The Dermatologist

"But you are not yet 50 years old," the receptionist stressed once again with pursed lips. "We have our policies."

I kept smiling. "How would you call this colour, please?" I lowered my head so she could see the parting of my hair.

"Silver, I call it silver." She wouldn't answer, so I had to do it. I lifted a strand for her. "Your ballet class is called "Silver Swans". I would like to join. I think I do qualify." I waved a 200 EUR note.

"Let me call Madame." Now the receptionist stretched her lips into something like a smile and tossed her pen on the desk. She swept through the hall and opened the oaken double door to the training room. I caught a glimpse of mirrors, parquet floors, and leg warmers. There was a soft yellow light over the scenery.

One slippery November evening, 30 years ago, when I was twelve years of age, on the way to the bus stop after class, Celine had told me that I was too old to get any good at dancing. She had started at the age of 4, she told me, I'd never catch up with her or the other girls, so I might as well give up before I wasted any more time and developed any hopes.

After a night of many tears and little sleep, I hadn't started all over again next day. That was ballet dancing for me. Until now.

The oak door opened again. A woman in a black body suit, with limbs like a mantis, her dark, thick hair in a bun, all smiles, floated towards me with outstretched arms. She put her hands around mine and held them.

"Welcome to the Gray Swans, my dear. So pleased that you decided to join us. Do come in and have a look around while we are practicing." She ushered me into the training room.

"Cecilia will be happy to take down your details after class." She added towards the receptionist, and, although I couldn't see it, I had the feeling that her smile was gone for a moment.

***

Earlier that evening I had seen a dermatologist.

I made the appointment because the cleaning staff in work had reported me to the boss. There was always this white dust on my desk, flakes of my dead skin. When nobody was around, I swept them away with the sleeve of my blouse, first every evening, tabula rasa when I left for the day. Then before each break, then every hour. Next, I was ordered into the boss's office. "Keep your dust to yourself", the boss ordered in conclusion. "It is nothing short of insolence to expect others to gather up whatever is left of you."

I promised to take care of the matter.

"Do you remember the Bible?" The doctor asked me. There was only a lamp on the oak desk on in the surgery. 

"I started reading at the very beginning," I confirmed. "Then there was this endless list of names, where everyone has 300 hundred sons and gets 500 years old. That's where I gave up."

"Good", he nodded with approval. "Then you must have gotten the most important bit, which was?" He pointed at me like a teacher does during oral vocabulary test.

I stared at him.

"God took a lump of clay."

My idea of a dermatologist was that of a beautician whose knowledge of Latin would give him some medical dignity. Instead, there was this man in his 70s with the piercing look. Under the white coat he wore a vanilla shirt. The tie made his head look as if stuck onto the body after someone noticed it had been missing.

"And what is clay", he asked, leaning forward.

I shrugged my shoulders. My eyes moved the direction of the exit . I couldn't discern it in the dark.

I had expected some accusation and dismissal: "Stop smoking and you will be that rosy cheeked 20 year old again", "Stop wasting my time", or "neurodermatitis". A bible lesson had not been on the list of my prospects.

He leaned over the desk closer to me. He moved his hands as if he wanted to wave away some mist. In a whisper, he revealed:

"Nothing but dust tried up." He winked and leaned back again, hands folded behind the neck. A smile broadened in his face.

There was a silence.

"And this precisely is your problem", he had uprighted himself, hands on the desk and sounded just like any doctor delivering a diagnosis. "You are loosing your fluidity. That's why you are slowly turning back into dust,"

"So you mean the aging process," I checked.

"The aging process", he imitated me. "What do you think?"

I hate people saying that. If I knew, I wouldn't ask, would I?

"My granny died aged 92" I reported. "She fell, broke her hip, spent an hour lying in the cold, and got pneumonia, the Lord bless her. A few weeks later, she passed away. I saw her body, even petted her shoulder. There was solid flesh. She didn't just disovle into skin flakes."

"So maybe she did something differently," the dermatologist remarked.

This time I shuddered under his stare. I had studied the tie sufficiently to conclude that it was made of tiny silken squares of all colours. It only seemed gray, depending on how it was looked at.

"She didn't do much, when I knew her. She would be sweeping her house. She never forgot the top of the door frames. And after the house was clean, she went outside to sweep the court yard and then the road. It was a cul-de-sac. We, living next door, were the only people ever going all the way down the street."

"The next day, she'd just start all over again." I concluded my granny's biography, not thinking that I did it much justice.

I quickly looked away from the doctor. I could have sworn he had changed into a purple robe and wore a wig like one sees on hold oil paintings, bishops, or judges of the old empire.

"Aha," he proclaimed in triumph. "Apparently she knew the trick, unlike you."

I looked up, relieved to see his white coat again.

"Look doctor, Sir, with all due respect. I came here for a consultation," I didn't mean to pound my fist on the table. "I want to know what's wrong with my skin and how to fix it. Can we stop this hocus pocus, please? Will you please do your job and tell me what to do about all the skin shedding and the loss of the fluids as you put it."

"Well, we found out, didn't we. I am happy to spell it out for you, Miss: Just start all over again, and do that every day."

"Thanks for waiting", the doctor's receptionist made a little cough sound. I startled and woke up from my slumber. Only the light in the hall was on. Otherwise the place was deserted, dark, and silent. "Here is your medicine. And mind your fluids. When the pot is empty, come back, get a new one and start all over again."