Clean

I want the organ grinder, he says, not the fucking monkey. I look down at his hairless body, naked save for an embroidered Moroccan skullcap as he sits on a mattress on the floor.

I am the fucking organ grinder, I reply. At which he stands up like a demolished industrial chimney in reverse slow-motion and walks to the doorway where I wait. His alopecic body now inches away from me, its colour and texture like alabaster – a Renaissance sculpture come to life. We look each other in the eyes.

We have to clean the room of faeces.
My shit, he says.
Our job.
I’ve broken my finger.
We can splint it, but you need to leave the room and I would prefer you walk out than we take you out.
He smiles at me, ketone breath in my face.
Call off your apes then.
If you comply, no one will touch you.
I will only deal with you.
You need to wash. Then I will give you clean clothes and splint your finger.

I step aside and follow him down the corridor to the bathroom. I watch him wash, standing at the basin. He takes his time, so meticulous is he about his cleansing: every fold or crease of his skin, every nail on his hands and feet, every hollow of his body, every surface gently cleaned. When he washes his groin, he slowly wipes up and down the shaft of his penis, pulling back the foreskin each time to reveal a pink glans, reminding me of when I was a boy and I saw a stallion preparing to cover a mare.

When he finishes, I hand him clean clothes. He dresses himself with the same level of care with which he has washed. When ready he looks at me with a cold eye as if he is administering a curse.