The lobby was empty and cold. It was the size of a skating rink. It was dark; there was no red glow from the bar. It looked like the photographs the man had seen of ballrooms in sunken ocean liners.
He had left the businessman sleeping in his bed and had gone down to retrieve his room key from the reception desk but there was no one there and his key was not in the appropriate cubbyhole. He could not remember if he had returned it to the reception desk before going out to dinner the night before. Or perhaps it was in the businessman’s room, or perhaps he had lost it in the basement toilet of the restaurant. But in any case he did not have the key and if he wanted to get back into his room he would have to knock on the door and awaken his wife, assuming she was sleeping. Assuming she was in the room.
He took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the darkened hallway. Just as he was about to knock he noticed a mezuzah affixed to the door frame. He had not noticed it before. Was it the wrong floor? Or the wrong room? But no, there was the number, 519, affixed in faux-gold plastic numbers at the center of the door.
He knocked, quite loudly, because he wanted to only knock once. He waited a moment, but nothing happened, so he knocked again.
He was about to knock a third time when he heard his wife say, Who is it?
It’s me, he said.
The door opened and his wife stood there, but for a moment, in the dimness, he did not recognize her. She was wearing a long velvet dress that was too big for her and was cinched around her tiny waist with a thick tasseled cord. She looked at him and said, Oh, it’s you.
My God, he said. What are you wearing?
A dress, the woman said.
Where did you get it?
That woman—the one we met here the other night—gave it to me.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima? When did you see her? You didn’t run outside again, did you?
No, of course not. She brought up my supper. She was so kind, so lovely. We had an interesting talk and she let me sleep for a while and then came back and told me I’d feel better if I got out of that long underwear and into something pretty. And she was right. We went to her room and she showed me all her clothes. She gave me this dress. It doesn’t fit now, but it will when I regain the weight. We’re the same size. Or were. It’s a Balenciaga. And this cord is from the old Metropolitan Opera House. It held back the curtains or something. Can you imagine! She’s got the most amazing collection of things—not just clothes, although, my God! the clothes she’s got—a Balenciaga!
I think she’s a bit mad, the man said. But I don’t understand. She brought up your dinner?
Yes. I told you. She saw the boy bringing it up and commandeered it. She thought I might be lonely, up here without you. She saw you go out . . .
The man said nothing but moved past her into the darkened room. Even though it was obviously their room, and his wife was his wife, it seemed all wrong. Changed, somehow. He couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a dress or spoken with such ardor.
The woman closed the door and turned on the overhead light. Oh my God, she said. What happened to you?
I was mugged. Last night at the restaurant. He stole my wallet. And my watch. He held up his left hand and shot the cuff back, revealing his naked wrist. My beautiful watch. My father’s watch.
She came close to him and touched the bruised and discolored flesh beneath his eye and on his cheek.
He winced. This is a horrible place, he said. A horrible country.
We’ve just had bad luck, she said. It was bound to happen sometime. In a way it’s a relief.
What’s happened to you?
I told you. What’s happened to you? Where have you been all night?
The businessman took me to his room. He cleaned my wound and put me to bed. I slept there.
The businessman? What businessman?
That giant Nordic businessman who’s always sitting in the lobby.
Why did he bring you to his room? the woman asked. Why didn’t he bring you here?
I don’t know, said the man. An excellent question.
You didn’t ask him to bring you here?
I was in shock! the man said.
Are you still in shock?
I don’t know. Perhaps. Or maybe a bit drugged—he gave me something to help me sleep.
And then what happened?
What do you mean, what happened?
A strange man takes you to his hotel room, drugs you, and puts you in his bed. What do you suppose happens next?
Nothing, said the man. They sleep. What’s come over you?
I don’t know, said the woman. But it’s remarkable. Something has—something’s changed. I feel different. I feel changed.
The man sat down on the bed. He felt suddenly as if the world was too big and complicated for him to manage. He lay back upon the coverlet and looked up at the ceiling, which was tiled with what looked like white linoleum floor tiles. Looking up at what appeared to be the floor thoroughly disoriented him, so he closed his eyes. What a relief it was to see nothing.
He felt his wife sit down near him on the bed. For a moment she said nothing, and then she said, Actually, I do know.
Know what?
I know what’s changed. I think I have been cured.
The man opened his eyes. He sat up. What do you mean, cured?
Cured, she said. I feel well. All that was happening inside of me, the damage, the disturbance—I don’t feel it anymore. I know it’s impossible but it’s what I feel. I think he’s cured me.
Who?
Who! Brother Emmanuel of course. Who else? I’ve got to go back and see him. I’ve got be near him again, so that it doesn’t reverse itself. We’ve got to go as quickly as possible.
What’s happened to you? the man asked. I think you’ve gone mad. Will you get out of that ridiculous dress!
No, she said. The dress may be part of it. As soon as I put it on, I felt it. It’s a combination perhaps, of the dress and Brother Emmanuel. So I’m not taking it off and I’ve got to see him again. We should go now, shouldn’t we? What’s the point in waiting?
What time is it? the man asked.
It’s about six, she said. Twenty past six. By the time we get there it will be seven, or maybe even eight. He must be used to people arriving at odd times.
Take off that ridiculous dress, the man said. Take off that dress and come to bed. It is time to sleep.
No, she said. It isn’t time to sleep. Don’t you believe me?
The man shook his head. No, he said. I don’t—can’t believe that. We’ve got to go and get our child this morning. That is where we have to go.
The child can wait. We’ve all waited this long. A little longer won’t matter. I’ve got to see Brother Emmanuel first.
Then go see him. Go! Wear that ridiculous dress. Put on a hat and gloves while you’re at it. I’ll go get our child.
Why are you being mean? Why are you being mean about something so wonderful? Don’t I matter? Don’t I matter more than the child?
The man lay back upon the bed and said, I just want to go to sleep. I don’t feel well. I’m exhausted. I was mugged. He kicked me in the balls. Hard.
I was hurt too, said his wife. In the market. Maybe I had a concussion. But did I curl up into a little ball and cry boo-hoo? No.
I’m not crying, said the man. Nor am I curled.
Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.
The man said nothing. He closed his eyes.
Don’t go to sleep, said the woman. You’ve got to come with me, now, to see Brother Emmanuel.
The man turned on his side and curled himself into a fetal position. Now I’m curled up, he said.
He felt his wife get off the bed but she could not have moved far, because the carpet made no sound. After a moment he opened his eyes and saw that she was facing the wall, bracing herself against it with both hands. Her head was bowed and she appeared to be looking down at the floor. Was she doing yoga?
Are you doing yoga? he asked.
She did not answer. It took him a moment to realize she was crying. He got up from the bed and stood just behind her but did not touch her. She had told him, several months ago, that his touch was painful. That any amount of pressure applied to any place on her body hurt. She would wince when he forgot and tried to embrace her. Once, when he went along with her to an appointment at her oncologist, he mentioned to the doctor that his touch seemed to hurt her. When you touch her where? the doctor asked. Anywhere, said the man. Everywhere. Right? he asked his wife. Yes, she told the doctor. Sometimes I feel very sore—very tender all over, and it hurts when he touches me. Is this usually after you’ve had a chemotherapy? asked the doctor. No, said the woman. Not necessarily. Well, said the doctor, as I’ve said before, communication is very important. You’ve got to let him know how and when he should touch you.
In the taxi going home she had said, Did you think I was making it up?
What?
That it hurts when you touch me. You didn’t believe me?
No, he said. Of course I did—
Then why did you ask him that?
Because I thought he might be able to do something—
What? What could he possibly do? There’s nothing he can do.
Fine, he said. I won’t touch you anymore.
Now, in the hotel room, close to her but not touching, he said, What do you need? What can I do?
I need you to believe me! she said. Can you do that? Even if you don’t, just say you do. I can’t be alone in this.
Of course I can, the man said. Of course I do. He reached out and very tenderly, very tentatively, put his hand on her shoulder, not resting it upon her but keeping it poised in the slightest and most gentle contact he could sustain. She neither flinched, as he had feared she would, nor acknowledged his touch, and so he rounded his hand the slightest bit so that it touched more of her shoulder, assumed the shape of it, and it seemed to him she had the bones of a bird, so delicate, so breakable, and his fear of breaking them caused him to take his hand away.
This time, when Brother Emmanuel’s helpmate opened the door of his house, she did not greet the man and the woman with warmth and welcome. She stood there before them, holding the door open, regarding them with a troubled, puzzled look. Oh, she finally said, after a moment. Good morning. But she made no motion to welcome them into the house.
The man could sense that his wife had expected to be welcomed with open arms and was taken aback by the lack of greeting they received. So the man stepped forward a little and put his hand on the opened door, as if he were helping the woman to hold it open, or preventing her from closing it, and said, Good morning. We have come back, as you see.
Yes, said the helpmate. I see.
My wife would like to see Brother Emmanuel again. May she?
I’m afraid not. Brother Emmanuel is in sequestration today.
But I’ve got to see him! exclaimed the woman. Why is that? asked the helpmate.
He’s changed something inside me. I think he’s cured me. Or is curing me. So I must see him again, now, before it . . . before it changes. Or stops.
The helpmate looked at the woman for a moment, calmly, as if she were trying to discern something by gazing at her. Then she stepped back and opened the door wider, causing the man to lose his balance and fall forward, but he caught himself before he fell.
Come in, the helpmate said. It’s cold outside. She stepped aside and the man and the woman crossed the threshold and stood in the large front hall. The skylight was no longer occluded with snow; someone must have gone out onto the roof and shoveled it, the man thought. Or perhaps it had blown off during the night.
They all stood there silently for a moment, as if the atmospheric pressure were different inside of the house and needed adjusting to. Then, suddenly, the woman said, Oh, please, can’t I see him? I feel it so strongly: this urge—this need—to see him! To be in his presence, if only for a moment. I won’t even speak to—
The helpmate reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm and shook it slightly. The man noticed that his wife did not recoil or even react to this ungentle touch and realized that something had changed.
Listen, the helpmate said. Listen to me! Brother Emmanuel can’t have cured you. It doesn’t work like that. He can’t have changed you in any way—he only spoke with you for a few moments. To help you he must spend more time with you. A lot of time. It’s real, what he does; it isn’t magic. What you’re experiencing is false. We call it a therapeutic delusion; you feel you’re cured because you want to be cured. It happens often. But it is good, I assure you. You cannot be cured unless you want to be cured. And you want that so badly that you have fooled yourself. So do not despair.
But nevertheless it is a kind of a cure, said the woman. It’s not delusional; it can’t be.
You may think whatever you like, said the helpmate. But I have told you the truth of your situation. That, too, is a kind of cure.
Would you tell him I was here? I think he might see me if he knew I was here.
As I told you, he is in sequestration. He talks with no one on these days. Not even me.
Perhaps you could give him a note?
That’s impossible. He does not interact with anyone in any way on these days. If you want to see him, you will have to come back another time.
Tomorrow? the woman asked.
No. His schedule for tomorrow is complete. It will probably not be until next week that he can see you.
That’s impossible! I’ve got to see him tomorrow; it’s a matter of life and death.
The man stepped forward slightly, so that he was standing in front of his wife. My wife is very ill, he said. Gravely ill. Can’t you find time for her to see Brother Emmanuel tomorrow? It would mean so much to us both. I beg you.
Do not insult me by begging, the helpmate said. This is not that kind of place.
I implore you, then, the man said.
It is not for me to decide in any case, said the helpmate. I will talk to Brother Emmanuel when he emerges from his sequestration later tonight. If you call tomorrow morning I will give you his answer. Call the number on this card—and she picked a card off a small wooden table and handed it to the man. And now I must ask you to leave. We try to keep the house inviolate on days of sequestration.
They waited outside, on the dirt-covered steps, for the taxi to arrive.
Thank you for speaking like that, the woman said. Thank you for supporting me.
Of course, the man said. I think he will see you tomorrow.
The woman said nothing. Her face was trembling, perhaps because her jaw was tightly clenched.
The man looked down at the card he had been given. It was pale gray and slightly larger than a normal business card. On one side was printed an address and telephone number and on the other side a single Bible verse:
The Hermitage
Ulitsa Zarechnaya 36
Borgarfjaroasysla 9
6 - 238 - 994
Trust in the Lord with all your heart;
do not depend on your own understanding.
Proverbs 3:4
As soon as they got into the taxi the woman told the driver to take them to the hotel. Then she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Her face had relaxed itself.
They drove out onto the road through the gap in the pine trees and headed toward town. They had gone quite far, perhaps half the distance from Brother Emmanuel’s house to the hotel, when the man said, You don’t want to go to the orphanage?
The woman opened her eyes and shook her head slightly, as if she had been asleep.
Oh, she said. The orphanage. I forgot.
You forgot? How could you forget? It’s the whole reason why we’re here.
I don’t think it’s the whole reason. It’s a reason. And really, who knows why we’re here?
I know why I’m here, the man said. I’m here to get our child.
The woman turned away and looked out the window.
Do you really want to go back to the hotel?
The woman did not answer him but continued to gaze out the window.
Sometimes you amaze me, she said.
How?
You’re so unempathetic. Do you have any idea what it’s like? To feel that I’m cured, or being cured? To think that perhaps I won’t die?
I suppose I don’t, he said. How can I? How could anyone?
She turned to face him, and her face was flushed with rage.
But you could try! Couldn’t you stop for a single moment and try?
I do try, he said. I try all the time. But it’s never enough for you. You want me to be something I’m not, to give you something I can’t. I’m tired of feeling that I’m failing you. I know how difficult, how impossible, this has been for you but that doesn’t make you exempt. It doesn’t mean . . .
Mean what?
You could be a little kinder, the man said. A little more patient.
She once again turned away from him and regarded the implacably white landscape they drove past. They traveled for a while in silence, and then she sat forward and reached out and touched the taxi driver gently on his shoulder.
I’m sorry, she said. There’s been a mistake. It was my mistake. We don’t want to go to the hotel. We want to go to the orphanage. Do you know where it is?
They climbed up the steps of the orphanage but before the man could open the door the woman touched his arm and said, Wait. Please. Just a moment. Aren’t you scared?
Scared? he said. Scared of what?
Of seeing—of meeting—the child. Of it finally . . . happening.
No, he said. Why should I be scared?
I’m scared, she said.
Why?
Because what if it’s a terrible mistake? What if it’s all wrong?
It isn’t a mistake and so it can’t be wrong.
How do you know?
The man shrugged. I don’t know, he said. I just feel it.
I don’t, the woman said. I don’t feel whatever it is you feel. It’s different for me. I mean different from how it was.
How? asked the man
If I’m cured, the woman said. That makes everything different, doesn’t it?
How?
How! Really, you ask how?
Yes, said the man. I do. I really ask how. Can we go in? It’s freezing out here. He reached out to open the door but the woman grabbed his arm and held it.
No, she said. Be a man. It isn’t so cold.
Be a man? The man laughed. What is this? Who are you?
The woman said nothing.
Let go, the man said.
The woman let go of his arm with an abrupt, dismissive gesture as if it had been he who was holding her.
I’m having a hard time keeping up with you, the man said. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by all this . . .
Overwhelmed? the woman asked.
For lack of a better word, the man said. Yes: overwhelmed. Can we go in now?
You really did think I was going to die, didn’t you?
What? asked the man.
You heard me. You thought I was going to die. You had no hope. No faith. For lack of a better word. You resigned yourself to the idea that I was going to die. Didn’t you? Tell me. Be honest.
Well, the man said. Given what the doctors told us, given what you yourself told me, given what I know about stage-four cancer, yes, to be honest, yes, I thought you were going to die. Think you are going to die.
So you don’t believe in anything outside your scope of knowledge or experience?
I suppose not, said the man. I’m sorry. You asked me to be honest.
So you don’t think I could possibly be cured? That I might live?
You might be cured, the man said. Of course, it’s possible. But not by that man. Not in that way.
Why? asked the woman. Why not?
How could he possibly cure you? He didn’t even know that you are ill.
Of course he knew. Why else would he have come in to see me? There was no other reason for him to come in.
Then why didn’t he see you today?
Perhaps because he didn’t need to. Perhaps I don’t need to see him again. You’re being rational, asking these questions. Trying to make sense of it. But it isn’t rational. It doesn’t make sense.
So it’s some kind of miracle? asked the man.
That’s all there is for you? Reason or miracles?
I suppose so, said the man. I’m very literal. I have no imagination, or so you have often told me. Remember when we tried to role-play? What a disaster that was?
Yes, the woman said. I remember. You couldn’t even pretend to be a chef.
A chef? I thought it was a cowboy.
First it was a cowboy and then it was a chef. You failed at both.
And I fail at this too. Whatever it is that this is.
It’s quite clear what this is. It isn’t role-playing. It doesn’t require imagination. It’s very simple. It’s my thinking I’ve been cured. Or rather, my feeling that I’m being cured.
Yes, the man said. We’ve established that, so can we please go in now?
Yes, the woman said. We can go in now.
It became clear that the building that now housed the orphanage was once a school—or perhaps still was, for several of the rooms the man and the woman passed as they followed the nurse down a long hallway on the first floor were furnished with rows of desks, and chalkboards hung on the walls. At the end of the hallway the nurse opened a door that revealed a stairway. She held the door open while they passed through it and then led them up the stairway. On the landing a dead tropical plant of considerable height and stature had been removed from its pot and leaned against the tiled wall, exposing the naked dirty ball of its roots. Beside it a large metal bucket of sudsy water hosted some kind of mop. They followed the nurse up the second flight of stairs, where she once again opened a heavy metal door and motioned for them to pass through.
This floor was identical to the one below it, but the rooms were empty. Even the chalkboards had been removed, leaving their ghosts behind on the painted cinder-block walls. Halfway down the hall, outside a door whose glass window was covered with newspaper, the nurse stopped. She turned to the man and the woman and said, You will see your child now. But I remind you that you cannot take him away until three days pass. You understand?
Yes, the man said. But we may visit him, right?
Yes, said the nurse. For an interval of an hour two times a day, once morning and once afternoon. Are you ready now?
Yes, the man said. He reached out and offered his hand to the woman, as if she needed help to enter the room, but she pretended not to notice. She seemed to have removed herself from the situation, acting like a queen visiting a hospital who must not betray any emotion. His hand, reaching out, empty in the air between them, appeared odd, or injured. Because the nurse was watching, he shook it as if it had fallen asleep.
What are you doing? asked the woman, suddenly observant.
My hand fell asleep, the man said.
The nurse opened the door and motioned for the man and the woman to enter the room. The lights were off and the curtains were drawn so it was very dark. The nurse switched on the overhead lights. The fluorescent tubes buzzed angrily for a moment and then flickered alight. There were ten cribs in the large room, placed around its perimeter; three on each side and two at either end. The air in the room was close and slightly fetid. From several cribs crying babies could be heard.
The nurse closed the door and said, Come. Now we will meet your child. She walked across the room and the man and woman followed her. She stopped beside the middle crib along the far wall and said, Here lives your baby.
The sides of the crib were covered with bunting so the man and woman drew close to look down into it. A small child sat upright in the middle of the crib. He was wearing a white ruffled pinafore over a mustard-colored hand-knit sweater and red corduroy pants. On his feet plastic bags covered thick knitted booties. A leather harness that strapped round his waist and over his shoulders was attached by a leash to one of the slats of the crib. Although he was sitting up, he appeared to be in a somewhat somnolent state, staring down at the plastic-covered mattress, which was patterned with a cartoon version of baby lambs frolicking in all directions. A shaggy green alligator whose widely opened mouth exposed many fabric teeth rested upside down at the far end of the crib.
The nurse leaned down into the crib and unsnapped the leash from the harness. She grabbed the child under his arms and hauled him up and out of the crib. She held him for a moment in the crook of her arm so that he faced the man and the woman.
He is good and fat, she said, jouncing the child in her arms. Let me see if he has done bad. She carried the baby over to a table in the center of the room. It appeared to be made of stainless steel and its surface was shining. She sat the baby atop the table and then gently pushed him down so that he was lying on his back.
Come, the nurse commanded them. Come and see.
The man and the woman approached the table and watched as the nurse lifted up the pinafore and pulled off the corduroy pants, beneath which the child wore a cloth diaper, which was very obviously soiled. The nurse uttered a single word in her own language and undid the safety pins that held the diaper in place. She peeled the diaper off the child and briefly examined its contents before folding it and placing it on the far end of the table. One moment while I wash, she said.
She left the couple standing by the table, looking down at the baby. His uncircumcised penis seemed disproportionately large and flushed a deep pink, while the rest of his skin was milky white. It looked like something that had been added to him rather than something that was integrally his. He wore a cap of beautiful blond hair and his eyes were as large and as soft as a dog’s, and he appeared to be merrily smiling at them. He had a large purple birthmark on the inside of his right thigh, which seemed to be the price he paid for otherwise being so beautiful.
The nurse had gone over to a sink in the corner of the room and moistened a washcloth beneath the tap. She returned to the table with the cloth and briskly wiped the baby’s loins clean, and then patted him dry with another cloth. Then she stood looking down at him, beaming proudly. A nice baby, you think?
Yes, the man said, he is a beautiful baby.
The woman said nothing.
You would like to carry him? the nurse asked. She cradled her arms and rocked an invisible baby by way of example.
The man, who could not imagine picking the baby up so soon, reached down and tenderly touched his cheek, and then gently nuzzled it with the backs of his fingers. The baby tried to grab at his finger and slapped at his hand. The man laughed and took his hand away. He looked at his wife. She stood a step or two away from the table and was looking down at the baby dispassionately, her arms crossed against the front of her parka. She had neglected to remove her hat, a fur-lined leather aviator’s cap that had earflaps that could be pulled down and tied beneath her chin but which now somewhat comically stuck straight out on either side of her head.
Take off your hat, he told her.
What? she answered. She seemed submerged inside herself, which was an affect she often had. He knew it was a way she had of dealing with her pain or her depression, as if to be completely alive and fully engaged with the world only exacerbated her condition. He reached out and pulled the hat from her head. She seemed not to notice the removal of her hat and continued to stare down at the baby on the table.
Touch him, the man said. He reached out and touched the baby as he had done before, and this time the baby seemed surprised by the touch and stopped fidgeting and closed his eyes and lay perfectly still, as if he were an opossum playing dead.
He’s quite chubby, isn’t he? the man asked. How much does he weigh?
Four, maybe five, said the nurse. Six perhaps.
Pounds?
Pounds? No. Kilos.
The man turned to his wife. How many pounds is that?
I have no idea. She seemed to have roused herself from her stupor, for she stepped forward and leaned down toward the baby. For a moment she only observed him, closely, as if she were nearsighted, and then she picked up his arm and held it for a moment. Then she let it go, so that it dropped down upon the table.
She made an odd sound that might have expressed surprise or disgust and said, His muscle tone seems . . . poor.
Muscle! exclaimed the nurse. We have a baby. Later, the muscles grow. Pick him up! Don’t be scared! Hold your little baby!
But the woman had stepped back and once again crossed her arms before her, as if stopping them from somehow independently reaching out to pick up the baby.
To compensate for his wife’s behavior, the man reached down and scooped the child up into his arms and held him tightly against his chest. Even through his clothes he could feel the warm weight of the baby. His naked legs were soft and delightfully warm. The man wished that he were naked too, wished he could hold the baby against his naked chest, his beating heart pressed softly against the child’s. He closed his eyes. He bent forward and kissed the baby’s blond head and inhaled the clean scent of his hair. Then he slightly increased the pressure of his grasp, because he wanted to make sure the baby knew that he was being held.
When the taxi had left the parking lot of the orphanage and driven some distance back toward the town, the man turned to his wife, who was looking out the window.
Why were you like that? the man said. Why didn’t you pick him up?
She shrugged, but the motion was almost lost inside her cocoon of clothes.
It seemed perverse, he surprised himself by saying.
That made her turn and look at him—perhaps that’s why he had said it.
Perverse! What are you talking about?
To come so far, to come all this way, and then not pick him up. To drop his arm like that.
I’m sorry I didn’t respond the way you wanted.
No, said the man. Don’t be sorry. Just tell me why. Why did you respond like that?
I don’t know. It just seemed so . . . odd.
Odd? How odd?
So random. I didn’t feel connected to him.
Well, of course you didn’t! We were seeing him for the first time. How could you feel connected?
But you did. I could tell. When you held him—you felt connected.
Yes, because I was holding him. That’s why you should have held him. It was amazing—what it felt like, holding him.
That’s why I didn’t pick him up, the woman said. Because I knew even if I was holding him, I wouldn’t feel anything. I’d just be holding him and feeling nothing. And I couldn’t bear that.
But you don’t know. How can you know that?
I know, said the woman. Part of what’s happening to me—the change I’m feeling—is that I know things like that. Everything is very clear. Apparent. I feel like I know everything.
They found the lobby of the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel uncharacteristically populated when they entered it. A large group of about twenty people occupied several of the archipelagoes of chairs and tables at the far end of the lobby just outside the closed restaurant. They ranged in age from very young to very old, but all were dressed in colorful and shiny finery. While the children raced round and round the chairs and screamed, the adults were occupied with bottles of champagne that lounged in silver buckets on several of the tables. It was obviously a celebration of some sort.
All hail the conquering heroes! cried Livia Pinheiro-Rima, striding toward them from the opposite direction. That’s what you are—rushing all over this dismal town in this freezing weather! You deserve medals, really you do! Come and sit down and get warm. I’ll ask Lárus to make us a nice pot of tea. Or would you rather some schnapps?
Tea is fine, said the woman. Tea would be lovely.
Then tea it is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. No, don’t sit there—it’s draughty by the door. Come over to my cozy little corner by the bar. It’s ever so much warmer over there. Sans parler d’intime.
The man and the woman followed Livia Pinheiro-Rima to the corner outside the entrance to the bar. She helped them out of their coats and got them settled into two of the club chairs.
I’ll be back in a minute, she said. With a nice hot pot of tea. She parted the red beads and disappeared into the bar.
We don’t have to have tea with her, the man said. Do you want to go back up to the room? Are you tired?
No, said the woman. I’m tired but I’d love some tea. And I find her interesting. She was very good to me last night. And besides, we can’t leave now, while she’s getting the tea.
The man sighed but said nothing. He was beginning to find Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s attention a little exhausting, not to mention suspect. He looked around the lobby. The large celebratory party was entering the grand dining room.
His wife appeared to be sleeping, slumped back in the deep chair, her head lolling to one side. Her face, bathed in the dim light glowing softly out of the golden sconces on the wall behind them, looked fuller and softer than he had seen it in a very long while. Her cheeks, which had been sunken and gaunt for so long, were actually convex, and he resisted an urge to reach out and touch her for fear of waking or disturbing her.
Was it possible that she had really been cured? Or changed in some way?
He must have fallen into a daze for a moment, and then suddenly Livia Pinheiro-Rima was there, gently lowering a large silver tray onto the table. On it was a small brass samovar and three brass cups.
This is a lovely white Darjeeling, she said. It’s similar to white peony tea from China, but it’s from India. She sat down and filled the cups from the samovar’s spout and placed one before each of them. You can’t tell from these cups, but it’s the most unusual color—a sort of clear chartreuse. She picked up her cup of tea, held it beneath her nose for a moment and closed her eyes, and then took a sip. She opened her eyes and returned the cup to the table. It’s heaven, she said. Not heavenly—no. Actual heaven. Try it, she said to the man. You must sip it, like a bird. She nodded at the woman. Is she sleeping? she whispered.
Yes, said the man. She’s exhausted.
Poor dear, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I was really worried, the night you arrived. There seemed to be hardly anything left to her! But you know, she looks better than she did. Of course, women’s lib and all that nonsense not-withstanding, any woman feels inordinately better wearing a dress. Especially a Balenciaga.
She likes the dress, the man said. She won’t take it off.
Of course she won’t, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. It will keep her alive, that dress: She’ll gain some weight and fill it out and look like Romy Schneider.
She thinks she’s been cured, the man said.
I’m not asleep, the woman said. She opened her eyes and then leaned forward and picked up the little cup of tea. So it’s heaven, is it?
It is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. But taste it. I doubt you’ll agree.
Why do you say that?
Because I think your spectrum is rather narrow.
My spectrum? What do you mean?
Your capacity to enjoy and appreciate life.
And I suppose your spectrum is wide?
In fact it is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Despite my great age. Or perhaps because of it.
The woman lifted the cup of tea to her lips and sipped.
It’s odd, she said, but I like it. She took another sip and then returned the cup to the table.
No one said anything for a moment and then Livia Pinheiro-Rima softly clapped her hands together and said, So! It was quite a day for you, I imagine. I want to hear all about it.
Really? said the woman. That’s odd.
But of course I do, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Why would it be odd?
Because it’s really none of your business, is it? The woman said this kindly, without a trace of malice, and for a moment neither the man nor Livia Pinheiro-Rima responded. Then Livia Pinheiro-Rima smiled. She leaned forward and took one of the woman’s hands into her own, and then rested her other hand on top of it, as if she were making a hand sandwich. The man was surprised to see that his wife did not withdraw her hand but allowed it rest between Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s hands.
Oh, my dear, she said. I wasn’t attacking you. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your soul has spilled into mine. Of course it concerns me. She held the woman’s hand between her own and stared intently at her.
Perhaps she is the healer, the man thought. She has some power. Even he felt it.
After a moment, the woman withdrew her hand from between Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s hands and stood up.
I’m tired, she said. I’m going up to the room to take a nap. It’s been a tiring day. Exhausting, in fact. I’m sure my husband will tell you all about it.
Do you want me to come up with you? the man asked his wife.
No, she said. Stay here with your friend. She walked, a bit unsteadily, through the crowded field of tables and chairs and up the steps to the elevator, where she could no longer be seen.
After a moment Livia Pinheiro-Rima said, She’s overwrought, poor thing.
Should I go up to her? asked the man.
No. Drink your tea. Sit quietly. Talk, or don’t, as you please.
The man picked up his cup and took several sips of the tea and then replaced the cup on the table.
The man closed his eyes. He could sense Livia Pinheiro-Rima sitting across from him, waiting.
Do you know the Norwegian? he asked. The businessman who’s always lurking about here in his suit?
Yes, of course, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I know everyone. But he’s Dutch. What about him?
I slept in his bed last night, said the man.
Did you?
Yes, said the man. I did. I got mugged last night. Mugged and robbed.
What an exciting night you had: violence and romance. Tell me all about it.
It wasn’t romance, said the man.
I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me. Start at the beginning. With Adam and Eve in the garden.
The man told her what happened the night before. How he had been mugged in the toilet of the restaurant. How the businessman had rescued him and brought him back to the hotel.
Wasn’t that nice of him? said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. To clean you up and put you to bed. I’d give anything to be cleaned up and put to bed. So you slept with him?
Yes, said the man.
I meant did you fuck with him, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Pardon my French.
No! said the man. I’m not gay.
Oh, come, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Everyone’s at least a little homosexual. And I’d say you’re more than a little. I’ve thought that from the moment I first saw you.
How?
The timid way you entered the bar and the way you looked around, as if you were lost, or didn’t belong.
I didn’t feel either of those things, said the man. And I believe straight men can feel lost or timid.
They can, but they exhibit it differently. And being lost and not belonging are two very different things. Except perhaps for gay men. And women, too, of course.
You’re crazy, the man said. He picked up his cup and saw that it was empty. He held it out toward Livia Pinheiro-Rima, who took it and filled it from the samovar. The samovar was old-fashioned; it had an ornate silver spigot with a flower-shaped handle that twisted open and closed. She returned the cup to him and watched him sip from it.
After a moment the man said, She thinks she’s cured.
Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. So you’ve told me. And so has she. She told me that last night when I brought her her supper. It was quite beautiful.
Beautiful?
Yes, beautiful. The terrorful kind of beauty.
But she can’t be cured. It’s impossible.
Of course it’s possible. Why wouldn’t it be possible?
Well, medical science, for one thing, said the man.
Medical science has failed her. So it doesn’t really figure in anymore, does it?
I suppose not. For her. But for me—
But this isn’t about you.
So you think I should encourage her? Pretend I believe it?
Yes, of course. What would be the point in contradicting her?
I don’t know, said the man. We’ve always been honest with each other.
That sounds rather dreary, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
You think honesty is dreary?
No. Honesty itself is fine—but my God! Not all the time! Honesty can be very unkind. And damaging. And that’s at the best of times. You have got to do everything possible to smooth the way for your wife. Whatever that way is. And that is for her to decide, not you. That is your job now.
Then why did you taunt her?
Because I’m not you. You have your job and I have mine.
What’s your job?
Don’t you worry about my job, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
I’m not worried, said the man. I just wondered.
Wondering, worrying—call it whatever you like. You should return to your wife. Enough time has passed so it will not seem you are running after her.
We saw the child today, the man said.
What do you mean by the child?
The baby that we have come here to adopt.
Well, then, isn’t it your baby? Your son, your daughter?
It’s a boy, said the man. A son.
The child, a boy, a son—how vague you are. Don’t you have a name for him?
Maybe. We were thinking Simon. But we wanted to wait, to see him first, before we decided.
And now you have seen him. Is he Simon?
Yes, said the man. I think he is.
Is it a family name?
Simon? No.
Then why Simon?
Because it’s unadorned. So simple. You know—Simple Simon.
Met a pie man going to the fair. But I hope you know that Simon wasn’t simple in the way that means uncomplicated. He was simple in the dim-witted way.
Are you sure?
I’m very sure.
Well, you’ve ruined that name for us. The man stood up. Thank you for the tea.
You’re welcome. And don’t listen to me. Name him Simon if you like. It’s a lovely name. It is unadorned. And it’s very good to have names that alternate vowels and consonants. They have a solidness, an equilibrium that other names lack. Like Livia.
Well, said the man. We’ll keep all this in mind.
Go up to your wife. But don’t pretend I have driven you away. I know I amuse you. And comfort you, perhaps.
The man found that he was too tired to formulate a response to this claim. So he merely leaned down and kissed Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s cheek, and then left her sitting there alone with the samovar and the tea that was heaven.
The room was dark and his wife lay asleep on the bed, on top of the coverlet. She had not closed the drapes and so the dark winter light from outside made it possible to see. He stood for a while in the center of the room, watching his wife. Why did he always think she was feigning sleep? Because it was a way of displacing him, keeping him out. Once, not long after they had been married, he dreamed that he was pregnant, and could feel the baby growing inside him, oddly enough not in his belly, but higher up, near his chest, in his lungs. And the next day she had told him that she was pregnant, and he felt certain that that knowledge had passed between them while they were sleeping. So at one point sleep had connected, rather than separated, them.
That was the first, and most heartbreaking, of their several failed pregnancies, and the only one that he had mysteriously intuited.
He drew the curtains and undressed in the dark and lay down beside his wife on the bed. He lay as close as he could to her without actually touching her.
The woman awoke in utter darkness. For a moment she did not know where she was, and then she remembered. Her husband was holding her, pressed tightly against her. They were both lying on top of the coverlet. It was cold in the room except for the sliver of warmth spread between them; perhaps it was the chill that had drawn them together.
She lay very still and felt her husband holding her. Obviously in sleep her body had tolerated or perhaps enjoyed his intimate proximity, but now that she was awake it chafed her. She tried to lie still and fall back into the comfort and warmth of his embrace, but something had changed, and she unclasped his hands from the girdle they had formed around her waist and shifted slightly away from him. He woke, and quickly sat up, as if there were some sort of emergency—a fire, a sick child, a call to arms. He sat there for a moment and then reached out and found the lamp switch in the darkness and turned it on. He looked back over his shoulder at her and said, I was holding you.
What?
Just now—while we were sleeping—I was holding you.
She looked at him curiously and stood up. She went into the bathroom and shut the door.
He heard the pipes squeal as she opened the faucets and then the water crashing into the bathtub. She must have filled the tub completely, because the sound of the water went on for quite some time. Then it stopped. He waited a moment, until he was sure she had lowered herself into the tub, and then knocked on the bathroom door.
Yes? she called.
May I come in?
Of course, she said.
He pushed open the door and entered the steamy bathroom. She was lying in the huge tub, the water covering everything but her head, which she chin-lifted out of the water, like a child in a swimming class.
He sat down on the closed toilet. Sitting there, behind her, he felt like a shrink. Some of his best time—his most intensely alive moments—had been spent lying on his analyst’s couch, revealing to the unseen presence behind him the secret truths about himself. This was a good setup for analysis, he thought, for surely lying naked in a tub of warm water could only foster a greater feeling of safety, and a subsequent ability to uncover and speak the truth. For a moment he wished, or wanted, his wife to start talking, putting words to all the things that were either misunderstood or unsaid. But she said nothing. The only sound was the water gently moving to accommodate her slight body.
Neither of them said anything for a few minutes and then she slightly raised herself out of the water and turned her head around to see him. She looked at him for a moment and then turned away as her body sank back into the tub.
You don’t need to use the toilet?
No, he said.
Oh, she said. Then why . . .
Why what?
Why did you come in?
To be with you, he said. To talk to you.
Oh, she said. About something in particular?
Yes, he said. About the baby. About Simon.
Simon? You’ve decided?
Yes, he said.
Oh, she said. And then, after a moment, I don’t think he’s a Simon.
Then who is he?
An abandoned, unwanted baby.
I want him. You don’t want him?
No. To be honest. That’s why I was how I was—I realized right away I didn’t want him.
But you did want him. And he’s ours. So why don’t you want him now?
I’ve changed. When I thought I was going to die I wanted him for you. But something . . . amazing has happened.
You’re still going to die, he thought. He had his eyes closed but he heard the disturbance of the water and knew that she must have moved her body or touched it.
My whole body feels different, she said. It is at peace with itself. And if this miracle happened, why can’t another?
What do you mean?
I mean perhaps I can get pregnant. Perhaps we don’t have to adopt a baby. Perhaps we can have our own baby.
Simon is our own baby.
He may be your own baby, but he is not my own baby.
You know that you cannot have a baby. You’ve had a hysterectomy.
I said a miracle. I said it would be a miracle.
Oh, so you want two miracles now? We’re getting greedy.
But don’t you see? Every time a miracle happens, the chances for another miracle to happen increase exponentially.
The man said nothing. He watched as she took a bar of soap from the grotto in the tiled wall, dunked it into the bathwater, and began to vigorously suds her arms and legs. This was unusual, for since her illness she always handled her body with extreme tenderness, often wincing when she touched herself.
Do you really think you’ve been cured?
I do.
It just seems unlikely.
Well, of course it’s unlikely! She turned to face him and flung a lacy trail of suds across the pink bathroom floor. But unlikely things happen, don’t they? Why are you so resistant to the idea?
I don’t know, he said. I’m sorry.
It’s because you don’t want a distraction. You want to focus on that baby. That’s all you think about now. Not me. You want me gone.
That’s not true, he said. You know it’s not true. I think of you all the time. I was holding you, just before, in bed.
You already told me that. Why do you keep mentioning it?
Because it means something.
What?
It means our bodies still want each other. Belong together.
Holding me while we’re asleep doesn’t mean anything. Dogs—those dogs that pull sleds in the snow—they hold each other. They burrow into the snow and hold each other tight.
I don’t think that’s true, the man said. They sleep in the snow, yes, but not together. Each dog sleeps alone. I remember that from The Call of the Wild.
He stood up and for a moment he felt horribly dizzy, as if he might faint, so he reached out and held on to the sink, steadying himself.
The woman turned and looked at him. Are you all right?
After a moment he said, Yes. Just dizzy. And hungry. I’m going down to the bar to get something to eat. Do you want to join me?
No.
Should I bring you something back?
I’d like some yoghurt, she said. I don’t suppose you could find some?
I’ll try, he said. There’s a market around the corner. Anything else?
Oh, there’s lots I want.
Anything that I might be able to get you?
No, she said. There is nothing that I want that you could get me. Besides the yoghurt.
Are you sure? he asked. I might surprise you.
Well, I’d like a perfectly ripe peach and an orchid and some balsam incense and a kitten. I think I might be truly happy if I had those things. With me in the bathtub. Well, maybe not the kitten.
So you’re sending me on a treasure hunt. Shall I also bring you a goose that lays golden eggs?
I’d like that very much, she said. Can you imagine how lovely they would be? Golden goose eggs? So warm. I wouldn’t sell them. No. I’d put them up, inside myself, where it’s empty now. Golden eggs. I’m sure I’d have a baby then. A beautiful, golden baby.
Lárus was not tending the bar. His absence surprised the man, who, although he knew it was impossible, believed that Lárus never left the bar.
The present bartender was an alarmingly blond woman who wore a tuxedo that fit her with a punishing tightness. She appeared to be unhappy about this, or something else.
A very attractive older couple—seventies, the man thought—sat at the far end of the bar. They were both elegantly and impeccably dressed—the man in a tuxedo and the woman in a long, fitted dress of midnight-blue silk covered by a little jewel-encrusted bolero jacket. She wore a small velvet hat the same color as her dress; a black veil lifted away from her face and perched atop the hat. She held an unlit cigarette in her gloved hand; the man leaned close and whispered avidly into her ear.
The man sat down near the door and when the bartender approached him, brandishing a cocktail napkin, he proudly told her which three small plates he would like to have. And schnapps.
The elegant couple left the bar while the man ate his motley supper. They spoke French, and seemed to be in very high spirits, and the man had the feeling they were going out to some glamorous and splendid event—a first night at the opera, a banquet in honor of a visiting dignitary. But could such an event be happening anywhere in this dreary and frozen little city? As far as the man knew there was no opera house or art museum, no cathedral, no palace, no casino, and he had a wild urge to get up and follow the couple.
After they had left he asked the bartender if there was an opera house in the city, for he felt sure that was the glamorous couple’s destination. But the bartender seemed not to understand him, or at least the words opera house, so he asked about a theater and she said yes, and then, Amour? and the man, supposing that she was alluding to the romance of opera, nodded enthusiastically, and the bartender smiled and hastened behind the upholstered door and returned a moment later with a small piece of pink paper which featured a black-and-white photograph of a woman with enormous breasts above the following words:
XXX Cine Paris Eros XXX
19 Kujanpääntie
50% réduction
avec ce billet
toujours ouvert
“cum anytime”
When the man had finished his meal he left the hotel and ventured around the corner to the little market. The large window that looked out onto the street was completely fogged over, and a long leather strip encrusted with silver bells jangled as he opened the door. Inside it was very bare and bright, and he was disappointed to find the market was the type where everything is stored on shelves behind the counter, and one must ask the shopkeeper to fetch the desired items. What an absurd arrangement, the man thought. He remembered that in the drugstore of the puritanical New England town he grew up in, the pornographic magazines were kept behind the counter, in a rack with their covers obscured, and just the names visible, so that one was forced to ask the druggist or his matronly wife for Playboy or Penthouse or Oui. In his boyhood he could not imagine anyone ever being brazen enough to do that, and so felt his first inkling of the amazing power of sex.
Another reason he was remembering the drugstore of his youth: the shopkeeper was wearing a white jacket with a Nehru collar, identical to the one that Mr. Pasternak, his hometown pharmacist, had worn. This costume, and the brilliant fluorescent lighting that antiseptically illuminated the white linoleum floor and counter, made the market feel more like a clinic, a place where things more delicate and dangerous than the purchase of groceries occurred. The man wished he could turn around and leave the store to avoid the inevitable humiliation of trying to purchase any of the things his wife wanted in this intimate way, but he decided to embolden himself.
Good evening, he said, as he approached the counter, which was unnervingly bare, except for a very old-fashioned cash register, as if a medical operation might possibly be performed upon it.
The shopkeeper nodded in acknowledgment of the man’s greeting.
Do you have yoghurt? the man asked. And then, deciding that an imperative would be more effective than a question, he said, I would like some yoghurt.
Plain or fruit? Big or small?
Big, said the man. Fruit.
With Gummi?
Gummi?
Candy bear, said the shopkeeper.
Oh, said the man. No. No Gummi.
The shopkeeper nodded and disappeared back into the aisles of shelves behind the counter. He returned after a moment and placed a large glass bottle of deep purple yoghurt on the counter, equidistant between himself and the man, and said, You want many things?
No, said the man. Just a few. Do you have a peach?
In tin, said the shopkeeper. You want?
No, said the man. The kitten and the orchid, of course, were out of the question, but the man wondered if he might venture to ask about the balsam incense. What a triumph it would be to return with that! It would be almost as precious as the golden-egg-laying goose.
Do you have any incense? Balsam, if you have it.
Balsam?
Fir, said the man. Pine. Christmas tree. Tannenbaum. He raised his index fingers in the air and outlined the kind of Christmas tree a child first learns to draw.
No, said the shopkeeper. We have no tree.
No, no, said the man. Not a tree. The smell of the tree. Incense. Or a candle. But with a smell. He sniffed vehemently several times.
Ah, yes. I know now. The shopkeeper once again disappeared into the shelves and returned with a small packet of tissues, which he balanced carefully atop the jar of yoghurt. Paperinenäliina, yoghurt. More?
No, said the man. Nothing more.
When he returned to the hotel room his wife was sleeping. He decided not to wake her. He drew back the thick drape and placed the jar of yoghurt on the windowsill, close to the frozen windowpane, and then pulled the drapes together again. He thought about getting in bed beside his wife and trying to fall asleep, but he knew he was not ready to sleep. He felt unusually awake and wondered if the drug the businessman had given him the night before had been tranquilizing him all day and had finally worn off.
The man sat in the lobby for most of the evening, drinking schnapps. A woman dressed like a prostitute came and sat beside him for a while, saying nothing, just smoking a cigarette and suggestively crossing and uncrossing her stout legs. Twice she asked him for the time—Do you have the time?—and twice he told her he did not. After his second disavowal she got up and went into the bar, but she reemerged moments later. Would you like a man? she asked. With me or alone. It is the same price. He told her he did not want a man. She acknowledged his lack of desire with a sigh and sad nod, but remained standing there in front of him, as if trying to think of something else that might entice him. But after a moment, apparently stumped, she shrugged and returned to the bar.
Soon after that encounter, feeling pleasantly smoothed by the several glasses of schnapps, he returned to the hotel room. His wife was sitting up in bed reading The Dark Forest. She looked up from her book and watched him as he undressed.
Tomorrow morning I want to go see Brother Emmanuel, she said. I want to go alone. I think it’s better that way. I know you’re skeptical and so I think it’s better you’re not there. I’m sorry.
No, he said. I understand. It’s fine.
I’ll go to the orphanage with you, she said. In the afternoon. But in the morning I’d like to see Brother Emmanuel.
That’s fine, he said. Do whatever you’d like. I’m tired.
You’ve been drinking?
Yes, he said.
With your friend?
No. I’ve been drinking alone. Well, a prostitute joined me for a while.
Was she pretty? Were you tempted?
No, the man said.
No she wasn’t pretty or no you weren’t tempted?
No to each, he said.
Because I wouldn’t mind, you know. In fact I’d be happy for you.
You’d be happy for me if I slept with an ugly prostitute?
Well, no—not happy. I’d be relieved. You know how bad I feel about our sexual life. That’s why I’d be relieved if you slept with a prostitute. I realize it’s selfish of me. I feel bad about that too.
Well, don’t worry. I won’t sleep with an ugly prostitute just to please you. He went into the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. He had never slept with a prostitute—not so much from lack of desire; it was the negotiations and transactions that stopped him. He couldn’t imagine successfully navigating them. For a moment he thought perhaps he should go back down to the lobby and sleep with the prostitute as a sort of learning, confidence-building exercise, and if it made his wife happy so much the better. And it might be his last chance—he wouldn’t feel right doing it when he was a father.
The woman had turned out the lights. He thought about mentioning the yoghurt hiding behind the drapes but decided it was best left till morning. He felt his way around to the far side of the bed and slid in beneath the coverlet. His wife did not acknowledge his arrival in the bed. He lay there for a moment and then said, Are you awake?
Yes.
I’m sorry you think I’m skeptical. I do support you.
But equivocally, she said.
I’m sorry. I wish I could support you in the way you need, but it seems wrong to pretend what I don’t feel. Would it be better if I did?
Of course it would, said the woman. It means nothing to me, it doesn’t help me, your honesty. It hurts me.
Honesty again—the man did not understand it. I want to help you, he said. But I want to be honest with you too. Otherwise I don’t think I can be any help to you.
I suppose that’s the really sad thing, the woman said. The thing that really does separate us.
What?
That you want to be honest with me.
I don’t understand, said the man. If you don’t want me to be honest, tell me. And I won’t be.
No, said the woman. That’s what’s sad. I don’t want to have to tell you how to be, because then you aren’t being yourself, you’re being who I tell you to be, and that’s meaningless. I’d rather you be yourself and hurt me than pretend to be someone else.
The man said nothing. What could he say? He felt angry and tired and condemned. Her tenacity, which he had once admired, for he felt it made up for a strength he lacked, now overwhelmed him. She had sued the law firm where she worked when she was not made a partner, claiming discrimination based upon her health status, for her illness and its treatment had prevented her from working very much in the last year or two. The case was settled out of court and she had won a very large settlement, and now she seemed to battle everything in the same way.
He realized he wished she were dead.
He turned away from her and faced the wall. After a moment he heard and felt his wife shift in the bed and turn toward him. And then he felt her hand on his shoulder, pressing against it as if she were supporting herself.
I’m sorry, she said. I know I’m making things impossible for you. I would stop myself if I could. But I can’t. Something—some kind of self-control—has left me. Of course everything is leaving me, but that has gone first. She turned away from him and began to weep.
His meanness stopped him from turning toward her, holding her. And every second he did not do it made it more difficult to do. And then, suddenly overcome with tenderness and shame, he turned and reached out and pulled her back against his body and held her tightly. After a while she stopped crying and pushed herself back against him. Her body had lost all of its voluptuousness and weight, and so it felt almost like nothing. To make it more real he slid his hand inside her silk underwear and cupped it gently between her legs, feeling the soft warmth there. They both felt him growing hard.
She reached down and moved his hand away.
Sorry, he said.
No, she said. I meant . . . She reached behind her and held his penis in her hand and felt it swelling, like an animal that was alive, and shifted herself closer to him, and fitted herself onto him. She heard him gasp, or sigh, and he held her tighter and fucked in the gentlest way, rocking against her, and moved both his hands onto her breasts, and she felt the somewhat rough skin of his palms encasing them, and he turned his head sideways and laid it against the back of her head so that his mouth was near her ear, and she heard him say, I love you, I love you, I love you, in time to his timid thrusts, and she reached behind and grasped his buttock and pulled him more tightly into her, and rocked back against him, thinking of the golden eggs, the beautiful golden eggs he was planting inside her.