to begin with. She must put a pillow under her tummy because the hunch in her upper spine is so pronounced that she is unable to lie flat on her stomach. I watch her breathing start to slow and deepen. Sometimes she sighs and says ‘aah, ça me fait du bien!’ (aah, that is doing me good). Sometimes she doesn’t say a word.

Her back is crooked and there is a very large mole between her shoulder blades. She has a scar over her lumbar spine where she was operated on for two herniated disks years ago. And she has Paget’s disease. The bones in her legs refuse to stop growing and so she has had a metal pin inserted in one. Both her legs are bowed impossibly. She looks like she has had a lifetime in the saddle.

I used to worry about that mole on her spine. It’s really quite big and for a while I couldn’t decide whether to massage over or around it. It moves under my hands and I used to feel pretty weird about that. Now I don’t worry. Madame Dupuis doesn’t either.

Sometimes she tells me she’s constipated and so then I go to work on her abdomen. She flips herself like a crepe and we move that cushion up under her head. I can’t believe her agility. She is 84 and apart from the Paget’s problem and the odd bout of constipation she is in fine form physically. She does have some osteoporosis though so I take care not to massage her too hard. An English friend once told me their mother was massaged a little too enthusiastically by someone in London years ago and the woman cracked two vertebrae. So I do watch that with my octogenarians.

While I massage her stomach we generally chat a little. She tells me about her sons and her daughters-in-law who live up in Paris and how lonely she is, that they never come to see her. She tells me she disapproves of the laxity in disciplining children these days. She tells me her grandchildren know few manners and don’t show enough respect to their elders. We agree it’s a global problem. We talk about the importance of eating well and not letting oneself go. We talk about the need for mental activity and the risks of too much time alone in one’s latter years. She plays bridge four afternoons a week and apparently is regarded as being very good. This is a good thing because she is also evidently highly competitive.

Madame Dupuis is always straight with me. She corrects my French and gently lets me know if I have manifested any fluctuations in weight. She never misses changes to my hair or additions to my wardrobe. She is very direct and unbending in her opinions. I like this about her. She’s tough.

Also, she has the most elegant feet. And she knows this for a fact. She has been told so before. Her podiatrist has commented. She has been flattered by salesgirls in shoe shops and people at the bridge club also remark from time to time. She attends to her feet. Her assets. She has a monthly pedicure and always wears comfortable shoes. She doesn’t bother with nail polish because it chips and that doesn’t look nice. She did have a problem with an ingrown toenail a couple of years ago but that’s been sorted. Yes, it must be said that her feet are very beautiful.

However she suffers periods of depression and is uneasy in admitting she takes medication for this. I know she would prefer not to. She isn’t easy saying that something is beyond her control. She once described a panic attack she suffered in Orly airport and her terror was still palpable. She has tried therapy. She saw a psychiatrist for years after the airport episode but never had any relief or insight as a result. Too much talking, she reckoned, and not the right kind.

Often after the massage we sit for a bit and chat a little more. We talk about current affairs, recent cinema releases, price reductions at the local supermarket, recipes and the like. We right the world’s problems and share our own. She told me once that the main reason she likes the massage is because she is never touched anymore. ‘I’m a widow and those days are long behind me.’ I see her every second Friday at 10am. I suppose one day that appointment won’t be kept.