Mark Rogers: Bloemgracht

I realized that I was sitting on a bed, staring at Liza-Jane. We were alone in our room at the lodge. The girl had a certain poise, a carefulness with objects that I found captivating.

She was unpacking her first aid kit, laying out the contents for an inspection. Spilled across her bed were at least four types of bandage, vacuum packed, and
some antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, absorbent cotton, little boxes of pills for the compacting of pain, for the steadying of nausea. The beads of her necklace clacked against each other as she worked.

When she noticed I was watching, she said, “This is a paste you pack deep into open wounds. Clean water to reconstitute is the important part.” There were dressings and swabs and gauze. There was a squat red book, with black lettering, ELEMENTALS OF FIRST AID, the thick letters taking up the whole front cover.

She said, “This syringe, you would think spare needles are the important part, but also spare rubber caps for the plunger or you’re lost.” There was a South Pacific drag across the top of her speech. She had some Maori in her. After she repacked the box she stood there, saying and doing nothing.

“What are you thinking?” I said.

She took her time. An embarrassed smile. “Thinking dead people. How they wear clothes, and who decided that. But it would be outrageous, offensive in most
cultures, if we said, No, let them go naked.”

“This is what you were thinking, wardrobe considerations for the dead.”

“Thinking there’s a special name, I can’t remember. Word for the clothes they wear.”