TWO

When the woman woke up in the morning she felt rested and calm, as if a storm had passed. She heard her husband gently snoring in the darkness. She turned on the bedside lamp and saw that he was sleeping, cocooned, the gold coverlet pulled up over his head. She watched him for a moment and then carefully slipped out of the bed.

In the bathroom she dressed in the clothes she had taken off the night before—because they needed to bring so many things for the baby, they had themselves packed lightly. When she emerged from the bathroom her husband was still sleeping. It was a few minutes before six o’clock and though she wanted to, she did not wake him. Now that they were here she wanted to get to the orphanage as soon as possible. How could they not? How could they wait? How could he sleep?

It was warm in the room. She lifted one of the heavy drapes away from a window but there was nothing to see: just her strange face peering back at her from the darkness. She dragged a chair across the awful carpet close to the bed so that the glow from the bedside light pooled on it, then sat in the chair and began reading The Dark Forest.

As a bookmark she had been using a photograph they had been sent of their child. In it he appeared to be quite beautiful, almost angelic, but the woman was skeptical, because it appeared to be a rather old photograph, like the ones found in photograph albums, the thick paper curling and a bit yellowed around the scalloped edges. Perhaps it was a photograph they sent to all adopting parents as a sort of lure, and their baby would look nothing like the one in the photograph. She had unwisely mentioned this possibility to her husband, who had told her she was crazy. You always expect the worst possible thing to happen, he had said. Yes, he was right about that, but how could she not? And that did not mean she was crazy. It meant she was wise.

When the man woke up, he was alone in the bed. Assuming that his wife had once again bolted, he sat up quickly only to see her sitting in a chair beside her side of the bed, reading. She was dressed and looked unusually alert and alive.

What time is it? asked the man.

A little after seven, said the woman. She marked her place in the book and set it upon the table. Can we go now?

Go? Where?

To the orphanage!

I’m sure it’s too early.

No. They will let us in now, she said, as if she knew.

Can I have something to eat? I’m starving. He stood up. Let me take a shower, and then we’ll go downstairs and get something to eat. Quickly, I promise. And then we’ll go the orphanage. Is that okay?

Yes, she said, it’s fine. She smiled at him.

He walked across the room. The carpet felt unnervingly texturous beneath his bare feet. He leaned down over the chair and kissed his wife’s forehead.

She reached up and touched his cheek, and then his lips. She looked at him, her fingers once again touching his cheek.

I love you, he said. Very much.

She said nothing but smiled at him once again.

The dining room of the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel was at the opposite end of the lobby from the bar and was as large and cold as the bar was cozy and warm. Designed in the style of a ballroom, the vaulted ceiling was gilded and sprouted many crystal chandeliers, as if the huge one in the center of the ceiling had, like some invasive species of plant, sent out ineradicable shoots in all directions. The gleaming parquet floor was crowded with very large tables, all laid with white linen cloths and set with ten places of gleaming silver, porcelain, and crystal. Three of the walls were divided by marble columns into frescoed triptychs illustrating scenes from what appeared to be a belligerent mythology. The fourth wall was punctuated by French doors opening out onto a broad terrace on which stood many snow-covered iron tables. The chairs had apparently been taken away for the season—or seasons, more likely. It was very bright in this room, the light coming mostly from the chandeliers, not from the world outside the French doors, which despite the great white drifts of snow reflected no light from the sky, which was completely dark.

The man and the woman paused inside the doorway, immobilized by the room’s size, glare, and silence. It was the kind of room that one feels reluctant to enter, as if in one of our former lives some great violence had been done to us in a room exactly like this. None of the tables were occupied or gave any indication of ever having been occupied, so complete was the stillness and silence that enveloped the room.

Can this be the restaurant? the man asked. It seems more a banquet hall. Perhaps breakfast is served in the bar.

The concierge did point this way, said the woman.

I suppose we should sit down and see what happens.

Or doesn’t happen, said the woman.

But before they could execute this plan, one of the frescoes on the far wall was bifurcated as half of the panel was swung outward into the room, revealing a large woman wearing a parka over her waitress uniform. She made a lot of noise as she crossed the room toward them, and this journey took some time, as she was forced to tack back and forth between the many tables, no path being cleared among them. As she came closer it became apparent that the noise was a result of the fur-covered mukluks she wore on her feet; some sort of metal contraption was affixed to the bottom of each boot to prevent slippage upon ice. She paused about three quarters of the way across the room and indicated one of the tables she stood amidst. Breakfast? she asked. Two?

Yes, said the man. Two for breakfast. He took his wife’s arm and led her toward the table the waitress had selected for them.

Good morning, he said to her, as they sat at two neighboring seats.

She righted the cups that were overturned on the saucers at both their places and said, Coffee?

Yes, please, said the man.

Do you have any herbal tea? asked the woman.

Mint, chamomile, linden, anise.

Chamomile, please, said the woman.

Juice?

What kind? asked the man.

Orange, grapefruit, tomato, elderberry.

I’ll try the elderberry, please.

Orange, said the woman.

The waitress disappeared back into the fresco and very soon returned with their beverages. She had removed both her parka and the cleats from her boots, so she seemed very different, almost unfamiliar. She had also brought them menus: thick leather-bound books that elucidated, in intricately italicized type, all the many dishes at the different meals served through the day and evening in the dining room. This vast menu was composed in the native language with its undecipherable alphabet so that no clues to the character of the dishes could even be guessed at by scrutinizing the many pages.

The waitress waited patiently while the man perused the menu, turning its pages, hoping to come across something that seemed familiarly breakfasty. His wife, apparently daunted by the menu’s heft, had not even attempted to lift it.

Defeated, the man closed the menu and said, Eggs? Oeufs? What’s egg in German? he asked his wife.

We aren’t in Germany, said the woman.

Sie möchten Eiern? said the waitress, in German. You would like eggs?

Ja, said the man. Yes.

Scrambled, poached, fried, boiled, shirred? She apparently spoke excellent English.

What’s shirred? the man asked his wife.

I don’t know, she said. Like poached, I think.

En croûte, said the waitress. Baked in a casserole. With breadcrumbs and butter.

Sounds delicious, said the man, I’ll have that.

Potato?

Yes, please, said the man. Bacon?

The waitress nodded. And for your lady?

Toast please, said the woman. Dry.

Jam or honey?

No, thank you. Dry.

The waitress collected their menus and once again disappeared through the door in the wall.

Well, said the man. That wasn’t so difficult.

Why should ordering breakfast in a hotel be difficult?

Because everything else has been difficult, said the man. He tasted his elderberry juice. It’s delicious, he said. Very tart. A bit like pomegranate. Would you like to try it? He offered the glass to his wife.

She shook her head no and poured tea into her cup.

It’s funny, said the man, after a moment.

What?

The way things are difficult—or aren’t. I mean when we arrived here, it seemed so impossible.

What do you mean, impossible?

Just everything. Starting in the market the other night. And then last night, at the station. And yet we’re sitting here drinking elderberry juice, about to eat shirred eggs. At least I am. It amazes me, how things have a way of working themselves out, if you just persist.

The woman did not answer. She appeared to be studying the fresco nearest to them, which depicted a covey of young naked maidens chasing a somewhat obscenely tusked wild boar through a fairy-tale forest.

I’d like to remember that, he said. I think it would be good if we could both remember that.

Remember what? She did not like when he tried to interfere with, or direct, her thoughts.

That things don’t always end badly.

Yes, said the woman. Things do work themselves out. She lifted the cup of tea to her lips but quickly replaced it in the saucer. It’s too hot, she said. She looked down at the cup as if its inhospitable temperature were a personal affront.

He had gone too far, he realized. He always did. She would open up to him, and he would respond, only to shut her back up again. It was unfair of her, he thought.

They sat for a while in silence, until the waitress emerged from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray on her shoulder, on which sat two plates beneath silver domes. She placed one in front of each of them and then removed the domes, revealing on his plate a ramekin filled with eggs surrounded by fried potatoes and two slabs of very thick bacon, and on hers two slices of slightly scorched toast. A sprig of parsley had been added to her plate, perhaps to compensate for its meagerness, but it had the opposite effect, making the dry toast look even more desolate.

The man forked over his eggs, revealing a mattress of breadcrumbs beneath them. A fragrant steam rose up against his face. He looked over at his wife. She was staring despondently down at her plate of toast.

Is that not what you wanted? he asked.

She shook her head a little and smiled, sadly, at him. No, she said. It’s exactly what I want.

They had been told to arrive at the orphanage for their initial visit anytime between ten o’clock and noon. The concierge was able to arrange a taxi to pick them up and it was waiting for them outside the hotel when they emerged from the ballroom after finishing their breakfast. The woman had wanted to go up to their room to use the bathroom and put some makeup on her pale face, but she was afraid the taxi might not wait for them, and although the man said of course it would, she insisted they get into it and leave immediately.

The hotel was at the very center of the old town, and the streets around it were extremely narrow, made even narrower by the towering piles of snow, so the taxi drove slowly. The town seemed eerily underpopulated; many of the stores were vacant, their glass windows empty or occupied by a desolate naked mannequin staring out at the cold world.

The streets grew wider nearer the outskirts, and what little charm the old city had was replaced by a modern ugliness of concrete and glazed brick, but it wasn’t long before they had left the town behind and were on a country road, bounded by snow-covered fields on one side and a forest on the other. They drove for quite a while through this unchanging landscape until a building appeared before them on the side with the fields, surrounded by a wall of very tall fir trees. It was set quite far back from the road, and the car turned off onto a narrow driveway and drove toward the building, passing through a gap between two trees that were spaced a bit farther apart than the others, but whose branches nevertheless entwined, forming a portal. Crows—or ravens; some dark large cawing bird—erupted from the trees as the car passed beneath them and flapped off, complainingly, over the empty fields.

The building they approached had the appearance of a manor house. It was three stories tall and made of stucco painted pale green. There was no sign or any other indication that the building was an orphanage and not a private home except for the sterility of its unadorned façade, whose starkness was vaguely institutional. Smoke rose from two chimneys that protruded from the slate-shingled roof.

The taxi drew up before the unassuming front door, which was raised above the level of the drive by a few stone steps, which had been carefully swept of the snow and sprinkled with dirt. The man, who was attempting to hew to his new philosophy of assuming the best in all situations, was heartened by these signs of hospitality and preparedness. They both got out of the car and the woman walked quickly to the edge of the gravel drive and leaned over, placing her hands on her knees. As her husband watched, she released a geyser of vomit onto the bank of snow. After a moment she straightened up, though she remained facing away from him, looking toward the wall of trees that surrounded the building. She raised one of her hands in the air with her fingers extended, as if she were taking an oath. It was a gesture the man knew well: it meant she wanted to be left alone. So, instead of going to her, he walked around the car to the driver’s window, which unrolled as he approached. The concierge had informed him of what the trip should cost, and the man gave this amount to the driver, plus a little extra. He asked the driver if he would wait a moment, in case there was some problem gaining access to the building, and the driver nodded agreeably but drove away as soon as his window was shut. The man ran a few steps after the car, waving his arms and calling out, but the taxi took no notice of him and sped away through the arch in the trees.

What are you doing? asked the woman. She had turned away from the trees and was panting slightly: the effort of vomiting had exhausted her. Did you forget something?

No, said the man. I asked him to wait.

What for?

In case we can’t get in. Or in case this isn’t it.

Of course it’s it, said the woman.

It doesn’t look like an orphanage, said the man.

Have you ever seen an orphanage before?

No, the man admitted. Well, in movies.

Probably starring Shirley Temple, said the woman.

Are you all right? asked the man. You were sick.

Yes, I was sick, she said. You’re very observant. She raised her hand and wiped the back of her leather glove across her lips.

The combination of the taxi driver’s betrayal and his wife’s recalcitrance momentarily defeated the man, and he knelt down on the hard-packed snow that covered the gravel drive. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel how exhausted he was. He wished he could lie on the ground and fall asleep.

After a moment the woman walked over to him. She reached down and laid her hand upon his head. His thick brown hair had recently begun to turn gray, and she noticed that it seemed suddenly much grayer than it had been. Was it because she was looking down at it? Or had the trials and tribulations of their journey hastened the process?

I’m sorry, she said. We just need to do this.

Yes, said the man.

Are you ready? asked the woman.

Yes, said the man.

Then come, she said. Let’s do it. Let’s find our child.

She reached out her hand. She had not replaced her glove. The man stood up and removed his own glove before grasping her hand, and she led him toward the stone steps, which were sheltered by a glass marquee that had obviously been added to the house after its origin and was now covered with at least a foot of snow. When they stood on the small landing outside the door she asked him again if he was ready. He told her that he was. She rang the bell beside the door, which was the old-fashioned kind that must be pulled and released. They heard nothing through the thick door and walls.

They waited what seemed like a long time, and the woman had reached out and was just about to pull on the bell again, when the door was flung open. A very tall black woman stood before them. She was wearing a dress similar to a caftan, but it hung closer than a caftan to her tall thin body. It was made from a boldly patterned fabric of giant mutant flowers in startling shades of orange, green, and purple and was the brightest and warmest thing that both the man and the woman had seen since arriving in this place.

Webegodden, she said. You are welcome here. She smiled brilliantly at them—her teeth were fascinatingly white, as white as the fields of snow that surrounded the house—and stood aside, holding the door open. They passed through, the woman first, the man after her. When they were both inside the foyer the woman quickly shut and bolted the door behind them. The foyer they stood in was small but had a very high ceiling; a staircase circled up above them to the third floor, where a pale snow-covered skylight dully shone. On either side of the foyer were large paneled doors; above each door was a transom of colored glass. The woman who greeted them opened one of these doors by pushing it into a pocket in the wall, revealing a large room full of Biedermeier furniture.

Please, she said, indicating with her pink-palmed hand the room she had revealed. The man and the woman entered the room, which was large and bright, and it was, for both of them, like entering a sanctuary. The walls were painted pale pink and all the furniture was upholstered in yellow silk; the lamps were lit and a thriving fire burned exuberantly in the fireplace. On the mantel above it a large golden clock encased within a glass dome reassuringly marked the passage of time with whirring gears and a ticking heartbeat. A round table stood in the middle of the room; it was highly polished and inlaid with a garland of fruitwood. On it a small forest of narcissi rose out of a low gold bowl filled with gravel and leaked their peppery scent into the air. Two small golden carp swam in an apparent endless pursuit of each other in a round glass bowl. In one corner of the room, an ornate wire cage was suspended on a chain from the ceiling; in the cage a large scarlet, blue, and yellow parrot regarded them silently, sucking the inside out of a large purple grape it held in its claw.

Please, sit, the woman said, and indicated the largest of the sofas, which was placed before, but not too close to, the fireplace. The man and the woman sat and the woman stood before the fire, smiling at them once again.

You are very welcome here, she said.

Thank you, the man said.

It isn’t what I expected, said the woman.

No? What did you expect?

I don’t know, said the woman, looking around the room. But flowers—how beautiful everything is!

The woman smiled again and said, So, you have come to see Brother Emmanuel?

Brother Emmanuel? asked the woman.

Brother Emmanuel! the man exclaimed.

Yes, the woman said. Haven’t you come to see Brother Emmanuel?

No—no, said the man. Oh!

We’re here to see Tarja Uosukainen, said the woman. Isn’t this the orphanage? She stood up from the sofa and looked wildly around the room as if this person, this Tarja Uosukainen, might suddenly appear from behind the drapes or beneath one of the other sofas. But no one appeared, and the woman fell back onto the sofa.

Their hostess remained standing in front of the fireplace. Her beaming smile had faded but she still wore a pleasant expression on her serene face. She regarded both the man and the woman calmly.

I think a mistake has been made, the man said, and laid his hand on his wife’s arm. Brother Emmanuel is a faith healer. The woman at the hotel told me about him last night. The man felt for a moment that he wanted to put his hand on his wife’s mouth, cover it, silence her, but stopped himself in time.

He is not a faith healer, said their hostess. He is an angekok.

The woman rose quickly from the sofa, so quickly that she lost her balance and fell forward. Their hostess caught her and gently reseated her upon the sofa, and then she dropped to her knees before the woman. She took both of the woman’s hands in her own and, looking intently and directly into her face, said, Please, don’t despair. Take a deep breath. Now, please. A deep breath.

The woman took a breath but pulled her hands away. Where are we? she said.

You are at Brother Emmanuel’s, said their hostess. You are safe here. Everyone is safe here. It is a good, safe place.

We wanted to go to the orphanage, said the man. I suppose the taxi driver made a mistake.

I don’t think there has been a mistake, said their hostess. She rose to her feet but placed one of her hands on the woman’s shoulder. We’ve been expecting you. Someone called us from the hotel and told us you would be here.

Who?

I don’t know who it was. A woman. They often telephone us when someone from the hotel is coming here. It is not unusual. Will you please wait here? Just for a moment, I promise you. She left the room and slid the large wooden door shut behind her.

I think a mistake has been made, said the man. The taxi driver made a mistake and brought us here instead of to the orphanage.

But why? Why would the taxi take us here? Didn’t you tell them—

Yes, said the man. It’s the language, I suppose. The concierge misunderstood. Perhaps the words are similar—orphanage and . . . what did she say he was?

Some kind of kook, said the woman.

It’s just a mistake, said the man. Don’t worry. We’ll call a taxi from here and go directly to the orphanage.

The woman nodded but said nothing. She sat with both feet planted firmly on the floor and her hands clutched in her lap. Her face was turned away from the man, toward the table in the center of the room. She watched the fish languidly revolve in the bowl. The man shifted closer to her along the settee and attempted to separate her clutched hands, but she said, Please don’t touch me, in an odd voice, deep and choked with pain or tension.

Just wait a moment, he said. Just wait until that woman comes back. There’s nothing we can do without her.

The woman keeled forward so her head was bowed above her lap. She put her hands on top of her head and seemed to want to pull her head closer to her body, roll herself up into something small and discardable.

The man tried to unwind her body but then remembered that she had told him not to touch her so he let her be.

Please, he said. Please try to collect yourself. Please, for my sake. I can’t—

You can’t what? the woman asked him. You can’t bear this? You can’t bear me?

No, said the man. Why do you always . . . no! Please, what do you want? Just tell me what you want.

Before the woman could answer they both suddenly became aware of another presence in the room, even though they had not heard the panel door slide open. They turned and saw a man standing midway between the door, which was closed, and their sofa. He looked rather young and was very tall and thin. Perhaps because his head was bald (or shaved), his skull and the bones and cartilage of his face seemed unnervingly apparent, as if his skin were one size too small and were being stretched to a preternatural smoothness by the bones beneath it. His eyes were dark and intense; his nose was aquiline verging on hawk-like, and his mouth was small, his lips very pale. He wore a black floor-length tunic that was tightly fitted above the waist, emphasizing the slenderness of his upper body. It buttoned diagonally across his chest, from the right shoulder to the left hip, with gold vermeil buttons.

Suddenly the parrot, which had been quietly sulking on one of its perches, fluttered its large wings and called out an ecstatic greeting. It leaped up and clutched itself against the bars of the cage and battered the air with its impotent wings.

Brother Emmanuel walked quickly toward the cage and touched the bird with a finger. Requiescat in pace, Artemis, he said, and the bird made another, deeper, less avian sound, almost like a sigh, and returned to its perch.

Brother Emmanuel then turned away from the cage and faced the two people on the sofa. He looked at them as if he was only now seeing them, and they both looked at him, and for a moment time suspended itself, and nothing moved, except for the fish circling the bowl and the tiny insistent flakes of snow falling gently outside every window. And the ticking gears in the gold clock.

The strange moment passed, and Brother Emmanuel said, I understand there has been a mistake.

Well, yes, said the man. Perhaps—

We are supposed to be at the orphanage, said the woman. This isn’t the orphanage. She said this accusingly, as if Brother Emmanuel had somehow suggested it was, or was trying to duplicitously pass it off as an orphanage.

No, said Brother Emmanuel. You are correct. This is not an orphanage. And yet you are here. Something has brought you here. I am Brother Emmanuel.

The taxi driver, the man said. I suppose he misunderstood. Could you perhaps call a taxi for us?

Of course, said Brother Emmanuel. If that is what you wish. But does it not occur to you that perhaps you are meant to be here? That no mistake was made?

No, said the man. That had not occurred to me.

And you? Brother Emmanuel looked at the woman.

She was watching the snow fall outside the window and seemed not to hear him.

Brother Emmanuel waited. He stood very still and looked intently at the woman. Finally, she turned away from the window and looked directly at him. A log in the fireplace collapsed and sent a shower of chittering sparks up the chimney. The sudden commotion in the fire made the man flinch, but neither Brother Emmanuel nor the woman seemed to notice it.

Am I meant to be here? the woman asked.

Brother Emmanuel said nothing.

What is it you do here? Or pretend to do?

Brother Emmanuel smiled almost imperceptibly. You’re very angry, aren’t you?

Of course I’m angry, said the woman. We are not where we are supposed to be. We have been taken to the wrong place. Either mistakenly or maliciously, I don’t know, and I don’t care. We are in the wrong place!

This is my home, said Brother Emmanuel. It is never the wrong place. No one comes here by accident, or is misplaced here. Remember that. One moment, and I will have my helpmate call you a taxi. It is not terribly far to the orphanage. You will be there in no time at all.

The man and the woman said nothing to each other in the taxi on their way to the orphanage. The sky was no longer night-dark, but it remained completely covered with low, densely opaque clouds. They sat close to the doors on either side of the car and left an expanse of seat empty between them, and both watched out their separate windows at the white fields passing by.

The taxi was driven by the same man who had brought them to Brother Emmanuel’s, but no one alluded to this prior journey they had made together. The taxi retraced its original route back into the town, through the narrow streets, past the hotel, and then crossed over a bridge that spanned a frozen river into countryside that mirrored that on the city’s opposite flank. They traveled about a mile in this direction and then the taxi pulled off the road and stopped in front of a two-story building that looked like a school. Its large windows were symmetrically arranged across its façade, which was covered in yellowish plaster that was, in several places, peeling away in large strips, revealing a wall of cinder blocks.

The driver turned around and said, Orphanage, and pointed at the building. The man leaned forward and gave money to the driver and then got out of the taxi, but the woman remained seated inside, so he walked around to the other side of the car and opened the door.

Let’s go, he said. We’re here.

The woman looked up at him and said, I’m a little afraid.

Afraid? he asked. Of what?

I don’t know, she said.

We’re finally here, the man said. It’s not the time to be afraid. It’s the time to be happy. Come, he said, and held out his hand.

She turned and looked at him. What if . . . she began, but then stopped.

What if what? the man asked.

She shook her head. Nothing, she said. She did not take his hand but lifted herself out of the car and stood beside him. The man shut the door of the car and the taxi drove away. They both stood and watched it disappear down the road, back toward the town, as if it were deserting them.

Well, said the man. Shall we go in? He held out his hand and the woman paused for a moment, regarding it, as if she was not sure what his presentation of it meant.

Take my hand, he said. Please.

She reached out her hand and grasped his, and then they walked up to the front doors of the building, on which was spelled out in those cheap adhesive letters that are bought one by one in a hardware store:

ST. BARNABAS ORPHANAGE

There did not appear to be a bell or a buzzer so the man rapped on the frosted glass panel of the door.

They’ll never hear that, the woman said, and knocked loudly on the wooden part of the door, which was almost immediately opened by a woman wearing a white nurse’s uniform. She also wore white shoes, and a white paper cap was bobby-pinned to her obviously dyed red hair.

Hello, she said. She opened the door wider and stood aside and the man and the woman entered, finding themselves in a large foyer with a floor covered with linoleum tiles in a checkered pattern of red and beige. Two staircases, one on either side of the room, rose up to the second floor, where a gallery connected them.

You speak English? the nurse asked.

Yes, said the man. We do.

Welcome to St. Barnabas, said the nurse. May I help you?

We had an appointment, said the man. At ten o’clock this morning, and I’m afraid we’re late.

We were taken to the wrong place, said the woman. It was the fault of the cabdriver. We got here as quickly as we could.

Of course, said the nurse. There is no need to worry. Perhaps you will sit here and I will see if Doctor Ludjekins can see you now. She indicated one of two pew-like wooden benches built into the wall on either side of the front door.

The man and the woman sat down on the bench and watched the nurse disappear through a door between the two staircases.

After about five minutes the nurse reappeared. She held her hands clasped in front of her breast and shook them a little, in a gesture of supplication. I am so sorry, she said. But Doctor Ludjekins is not here any longer. He will be back tomorrow, and I am sure he will be happy to see you then. You come back tomorrow?

Of course, said the man. He stood up. What time tomorrow?

Perhaps the time of your original appointment, said the nurse. I think that would be nice.

The woman had remained seated on the bench with her hands still tightly clasped in her lap.

Can we see the child? she asked. Our child?

The child? asked the nurse.

Yes, said the woman. The child. The baby we have come here to adopt.

Oh, said the nurse. Forgive me. I misunderstood. No, I am afraid you cannot. It is only with Doctor Ludjekins that you can see her.

Him, said the woman.

Him?

Yes, him, said the woman. The child we are adopting is a boy. Not a girl.

Of course, said the nurse. I am sorry. I don’t understand. Doctor Ludjekins, tomorrow, will help you, I am sure. I can be of no help today. I am sorry.

No, thank you, said the man. You’ve been very helpful. We will come back tomorrow.

Why can’t we see our baby? asked the woman. She stood up. We have come so far—

Darling, it’s all right, said the man. Tomorrow. We’ll see him tomorrow. One more day. Would you call us a taxi? he asked the nurse.

Of course, said the nurse. Where do you go?

To the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel, said the man.

Of course, said the nurse. I will call now. A taxi will come in any minute. She turned away from them and hastened back through the doors.

For a moment neither the man nor the woman said anything. The man took a few steps across the foyer, carefully only stepping on red tiles. This made him remember his antic upon the snow-covered station platform the previous night, and he wondered why in moments of high stress he elected to move in these childish ways. He stopped his hopping journey across the foyer when he heard his wife speaking behind him. He turned back toward her but kept both feet on red tiles.

You didn’t support me, she said. You never support me.

What? he asked.

When I asked to see him. You didn’t support me. I’m sure if you had supported me, we could have seen him. She would have showed him to us.

I don’t think so, said the man. She said only the doctor could show him to us—

I know that’s what she said. But it doesn’t mean anything. If you had supported me, if you had told her we had to see him, if you had given her some money—

Money?

Yes: money. You don’t understand how anything works! If you had given her some money, a few kopecks or schillings or whatever it’s called here, I’m sure she would have brought us to him.

We’ll see him tomorrow, said the man.

The woman sighed. She pushed open the door and left the building, allowing the door to shut behind her.

The man stood there for a moment, regarding the closed door. He could see his wife’s shadow figure, standing just beyond the smoky glass. He realized he still had his feet ridiculously splayed on separate red tiles and slid them back together.

When they returned to their hotel room the woman, exhausted from their travels and travails, once again stripped down to her silken underwear and got into bed.

Don’t you want some lunch? the man asked.

No, the woman said. I just want to sleep.

I’m hungry, the man said. I’m going down to the restaurant. Should I bring you back something? You’ve got to eat.

I’m not hungry. Just go. She drew the gold coverlet up over her face. The man stood there for a moment, as if there was something else he could do, or say, but he could think of nothing, so he went down to the lobby.

The restaurant was closed. A chain hung across the open doorway from which depended a small sign that said CLOSE. The man looked into the vast, empty space. The lights were all turned off and the room was almost dark, although it was only the middle of the afternoon.

He walked back across the lobby to the reception desk, behind which there now stood an older man with a shiny bald head and a walrus mustache wearing the same sort of vaguely militaristic uniform as the young woman who had greeted them upon their arrival and striking the same sort of impassive, unseeing attitude. The man realized it was less than twenty-four hours since they had arrived, and yet it seemed they had spent days—months, years—in this place.

Good afternoon, the man said.

Good afternoon, said the concierge. May I help you?

I was hoping I might eat some lunch, said the man. But it appears the restaurant is closed.

Indeed it is. Lunch is never served in the restaurant on weekends. Only breakfast and dinner.

Perhaps the man had lost track of the days, but he was fairly sure it was not yet the weekend.

So there is nowhere I can get something to eat?

There are several excellent restaurants in the vicinity, said the concierge. Some may still be serving lunch, although it is late. Or if you don’t wish to venture out, a limited menu of cold dishes is offered at all times in the bar.

Thank you, said the man. I will try my luck there.

Lárus stood in his usual position behind the bar, and a young Japanese couple occupied the center of the bar, where the man had sat the night before. So he sat down at the far end, in Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s place.

Lárus walked slowly toward him. Good afternoon, he said.

Good afternoon, the man said.

Would you like the schnapps, or something else?

The man had not intended to start drinking so early, but then he remembered it was already dark outside, and for all intents and purposes the day was over, since it had never really begun. He told Lárus that yes, he would like a schnapps. Please.

Lárus poured him a schnapps, set it before him.

Is it possible to get something to eat? asked the man. I’m very hungry.

Of course, said Lárus. He reached below the bar and placed a small red leatherette-bound volume in front of the man. The name of the hotel was stamped upon its cover in gold. Inside, a folded piece of paper was restrained with a gold tasseled cord. Four words appeared in a centered column on the first page:

Snacks

Закуски

Bocadillos

Grickalice

The man turned the page and the menu was repeated, once again in various languages. The options, at least in English, were:

Hard Eggs with Sauce

Cold Fish Croquette

Pickle Relish

Small Meat Sandwich

Salad of Potato and Ham

Lárus waited patiently while the man studied the menu.

The eggs, please, the man told him. And the meat sandwich, and the potato salad.

Would you like ham meat or potted meat in your sandwich?

What kind of meat is the potted meat? asked the man.

Potted, said Lárus.

Yes, I know. But what kind? What kind of animal?

Oh, said Lárus. Many, perhaps.

I’ll have ham, said the man.

Ham meat?

Yes. Please.

Very well. Lárus held out his hand and the man returned the menu to him. Lárus replaced it beneath the bar and then unfurled a linen napkin in front of the man and set a place there with a pewter charger. He disappeared through a small door padded in a quilted pattern with green vinyl or leather. The man looked across the bar at the Japanese couple, who were staring at him. They were both very beautiful, with their small clean faces and dark shining hair. Could they be brother and sister? The man smiled at them, but they looked quickly away from him.

The man picked up his glass of schnapps and sipped from it. He loved this schnapps; it was like nothing he had ever tasted. He wondered if he could buy a bottle of it and take it home with him. Home seemed a long time ago, and far away. The comfort of thinking of home seemed almost illicit, like the comfort or pleasure that comes from picking at a scab, or the thrill of pornography. But nevertheless the man pictured their faraway home, their snug apartment, full of books and paintings and old rugs and quilts. And the tiny guest room that had been transformed into a nursery the first time the woman was pregnant, and had been empty, with the door closed, ever since.

Lárus reemerged and placed a white ceramic plate upon the pewter charger. He said, Egg, sandwich, salad, pointing at the three things in turn, although there could be no mistaking one for another. None of them looked particularly appetizing but nevertheless the sight of them, of something to eat so close at hand and readily available, delighted the man and he ate all of it hungrily and with great pleasure.

As soon as he was finished Lárus cleared everything away. He picked up the almost empty glass of schnapps and said, Another?

Yes, the man said. Please.

Lárus fetched the bottle and poured some into the man’s glass and then returned to his post at the far end of the bar.

The Japanese couple was speaking very quietly and seriously, their heads bowed close together over the votive candle. They were both dressed elegantly and entirely in black. Suddenly the woman was crying, and the man reached out and grasped her arm, shook it gently, and said a word, again and again, that sounded like her name: Mitsuko, Mitsuko. She leaned back from him and wiped at her eyes with her hands and then stood up and left the bar. The man remained. He sighed and pushed forward his empty glass in a way that made it clear that he was not dismissing it, but asking for it to be filled. It was scotch he was drinking, and Lárus poured a finger or two into his glass.

What was wrong? the man wondered. What had happened? It is very difficult to witness the public and incomprehensible sadness of others. In New York, he often saw women crying in the streets, walking beside men in double-breasted suits with flamboyant hair. Of course there was nothing one could do.

He lost track of time for a little while and when he returned he realized that the Japanese man had also left the bar. Had he fallen asleep? Lárus remained at his post, gazing implacably at the beaded curtain, which occasionally shuddered ever so slightly, as if a subway train were passing in a tunnel beneath the bar, but the man knew the beads were responding only to the tension of the world, the fraught energy that leaked from him, from the Japanese couple, even from the seemingly implacable Lárus, for who knew what drama, what passion, what sorrow, what joy his stoic countenance concealed?

It had always been a dream of the man’s to be a regular at a bar, to be served by a bartender who knew him and liked him well, but since he rarely drank and hardly ever visited bars, this dream had forever eluded him. But perhaps, he thought, he would find it here, so far away from home, for he felt unusually warm and welcomed in the dark intimate bar of the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel. The feeling was probably an effect of the schnapps, but it was a lovely feeling nonetheless, and he wanted to acknowledge it in some way.

He stood up and walked around the bar so he was facing Lárus. Thank you, he said, and he offered his hand across the polished copper surface of the bar, for he wanted to connect with Lárus, even in so insignificant a way as shaking his hand. Touching him.

For a moment Lárus seemed puzzled by the man’s hovering hand and looked at it questioningly, as if it were a curiosity. But then he reached out his own large warm hand and grasped the man’s, and shook it, and said, You are welcome, and the man felt oddly victorious, and turned and stroked his way through the beaded curtain like a pearl diver who has been submerged too long and heaves himself up through the ceiling of water, gasping for breath.

The room was dark and very warm when the man returned to it. He stumbled through the darkness and turned on one of the little bedside lamps. His wife was sleeping, but she had thrown back the covers and lay exposed on the bed, on her side, with one leg bent and raised as if she were running, or climbing a staircase. The man shut off the radiator and pulled the sheet and the blanket and the golden coverlet back over his wife.

He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him and in the darkness groped for the string that hung from the round neon tube in the middle of the ceiling. He found it, and pulled, and the light crackled and blinked on.

The man opened the tap and filled the large porcelain tub with very hot water. It cascaded ferociously into the tub, and as it accumulated it took on a pale greenish cast, not unlike the pale wintry tint of the schnapps. When the tub was full the man reached up and turned out the light and then lowered himself, gingerly, into the water. When he could finally bear the heat, he extended his legs and leaned back against the tub’s sloped wall. Even though it was completely dark in the bathroom, he closed his eyes.

When the water had cooled he stepped out of the bath and turned the light back on. He shaved very carefully, watching his reflection appear and disappear in the circle he cleared on the fogged mirror. No sooner had he wiped it clean than the fog returned, so humid was the microclimate of the bathroom.

He had not shaved for several days and when he was finally finished, and his face was smooth and clean, he looked down at the bowl of soapy water in the sink which was festooned with thousands of his black hairs, and it looked to him like a sea strewn with carnage, the flotsam and jetsam after a terrible naval battle.

He pulled the little rubber stopper out of the drain and watched it all wash away.

In the bedroom he found his wife sitting up in bed. Both bedside lamps were turned on. He closed the golden drapes against the cold black windows.

How are you feeling? he asked.

Better, she said.

He was suddenly aware that he was naked, and he felt as if he was displaying, unfeelingly, the health and beauty of his body, so he quickly found a pair of underpants in his suitcase and put them on. Then he turned again toward his wife, who was watching him with a slight smile on her face, as if he had done something amusing.

You must be hungry, he said. Are you?

Yes, she said. A little.

Good, he said. Should we go down to dinner?

Oh, no, she said. I don’t want to go down. I can’t. I want to stay in bed.

Are you sure? It might be good for you to get up. You’ve slept all afternoon.

I’m sure, she said. Do you think they’d send something up?

I imagine they would, the man said. Although it seems that they’re woefully understaffed.

I don’t mind waiting, she said. Just some soup, or something.

Are you sure you won’t come down?

I told you, she said. Please don’t keep asking. You know I hate that.

He finished dressing in silence. She watched him, the same amused half smile on her face. He hated her a little.

All right, he said. I’ll see what I can do. If they won’t send something up, I’ll bring it back myself.

Thank you, she said. Thank you for your love. And for your patience.

He walked over to the bed and kissed her cheek, which felt unusually warm. He resisted the urge to palm her forehead. He was sorry he had just felt hatred. But it was gone.

The bald walrus-mustached concierge was gone, and the young woman who had welcomed him, so to speak, on the previous night had resumed her stoic vigil behind the reception counter. The man approached her. Good evening, he said.

Good evening, she said.

I wonder if . . . My wife is not feeling well, and is staying up in our room, but wonders if some food could be brought up to her. Is that possible?

Certainly it is possible, the young woman said. I believe that any dish on the restaurant’s menu can be delivered to a guest’s room.

Excellent, said the man. Thank you.

I hope you are enjoying your stay at the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel.

Yes, said the man. Everything has been fine.

Good, said the young woman. We strive hard to meet the needs of every traveler.

Do you? asked the man.

Yes, the young woman said. We do. Have we failed you in any way?

No, said the man. You have not failed me.

That is good to hear, said the young woman.

The man crossed the lobby and entered the restaurant. The huge, gleaming room was virtually empty. Only a few couples sat, ridiculously alone, at the large tables set for ten. A string quartet was playing what sounded to the man like a polka, and perhaps because they were seated just inside the large glass windows that overlooked the garden which must leak cold air, they all wore parkas over their formal attire.

There did not appear to be a hostess or a maître d’ or any other person who might welcome and seat diners, so the man stood there, waiting. He looked at the menu, which was printed on a large piece of vellum and propped up on a gilt easel just inside the door.

Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel
MENU
Table d’hôte

First Course
Hors d’Oeuvres Varies
Oysters

Second Course
Consommé Olga, Cream of Barley

Third Course
Salmon, Mousseline Sauce, Cucumbers

Fourth Course
Filet Mignons Lili
Sauté of Chicken, Lyonnaise
Vegetable Marrow Farci

Fifth Course
Lamb, Mint Sauce
Roast Duckling, Apple Sauce
Sirloin of Beef, Château Potatoes
Green Peas, Creamed Carrots
Boiled Rice
Parmentier & Boiled New Potatoes

Sixth Course
Punch Romaine

Seventh Course
Roast Squab & Cress

Eighth Course
Cold Asparagus Vinaigrette

Ninth Course
Pâté de Foie Gras
Celery

Tenth Course
Waldorf Pudding
Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly
Chocolate & Vanilla Éclairs
French Ice Cream

The man quickly realized he could not face the ordeal that this dinner promised to be and decided he would return to the bar and its menu of snacks. At that moment the hidden door in the mural on the far wall opened and a woman appeared, carrying a large tray laden with dishes hidden beneath silver plate covers. She was carrying this burden by resting the tray on her shoulder and supporting it with one hand, and consequently was slumped a little to one side beneath what appeared to be a great weight. She visited all of the occupied tables, placing a dish in front of each diner and removing the plate cover with a gesture that was obviously intended to be a flourish but which under the challenging circumstances better resembled a gesture of defeat. When she had completed her arduous journey around the room—for the three occupied tables were all as distant from one another as possible—the man raised his hand and called out to her. She looked at him wearily, as if she could cope only with the diners scattered among the tables but any other obligation or responsibility would cause her to collapse. And so the man felt guilty about summoning her, as if he had done something wrong, and stood sheepishly inside the door as she made her way toward him.

A table for one? she dispiritedly asked the man. He thought this was an odd question, since all the tables in the restaurant were set for ten people. And then he realized she was the same waitress who had served them that morning. She was wearing a more elegant costume and had put her hair up in a rather soigné fashion and applied a deathly red lipstick to her lips, but she was undoubtedly the same woman, and he suddenly understood her fatigue and impatience.

No, he said. I’m sorry to bother you, but my wife is upstairs in her room—she is not feeling well; she’s sick—and I wonder if it’s possible to bring her something small to eat? Some soup, perhaps. The consommé or cream of barley perhaps?

Oh, yes, she said. Of course. And perhaps some creamed carrots and rice?

Yes, said the man, that would be perfect. Thank you! Thank you so much.

Your poor wife! she said. I am sorry she is unwell. What is your room number?

Five nineteen, the man said.

Five nineteen, the waitress repeated. Yes. I will have the kitchen boy bring her up something nice very soon.

Thank you, said the man. You are very kind. Here. He took his wallet out of his pocket and opened it. He selected a bill of middling denomination and held it to the waitress.

Oh! she exclaimed. You are sure?

Yes, he said. Take it, please. And thank you very much.

The waitress took the bill and stuffed it into a pocket in her apron. God bless you, she said.

The man felt suddenly happy because he knew he had finally done something right and good: he had arranged for food to be brought up to his wife and had been blessed by the waitress. He smiled as he recrossed the lobby.

The businessman was sitting at the bar drinking beer from a ridiculously large glass stein and reading the Financial Times. In place of his suit he wore a velvet smoking jacket of deep bottle green and a white shirt opened at the throat to reveal a paisley-patterned silk cravat. He looked up as the man entered the bar, and chucked the newspaper to the floor.

My God, he said, I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been?

Really? said the man. He knew that the businessman had probably not been waiting for him—why would he have been?—but nevertheless there was something very nice about the idea of being waited for.

Of course, said the businessman. I never lie. To lie is to betray yourself. Only cowards and faggots lie. I’ve been waiting here for you. We’re going out to dinner.

Are we?

Yes, said the businessman. Unless you want that ancien régime pig trough they’re serving in the dining room.

No, said the man. I’ve just fled from it.

I knew you were a compadre. We’re venturing out. Have you got a coat?

Up in my room.

Then fetch it, man. Hurry. Time is a-wasting.

Where are we going?

Get your coat, baby. Bundle up. It’s cold outside. We’re going to a real place, with real food. For men. I’ll wait here for you.

The man went up to his room. His wife was sleeping and did not awaken when he entered and turned on the light. His parka was on the chair where he had left it. He put it on. He stood for a moment and watched his wife sleep. There was so much he wished he could do for her, so much he wished he could give to her, but nothing he tried to do, or give, ever seemed to reach her. It was as if she wore a shield that deflected all of his love, an armor that protected her from anything he gave.

The businessman was waiting just inside the revolving doors. He wore a somewhat ridiculous-looking woolen cape and a Tyrolean hat with a feather in its band. Without acknowledging the man, he pushed himself through the revolving door. The man followed behind him. The man always felt a strange intimacy with people with whom he shared a revolving door. They both ducked their heads because the wind, which was fierce, blew the falling snow directly into their faces. There were no cars or other people on the street; it was as if everything had been cleaned up and put away.

At the first intersection the businessman turned right onto a street that was almost as dark and narrow as an alley. The lashing wind subsided and the man realized he had been holding his breath. The alleyway was as deserted as the street and had not been plowed or shoveled, so the two men had to wade through tall drifts of snow. It was dark except for one light that faintly glowed about a hundred yards ahead of them. They passed several dark windows, and in the dim light in the center of each window, gold-stenciled words dully gleamed: HAMMASLÄÄKÄRI, MARKT. The man paused for a minute outside the market, but a drape was drawn across the window so he could see nothing inside. But it was good to know that there was a market nearby. They paused outside the lighted window and through the steamed-over plate glass the man could see a dining room that contained only ten tables. About half of them were occupied. The businessman pulled open the heavy door and they both entered. A velvet curtain hung just inside the door to impede the entrance of the cold outside air, and the businessman fumbled impatiently to find the parting, and then drew the two panels aside so they could step into the room. All of the diners were men eating alone except for one table, at which a husband and wife sat with their two young sons. The men all had the forlorn beaten look of workers forced by economic necessity to seek employment far from their homes and families; there was an oil refinery outside the town and the man assumed all the men must work there, or on one of the oil rigs out in the frozen sea. Each man was at his own little table, and they seemed so alone, without even the benefit of camaraderie. He wondered what kept these men alive, how so much could be subtracted from a life—warmth, companionship, culture, even light—and yet the life itself endure. Was it the promise of some golden future, of returning to the bosom of a family in some sunlit paradise with pockets full of money that allowed them to toil so stoically in this cold dark place?

A middle-aged woman wearing a lumpy cardigan over a nylon dress with a leopard print appeared and showed them to a table. The menus were held upright between the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser, and the man and the businessman each extracted one and attempted to study it. Only three items were listed in the hieroglyphic native language. The businessman leaned forward and pointed at the man’s menu and said, Each is a stew. Meat, fish, vegetable.

Their hostess, who was apparently also the waitress, approached their table and stood there, wearily, awaiting their order. The man nodded to the businessman and said, What are you going to have?

Fish stew, the businessman said, to both the man and the hostess.

She nodded and then looked at the man. Remembering the impressive linguistic capabilities of the waitress at the hotel, and hoping all those who worked in the service industry were fluent in English, he pointed to one of the choices on the menu and asked, What kind of meat?

The waitress’s uncomprehending look confirmed that she did not understand, so the man repeated his question, as if heard enough times, or at the right pitch, comprehension might occur. The waitress shook her head, indicating that her darkness was impenetrable, but a man with dreadlocks at a nearby table cleared his throat and lifted his finger in the air, and then pointed at his own dish. He made a bleating goatlike sound. Then he put both his fists atop his head with his pointer and middle fingers extended like floppy ears and hopped up and down in his seat. He smiled proudly at the man and returned his attention to his own meal.

Goat and rabbit? Or perhaps there was some sort of long-eared, hopping mountain goat native to the region? In either case his interpreter seemed to be enjoying his meal, which was composed of chunks of meat and potatoes and what appeared to be carrots in a gelatinous brown gravy. It looked tasty, so the man held up one finger and pointed to the dish at the neighboring table and said, Meat stew, please.

The waitress nodded and then pointed to the glass of beer on his friend’s table and then turned and pointed to the carafe of red wine being shared by the married couple and then mimed throwing back a shot. The man knew what that meant: schnapps.

Shall we have beer or wine? he asked the businessman.

Beer, said the businessman. The wine here is piss. Two beers, he said to the waitress. Grande.

The hostess pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen. The businessman stood up and removed his cape. He did not remove his hat. Take off that sissy jacket, he said to the man. I’ll hang it up for you.

The man took off his parka and handed it to the businessman. Was it a sissy jacket? Maybe the halo of fur around the hood? But it was odd because if anyone looked like a sissy it was the businessman, with his velvet smoking jacket and silk cravat.

The businessman hung the man’s parka on one of the many pegs that lined the walls of the restaurant and then slung his cape atop it so that the two outer garments appeared to be spooning. He returned to the table. The waitress arrived carrying a tray and placed two glasses on the table and then opened two green bottles of beer with no label and poured an inch or two into each glass. Then she hastened away.

The businessman emptied his bottle into the glass and waited while the man did the same. Then he lifted his glass and said, To the joys of fraternization!

The man lifted his glass against the businessman’s glass and then they both drank.

It’s nice to drink a beer with another man, isn’t it? asked the businessman, when he had placed his glass back on the table.

Yes, said the man, it is.

There are some things I only do with men. Drinking beer. Playing polo. Smoking cigars. You wouldn’t want a woman involved with any of that, would you?

No, said the man, despite his belief that gender roles were obsolete. And he neither smoked cigars nor played polo.

The waitress reappeared. She placed the fish stew in front of the businessman and the meat stew in front of the man and a plastic basket with two small loaves of bread in the middle of the table. She hastened away.

For a few moments they both ate their stew. Then the businessman picked up the basket of bread and held it toward the man.

Would you like some bread with your stew?

Yes, said the man. Thank you. He felt ashamed that he had not thought to offer the bread to his dining companion before it was offered to him. He took the slightly smaller loaf of bread from the basket. The businessman took the remaining loaf and carefully replaced the basket at the center of the table. He turned away from the table and surveyed the room, and when he saw the waitress emerge from the kitchen, he raised his arm and summoned her. She came directly to their table and stood there uncooperatively, giving no indication she had any purpose there other than gazing disdainfully at them. But the businessman seemed not to notice, or to ignore, her attitude, for he said over-emphatically, Two more beers, and a round of schnapps for us both!

The waitress departed without giving any indication she had heard or understood what the businessman had said.

I don’t want another beer, said the man. Or schnapps. I can’t get drunk!

Why can’t you?

I’m not here to get drunk, said the man.

Then what are you here for? asked the businessman.

To get a baby, said the man. To get our baby.

What do you want with a baby? Don’t tell me she’s brainwashed you?

Who?

Wifey! Back at the hotel with her vapors. Is she the one who wants a kiddie?

We both do, said the man. That’s why we’ve come here.

You poor sod. You might as well cut your balls off. Would you believe me if I told you that the moment you have a kiddie your primal life is over?

No, said the man. I think that is when your life begins. Your true life. He took another bite of his stew. He was enjoying it, but the meat had a strange flavor and texture. He tried not to remember that what is meat in one country is offal in another.

The waitress returned with their beer and schnapps and set them, unceremoniously, on the table.

Men like us were meant for finer things, the businessman said. He raised his little glass of schnapps. Let the plebs procreate and raise their litters, but let you and me enjoy the pleasures of fraternization. He reached out and petted the man’s cheek.

The man pushed his hand away. Look, he said, I don’t know what game you’re playing but I wish you’d stop. It’s become tiresome.

I’m not playing a game, said the businessman. I don’t play games.

Well, whatever it is you’re doing, please stop it. I don’t like it.

The businessman leaned back in his chair and looked at the man appraisingly, as if he were seeing him for the first time. You’ve changed, haven’t you? he asked.

No, said the man.

You have, said the businessman. You didn’t use to be like this.

I’ve never met you before! said the man. You have no idea of how I was, or who I am.

Well, in that case I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I? I’m Henk Bosma. He held out his large, fleshy hand. It stayed there a moment, hovering above the table, before the man reached out and shook it, and said his name.

Well, that’s better, isn’t it? said the businessman. Now we’ll have no more of this useless prevarication.

They both returned their attention to their stews. After a moment the man, deciding to take the offensive, said, And you? What brings you here?

Business, said the businessman. Money. Nothing else could possibly get me above the sixtieth parallel.

What kind of business?

Oh, the crudest kind. Oil. The Russians want to buy the rig and refinery here from the Finns and I’m putting it all together. Or not. More likely not. Have you ever tried to do business with Russians and Finns?

No, said the man.

Well, count your blessings. They’re both mad. But mad in extremely different ways. And now the Japs are up here too, trying to buy it out from under us.

And who do you work for? The Russians or the Finns?

Neither. I’m just the man in the middle. The punching bag.

The businessman laid down his fork and lifted both his fists. He took a few jabs at the man. Pow! Pow! he said.

Although the man knew that the businessman did not intend to punch him, he flinched. This amused the businessman. Relax, baby, he said. We’re all friends here. He leaned forward and patted the man’s cheek, then quickly withdrew his hand. Oh! he said. Pardon me. I forgot that touching was verboten. Nevertheless he touched the man’s cheek again before picking up his utensils and attacking his stew.

The man felt ashamed that he had flinched at the businessman’s playful sparring. He looked down at his own meat stew. The sauce was congealing, and the chunks of meat were looking oddly slick and somewhat purple. He realized he was beginning to feel sick. At first just a little sick and then, suddenly, very sick. He stood up and said, Do you know where the toilet is? I think I’m going to be sick.

It’s downstairs, said the businessman, pointing to an open doorway beyond which a flight of stairs descended into the basement.

The man pushed himself away from the table and hurried down the steps into the basement, where he found himself in what was obviously a storeroom, with huge glass jars filled with what looked like pickled fruits and vegetables and perhaps, disquietingly, meat, stacked on the metal shelves. The man was almost sick on the floor because these glass jars filled with floating organic matter reminded him of a jar he had once seen that contained a human fetus with an abnormally large head similarly floating in dirty brine. There were two doors on the other side of the room, and the man raced toward the closest one and opened it. In the dark he could discern the toilet at the far end of the long narrow room, gleaming faintly, and he rushed toward it and arrived just in time to lean into it and allow his sickness to erupt. It came out of him in several almost crippling gushes, a violence he did not know his body was capable of manifesting. After the third great wave of sickness he was able to lay his head on the rim of the toilet and close his eyes.

He felt so much better, relieved to have such calamity behind him, and he thought, It isn’t really so bad kneeling here with my head on the toilet. It’s nice and peaceful. He kept his eyes closed and quietly allowed himself to sink into a place that was nearer to his true self.

And then he felt, suddenly, on his eyelids, the push of light, and he opened them see that the light in the bathroom had been turned on. He sat up and turned his head but before he could see anything the light was shut off. In his haste to reach the toilet he had left the door open. Now the door was closed and it was utterly dark. He could sense a presence just inside the door, hear someone breathing. He began to stand up but then thought better of it and tried to press himself back into the corner of the room alongside the toilet, but there wasn’t enough room for him to fit between the toilet and the wall, so he thought he might be able to crawl past whoever had entered the bathroom if he kept low enough to the floor. He pressed himself against the nearest wall and began to slide forward on his belly, trying to keep his body parallel with the wall. Then he thought that if he kept perfectly still and flattened against the wall, the man would move past him and he could get up and run out the door. He stopped moving and pressed his body tightly against the wall. He felt the cold from the earth seeping through the concrete and he wished he had never come to this place.

It was very quiet in the dark room. He knew that the man was listening for him, so he kept perfectly still. And then he wondered if perhaps he had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a man in the room. Could he have imagined it? But he remembered the light and the door being closed. And then he heard a sound he could not identify, but whatever it was, it was coming closer to him, and he realized that there was a man and that he was kicking, kicking both feet in all directions trying to find the man. The first kick found the back of his head and smashed his face into the wall and the next kick landed on his spine just between his shoulder blades. He heard the other man saying something in his language and felt himself being pulled up, a hand beneath both of his arms dragging him up and pushing him hard against the wall, and then one hand held the back of his neck hard against the wall and other reached down and felt his ass, patting and squeezing it, and he thought he was going to be raped and tried to scream but his mouth was pushed hard against the wall, and then the other man found his wallet, stuck into his buttoned back pocket, and he pulled hard and ripped the pocket open—the man heard the button ping as it hit the floor—and grabbed the man’s wallet. The hand let go of his neck and the man lost his balance and fell onto the floor and hit his head on something—the toilet, he thought—and he felt the mugger kicking him again, and then the mugger kicked the toilet and cried out in pain and kicked him once again very hard and then he was gone, a soft gleam of light as he opened the door and then darkness again.

The man lay quietly on the floor. He had covered his face with his hands and now he pressed them tenderly against his skin and this tender touching of himself calmed him. He rocked himself back and forth. He kept one hand on his face and with the other felt for his left ear, which he thought might have come off, but it was still attached to his head, and he pressed his hand tightly against it to keep it from falling off.

The next thing he knew was the light had been turned back on, and he curled himself more tightly into himself and waited to be kicked again.

Jesus, what’s happened to you? He felt someone kneel beside him and a hand touched his upper arm, trying to pull him around, away from the toilet. But he managed to shirk off the hand and curl more tightly around the toilet.

It’s me, the voice said. What’s happened? Open your eyes. It’s over.

The man opened his eyes and saw the businessman kneeling beside him. He gently patted the man’s upper arm. Can you stand up?

The man nodded, although he wasn’t sure if he could stand up.

Let me help you, the businessman said. With one of his hands under each of the man’s arms he dragged the man up. The man stood for a moment but then dizzily sat on the toilet.

You’ve got a bloody nose, said the businessman. Here—he reached into a pocket of his smoking jacket but found nothing. And nothing in the other pocket. He reached up to his throat and removed his silk cravat and handed it to the man. You’d better do it, he said. I might hurt you.

Are you sure? the man asked. Your beautiful cravat?

Of course, said the businessman. Take it. I have thousands.

The man took the cravat and gingerly dabbed at his nose.

Just hold it there, said the businessman. Tilt your head back.

The man did this and the businessman stood beside him, moving his hand in a circle around the center of the man’s back, but so lightly that the man felt the warmth of his hand more than the actual touch of it.

The woman was awoken by a knocking on the door. The utter darkness of the hotel room revealed nothing about who or where she was, and it took her a moment to remember her identity and circumstances. Then she heard the knocking again. Oh, she thought, it must be room service with my dinner. She reached out and turned on the nearest bedside lamp.

Come in, she called, but her voice sounded feeble, unused, so she repeated herself.

I would if I could but I can’t, a voice called through the door. A woman’s voice. The damn door’s locked!

The woman drew back the covers and got out of the bed. She felt dizzy, so she stood for a moment, with one hand pressed tightly against the faux-brick wall. Then, when she felt able to, she walked across the room and opened the door. It was dark in the hallway—it seemed to be dark everywhere in this hotel—but in the gloom she could see Livia Pinheiro-Rima standing and holding a tray.

I’ve got your supper here, Livia Pinheiro-Rima said, and pushed past the woman into the room. Where should I put it? Without waiting for an answer, she lowered the tray onto the bed and then wrung her hands together, as if they were sore from carrying it. Your husband’s gone out to dinner, she said, so I intercepted the swarthy youth they sent up because I thought you might like to see a friendly face, stuck up here all by yourself.

The woman remained standing by the open door. A friendly face? she asked.

Well, a familiar face, if nothing else. Or maybe not. Don’t you remember me? I’m the woman who saved you from freezing to death last night when you ran out of the hotel in your skivvies. If that’s not friendly, I don’t know what is.

Yes, said the woman. Of course. I just didn’t expect to see you again.

Really? Not ever again?

Well, not up here, said the woman. With the tray.

You’ve got to learn to take things at they come, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. That’s one thing I’ve learned. Now come, back into bed with you before you freeze to death. We’ll pretend you’re a little girl in the nursery and I’m your beloved old nanny. That should be a comfort to both of us, I imagine. Into bed, my poppet!

Although the woman had no desire to indulge this fantasy of Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s, she was cold and tired and so dutifully returned to the bed, and in this way temporarily forfeited her rights to a rational existence.

There’s a good girl, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Now let’s see what Cook’s sent up for our supper. She removed the two silver domes from the dishes on the tray and exclaimed, Lucky girl, it’s your absolute favorites! Cock-a-leekie Soup and Toad-in-the-Hole! Let’s get this soup in your tummy while it’s still piping hot.

Livia Pinheiro-Rima replaced the dome on top of one dish and carried the bowl of soup, a spoon, and a large white cloth napkin around the bed to where the woman lay. You’ll have to sit up, my dear; you can’t eat soup lying down like that. Let’s prop you up and make you comfy cozy. She put the things she carried down on the bedside table and helped the woman sit up, placing the pillows behind her back, and drew the blankets tightly up and around her. There we are, she said. She sat down on the bed and tucked the napkin into the neck of the woman’s underwear so that it fell down over the gold coverlet. Then she picked up the bowl of soup. She paddled the spoon through the soup and then lifted it out of the bowl and said, Open up.

I can feed myself, said the woman.

You keep your little mitts beneath the blankets where they belong, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Ouvre la bouche, mon petit chat.

The woman opened her mouth and was fed the soup. It’s good, she said.

Of course it’s good. Do you think I’d feed you bad soup? Ouvre. The woman opened her mouth and was fed more soup. She realized she quite liked being fed soup while snuggled up in bed in the dim pink-lighted room with the snow falling outside the curtained windows. It was the warmest and safest she had felt in days.

When the bowl of soup was finished, Livia Pinheiro-Rima pulled the napkin out and wiped the woman’s lips. Then she re-tucked it beneath her chin. Ready for our Toad-in-the-Hole?

Yes, said the woman.

Yes, what?

Yes, please, said the woman.

There’s a good girl.

Livia Pinheiro-Rima returned the empty soup bowl to the tray and lifted the dome from the other dish and returned to her place on the bed beside the woman. It isn’t really Toad-in-the-Hole, she said. It looks like creamed chicken and mushrooms over rice. Ouvre la bouche.

As she fed the woman the creamed chicken, Livia Pinheiro-Rima suddenly said, in a voice quite unlike Nanny’s, Now, listen, you’ve got tell me what you thought of him!

What I thought of who?

Who? Why, Brother Emmanuel, of course!

How did you—

How do you think? I set it all up. I told the taxi driver to take you there. The last thing you need is a child. It’s obvious what you need is Brother Emmanuel. So I had to interfere.

How dare you! said the woman.

Yes, exactly, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima: How dare I! What is it they say—better to dare than to dream? Or perhaps it’s the other way round, but in any case I got you there, didn’t I? So the least you can do is tell me what you thought of him.

I think he’s a fraud, said the woman. I mean, obviously.

But will you go back?

If he’s a fraud, why go back?

Perhaps you aren’t sure.

Oh, I’m sure, said the woman. It’s really shameless, what he does. I think it’s the worst deception that exists. To take advantage of vulnerable people—

He took advantage of you?

No. Of course not. I didn’t allow him to. And I won’t.

Then there’s no harm in going back, is there?

Perhaps there’s no harm, but there’s also no purpose, said the woman. Besides, we’re going to the orphanage tomorrow. Tomorrow we see our child.

And while we’re on that subject, please tell me, what in the world do you need a child for? They’re really nasty little creatures, babies.

Did you ever have a baby? asked the woman.

Yes. Several, in fact. I speak from experience.

And you didn’t love them?

No, not when they were babies. What a nuisance they were!

But later you did?

Oh, yes. There are a few years—between five and ten, if I remember correctly—when they’re lovely. But it doesn’t last long.

Well, I’m sure we shall love our baby because we want it so badly and have gone through so much to adopt it.

If I may once again speak from my own experience—I suppose one always speaks from one’s own experience so there’s no need to qualify in this way—but my experience has taught me that things we badly want and strive desperately for are the things that most keenly disappoint us. For this reason alone I think you should forsake the orphanage and go back and see Brother Emmanuel. Of course one does not preclude the other. I understand why you might not listen to me—although you should, you really should—but my dear, don’t you believe in fate?

Fate?

Yes, fate. Fate! Why else would you have come here, of all places, to adopt a baby, if it wasn’t to meet Brother Emmanuel? I can’t tell you how strongly I feel that you were meant to meet him.

Are you part of his scam? Does he give you a percentage of his blood money?

That’s a vile, stupid thing to say, and if I’ve caused you to say something like that I’m truly sorry, because I know you are neither vile nor stupid. But let me tell you that Brother Emmanuel has never taken so much as a penny from anyone. And I have a lifetime sinecure at the National Theater, which I founded and ran for thirty-seven years, so I’m neither in need of nor in the habit of taking anyone’s money, thank you very much.

I’m sorry, said the woman. It’s just that I don’t know what to think and so I don’t know what to do.

All the more reason to listen to me, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Your husband told me how ill you are. Not that he needed to tell me—one look at you and I knew.

Knew what?

How ill you are. Let’s not beat around the bush. I don’t have the time for that, and frankly, my dear, neither do you. You’re far too ill to become a mother.

I know that, said the woman. Do you think I don’t know that? But that’s the whole point, the whole reason we’re here, now. So we can be a family for however long it lasts. It may be as long as a year, and when it happens—when I die—they’ll have each other. They’ll be family. He won’t be alone. You don’t know how difficult it’s been—finding someone who would let us adopt, at our age, and under these, under my conditions. That’s why we’ve had to come so far, to this place. That’s why we’re here—to start something real. Not to see some charlatan.

But why not see him, now that you are here?

You don’t understand! It’s taken me so long, so unbelievably long, to resign myself to what’s happening. But I am resigned. I can’t allow any more possibilities, everything that can be done has been done, and I’m too tired, too—

Excuse me, but everything hasn’t been done! exclaimed Livia Pinheiro-Rima. You haven’t seen Brother Emmanuel! I mean you did today, but not properly, not the way you need to. Why would you not go back? Don’t you owe it to yourself? Your husband? And yes, of course, if it gets there, your child?

I told you, I don’t believe in that. I have this time—this short time—and I want to spend it living, not trying to stay alive, not even hoping to stay alive. I know my body. I know what it’s doing.

Livia Pinheiro-Rima stood up and returned the emptied dish of not-Toad-in-the-Hole to the tray. She lowered the silver dome over it with a bit of a flourish, as if it were a magic trick. Without speaking she came around the bed and gently pulled the napkin from around the woman’s throat. She shook it out and then folded it in half, quarters, eighths. After a moment she said, once again in her Nanny voice, You must have been a bad girl. Cook didn’t send up a pudding. Now, hunker down. She pulled the pillows out from behind the woman and helped her to resume her recumbent position upon the bed and smoothed the golden coverlet over her. She pointed to the little bedside lamp and said, On or off?

On, the woman said.

Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, I should leave it on all night if I were you. It casts such a warm light. You’re sure to have sweet dreams sleeping in such lovely light. She sat down on the bed beside the woman.

Close your eyes, she said. There’s a good girl. She reached out and gently stroked the hair off the woman’s forehead. That was quite a dramatic little speech you just gave. I think you’ve exhausted yourself. You need to go to sleep. It’s only in English, you know, that people go to sleep. Everywhere else people sleep right where they are. You’re ready to sleep now, aren’t you?

Yes, said the woman. She was feeling full and warm and sleepy and a little narcotized, as if the meal she had just eaten had some magical restorative powers, and her body was full again, not hollow and brittle. It was the most she had eaten in quite some time.

Good, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. She leaned forward and softly kissed the woman’s forehead, which was slightly damp. She stood up and went into the bathroom and found a washcloth and doused it in cool water and then came back and gently touched it to the woman’s face.

That feels good, said the woman. Thank you.

You’re most certainly welcome. She paused for a moment, and then said, You’re lost, aren’t you?

Yes, said the woman. I am.

The thing to remember is that we’re all lost, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. We’re living in a dark time. No one can find their way. Everyone’s fumbling, blindly fumbling. Like those little underground animals who sightlessly push themselves through the cold damp earth, hoping to encounter the root of something edible. We’re no better than that.

Is it that bad?

Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, it’s that bad. But there are worse things than being blind, and stumbling in the dark. Much worse things.

What?

Being dead, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.

I don’t think that’s worse, said the woman. It’s just—nothing.

Perhaps. Who knows? But isn’t nothing worse than this? Worse than this cozy warm bed and Nanny here beside you, to watch over you and protect you all night long, until the morning comes with the dew on the hyacinths and the roosters cock-a-doodle-dooing? Surely that’s better than nothing?

Yes, said the woman.

Livia Pinheiro-Rima stood and picked the tray up off the bed. Can I get you a glass of water? Are you warm enough?

I’m fine, said the woman. Thank you, she said again. And then she said, Perhaps you’re right.

Of course I’m right, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. There’d be no point in telling you what to do if I were wrong. I’ll come back and check on you later. Now you must sleep.

The next thing the man knew was that he was sitting on the toilet in a bathroom and the businessman was dabbing at his head with a clean white handkerchief. The businessman had one hand at the center of the man’s back, supporting him, while the other hand administered to his wounds.

It’s stopped bleeding, he heard the businessman say. That’s good—it means you won’t need stitches.

Where am I? the man asked. How did I get here?

The businessman chuckled. Such existential questions, he said. We’re back at the hotel. In my room. You were in need of a bit of patching up.

How did we get here?

I practically carried you. Not that you owe me your life or anything, but still. You’re heavier than you look. Skinny blokes often are. I think you were in shock. How are you feeling now?

I don’t remember much, said the man. What happened?

You were attacked down in the toilet at the restaurant. Do you remember that?

Yes, said the man. At least some of it.

Is there any reason why you might have been attacked?

What do you mean? the man asked.

I mean, might someone here want to attack especially you?

No, said the man. Of course not. I know no one here. I only arrived last night. I know no one.

You know me, the businessman said.

Did you attack me?

No, my friend. I saved you. Now I’m going to clean you up a bit and put you to bed.

The businessman put a washcloth in the basin of the sink. He turned on the hot-water tap. As the basin filled, he picked up a bar of soap and lathered it between his hands, allowing the suds to fall into the basin.

The man could smell the strong pine resin scent from across the room. When the basin was filled with suds the businessman turned the water off. He picked up a corner of the washcloth and swished it through the water, and then wrung it partially out. He walked back to the man and gently swabbed his bloody face with the cloth, and it felt good to the man, and smelled good, and he turned and lifted his face toward the businessman, like a sunflower following the sun.

The businessman wrung out the cloth in the basin several times. He cleaned the man’s face, and his hands, and swabbed around his neck. A feeling of childhood overcame the man, of being tended to and cleaned.

Let’s get you into bed, he heard the businessman say, and he forced himself to open his eyes and lift up his head, which felt clean but heavy, and said, What do you mean?

I’m putting you in my bed, said the businessman. You need some looking after. You’re not completely out of the woods.

But my wife, the man said. My wife will be worried if I don’t come back—

Your wife is fast asleep, the businessman said. Do you have any idea how late it is? And I honestly don’t think it would be good for you to wake her up looking as you do now. Much better to sleep here and go up in the morning. How are you doing? Can you stand?

The man found that he could stand but immediately felt the entire world spinning around him, so he sat back down on the toilet.

Perhaps I have a concussion, he said. Everything spins around when I stand up.

All the more reason to get you in bed, said the businessman. Put your arm round my shoulder. Close your eyes. I’ll heave you up and walk you to the bed. Just let me lead you. Can you do that?

Yes, the man said. He closed his eyes and felt the businessman hunker down beside him and throw his arm around his shoulder and grab him firmly around the waist.

One, two, three, the businessman said, and stood up, pulling the man up with him. Keep your eyes closed. Come along with me.

The man let the businessman half carry him into the bedroom, relaxing into the strength that supported him.

Sit, the businessman said, and the man sat.

You can open your eyes now, said the businessman.

Can I keep them closed? It’s better that way, I think.

Of course you can. Whatever you like.

The man felt the businessman undressing him. He pulled his sweater off over his head and then unbuttoned his shirt and peeled that away, revealing the man’s long-sleeved silk undershirt. The businessman quickly ran his hands down along both the man’s arms, down the slippery slopes of silk, and said, We’ll leave your silkies on.

Then he unbuckled the man’s belt and unzipped his trousers. Lie back, he said, and the man, with his eyes still closed, lay back upon the bed. He felt the businessman lifting up his hips and sliding his pants down, but they would not come off over his boots.

Damn it, the businessman said. He knelt down and unlaced the man’s boots and pried each one off.

Socks on or off? he asked.

On, said the man.

All right, said the businessman, I want you to stand up just for a second so I can turn back the covers. You don’t really have to stand, just get your ass up off the bed. Can you do that?

Yes, said the man. He leaned up and off the bed.

The businessman steadied him with one arm while the other quickly snatched back the bedclothes. There we are, he said, and pushed the man back down on the bed. You can lie down now. Why don’t you open your eyes now? It might make it easier.

Yes, said the man. He opened his eyes. The businessman’s hotel room was similar to his own only all the colors were different. The coverlet, for example, was royal blue.

Lie down, said the businessman, and I’ll tuck you up.

The man lay back upon the bed and let the businessman yank the bedclothes out from beneath him and then pull them to his chin and tuck them tightly under the mattress.

Don’t move, he said. I’m going to get you something that will help you sleep.

The man watched him enter the bathroom. A moment later he returned with a glass of water in one hand and a pill in the other. He held out the hand with the pill but the man’s arms had been tightly tucked beneath the coverlet and he did not want to extract them so he opened his mouth.

The businessman put his hand on the man’s back and lifted him up a bit, and then he put the pill in the man’s mouth. He held the glass of water to the man’s lips and the man sucked in enough water to swallow the pill. The businessman put the glass, which was still almost full, on the night table. He turned off the bedside lamp. Now the only light came from the lamp on the other night table and from the open bathroom door. The businessman sat on the bed, stroking the hair off the man’s forehead. I’ll stay here till you fall asleep, the man heard him say.

Thank you, the man said. You’ve been very kind.

The businessman moved his hand from the man’s forehead to his cheek, which he cupped with his large hand. The man felt the warmth and surprising softness of the businessman’s hand on his cheek and pushed his face against it, like a cat making sure it gets petted the way it wants.