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Washing hands
“Wash hands. What for? If you’re afraid to do it, I
will do it myself.”
“Sir,” François bravely interrupted, “what my study
partner means is that if the monk, the flabby kind,
does not work the land, the farmer will not guard
the land. As doctor he does not teach or preach to
the people, so the warrior does not heal the sick.
Do you understand?” Hache didn’t understand a word
of it.
“Um, right,” he lied and he viciously made a deep
cut into the forearm himself. As expected, little
blood flowed out and he skillfully collected it in a
glass bowl. Michel just let him be and returned to
his spot. After staunching the wound, the woman
still served as an overview for the arteries, which
had to always be avoided. After this, she was
removed. When closing the practicum, the professor
looked around with satisfaction and asked if his
students had any speculation about the future of
medicine. Michel was the first one to put up his
hand.
“Ah, the inquisitive but frightened student, go
ahead,” Hache teased.
“I could see people using body parts in the future,”
his student proposed.
“I thought you were a serious kind of person.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Apparently not,” the teacher denied.
“I do try to be,” Michel insisted.
“No one is interested in unsubstantiated nonsense
stories.”
“Obviously, I can’t give a scientific basis, sir,
but you were asking for speculations, weren’t you?”
“Okay, that is quite enough. Leave your rubbish out
of my class from now on,” the teacher said, insulted.
After school, Michel asked François what he meant
when he was talking about the monk of the flabby
type.
“Oh, nothing really, I was only trying to test the
thinking capacity of that ogre,” he said, carelessly.
“Gee, you can be mean!”
“Sure can,” Rabelais laughed, without being the
least bit embarrassed, and on the way home they
discussed the usefulness of hygiene.
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