The woman left immediately after breakfast to see Brother Emmanuel.
The taxi driver, a woman, wore a man’s fur-collared overcoat atop a flannel nightgown. Her head was studded with metal curlers over which she wore a net beaded with bejeweled butterflies.
Could we make two stops? the woman asked. Could you take me two different places?
Not at once, the driver said.
No! Of course not. I meant take me one place and then wait and then take me to another. I’ll pay you for the time I wait.
The time I wait! All life is waiting.
I want to go to the orphanage. And then to Brother Emmanuel’s. Do you know these places?
Of course, said the driver. I know all places.
Good, said the woman. Then please take me. The orphanage first.
The driver put the car into gear and slowly accelerated. She gripped the steering wheel tightly with both of her hands and leaned her whole body forward, so that her bosom pressed itself against the wheel, and peered intently out at the snow-covered road that tunneled before them. She maintained the same exact slow speed, as if there were a bomb in the car and any acceleration or deceleration would cause it to detonate.
The woman remembered driving with her parents as a child and passing a long line of cars moving very slowly, with their headlights on. She asked why they were driving like that and her father told her it was a funeral cortege and that all the cars were driving to a cemetery to bury a dead body. Wait, he said, and in front of all the cars, the first car in the line will be big and black and look different from any car you’ve ever seen. And he had been right, and for the longest time after that the woman thought her father had called the procession of cars a corsage, and she always thought it was odd that a word could mean two very different things. But she knew that flowers figured in both death and burial and in dances and galas so perhaps there was a link after all.
When the taxi had stopped in front of the orphanage the woman leaned forward and said, You will wait?
Yes. For one hour, not more.
Oh, I’ll be much quicker than that, said the woman.
Go, said the driver. I wait.
So the woman got out of the taxi and entered the orphanage. The vestibule was empty. She waited for a moment and was about to push the bell beside the inner doors when one of them opened. The nurse they had seen the previous day was now wearing knit slacks and a ski jacket. Good morning, she said.
Hello, said the woman. I’m—
I know who you are. You are here to see your baby? Does your husband come too?
No, said the woman. This morning I come alone.
Men! They are always like that. Come, and we will go see your baby.
Several babies were wailing when they entered the room upstairs. The woman asked the nurse—or whatever she was—if she could take the baby into another room, so she might be alone with him, in a quiet place.
Yes, said the nurse. We have a room for such a visit. We take your baby there. She reached down and unhitched the leash from the harness the baby wore and hoisted him out of the crib. He is fat one, she said. Full of health. Let us give him new cloth, and he will be clean for you.
May I do it? the woman asked.
You want?
Yes, said the woman. I would like to change him.
If you want, good. We go here. The nurse carried the child over to the changing table and laid him down. Then she stepped away and indicated with one arm that she had relinquished control. The woman stepped closer and leaned over the child and lowered her head so that her face almost touched the baby’s face. She closed her eyes and inhaled the complex smell, which was layered, like those perfumes that are made of musk or civet, and had a dark, fungal base. She breathed it in deeply.
She wished she had a memory for scents.
It wasn’t until she had removed the pinafore and overalls that she remembered he wore old-fashioned cloth diapers. She was less sure about how to handle these and worried she might prick his skin with the safety pins. But she did not. The new diaper she put on him was not as tightly or elegantly affixed as the one she had replaced, but the nurse, after adjusting one of the pins, nodded her approval.
Is it time for him to be fed? the woman asked.
Oh no, said the nurse. He had his bottle before.
Oh, said the woman.
You would like to feed him?
Yes, said the woman. If it won’t be bad for him.
It doesn’t hurt. He is always hungry. Fat boy. Let me get bottle. Pick him up, she said. Hold him.
The woman picked up the baby and held him against her, one arm on his back and the other holding his head. She began to jounce him gently but apparently he did not like this for he began to cry. She stopped the jouncing. He continued to cry. The woman held him a little more tightly and murmured to him. Baby, baby, baby, good baby, good baby, baby, baby, baby . . .
He was still crying, but less determinedly, when the nurse returned with the bottle. Come, she said. I take you now to place for visit.
The woman followed the nurse out of the room and down the hall. The nurse opened a door and turned a light on. This room was much smaller than the other rooms the woman had seen. It contained a cluttered desk and metal bookshelves crowded with cardboard and plastic boxes. Also, a wooden rocking chair on gliders with gold-and-brown-plaid tweed cushions.
The woman sat down in the gliding chair and the nurse handed her the bottle.
The woman held it but did not offer it to the baby. It was made of glass and was warm.
Feed him!
May I be alone? the woman asked. I would like to be alone with him.
Alone with your little one, said the nurse. I understand.
Thank you, said the woman.
He is good baby, said the nurse. Already he love his mama. She turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
When the woman was sure the nurse had moved away from the door, she put the bottle on the desk, stood up, and turned off the fluorescent overhead light. It was dark in the little room, but some light shone through the window in the door. The woman retrieved the bottle and sat back down in the chair. She slowly lowered it toward the baby’s mouth and gently pressed the amber nipple against his lips. He stopped crying, and his lips parted. He began sucking.
As he nursed he stared directly at her, as if the flow of milk were dependent upon maintaining constant eye contact. Every few moments he would lift one of his fists toward her face.
He drank about two thirds of the bottle and then stopped abruptly and pushed it away from his mouth with one of his hands.
No more? the woman asked. She put the bottle on the desk and lifted the baby and held him against her and patted his back. She wondered, Was it a mistake for me to come and see the baby? Not for him, but for me? I wish I still had my old body, my complete body. I understood that body. I fit perfectly inside it. Even if it is a mistake, I was right to come. Whatever happens, it will matter that I have held him like this.
She felt him fall asleep while she held him. She stopped patting his back. She lowered her mouth so that she could speak directly into his ear.
I’m sorry, she said, but you can’t be mine. But you will be his. All his. You must love him and take care of him. Many things he will do wrong but the important things he will do right. So try not to judge him, or blame him. As I have. If we are doing the wrong thing, a bad thing, a selfish thing, forgive us. It was my idea, so forgive me. I know how alone he is. He needs you.
Baby, baby, baby. Good baby.
An hour later, the woman arrived at Brother Emmanuel’s. She paid the driver and walked up the front steps as the taxi rolled slowly away. She pressed the bell.
After a moment the door swung open and Brother Emmanuel’s helpmate stood inside the open door.
Ah, she said. You’ve come back.
I have, said the woman. May I come in?
All are welcome here. She opened the door wider and stood aside.
The woman entered the house of Brother Emmanuel. The helpmate shut the door and helped her take off her parka.
What is your name? the woman asked. You know my name and you have been so kind to me. I would like to know your name.
My name is Darlene.
She held the woman’s coat folded over her arm, and held her arms close to her body, and by embracing her coat, the woman felt that Darlene was symbolically embracing her.
Well, said Darlene. So you have come again.
Yes, said the woman. I have come again. I have come to see Brother Emmanuel, but if he cannot see me, I would like to stay here a little while. I feel safe here.
Safe? Safe from what?
Safe from my body, the woman said. Safe from the world.
Then please come and sit down. Would you like some tea?
Oh, I would, said the woman. I would. Thank you!
Go and sit near the fire. I will get the tea. She indicated the opened doors into the sitting room and disappeared through one of the doors beneath the stairs.
The woman stood in the hall for a moment, forgoing and anticipating the relief and pleasure she would feel upon entering the sitting room, for she realized it was there, in that bright and warm and fragrant room, that she had felt at peace with the world, and not been made to suffer it.
After the man helped his wife into the taxi and watched it drive away, he returned to the lobby and sat in one of the club chairs. Someone had left an in-flight magazine on the table before him with a photograph of Peggy Fleming on the cover. Peggy Fleming? Out of curiosity he picked up the magazine and leafed through it, but he could find no mention or photographs of Peggy Fleming, or any other figure skater, in its pages.
He tossed the magazine back onto the table. It skittered across the polished surface and disappeared over the far edge. I need to get out of here, he thought.
The man walked in the opposite direction from the restaurant and orphanage, deciding he would turn corners at random until he was lost.
The wind was cruelly blowing the snow directly into his face, and turning corners did nothing to alleviate the problem. So he ducked his head and buried his chin in the folds of the scarf that was swaddled around his throat.
When he had lost all sense of direction and felt well and truly lost, he slowed his pace and began to pay attention to the shops he passed by. A warm golden light shone out of one, and he peered in though the foggy windows: a café, or bar, with a counter and several small tables lined along the walls. The lights were brightly lit and some sort of balalaikaish folk music leaked into the cold outside air. And then he noticed a huge, fur-shrouded figure sitting at one of the tables, with its back to the windows, and he recognized Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s Russian black bear coat. He pushed open the door. The small room was empty except for the single figure hunched over a bowl of what appeared to be steaming soup. Livia Pinheiro-Rima was swaddled in the great coat and wearing a large, complicated fur hat. The man watched as she carefully lifted the soup to her lips, blowing gently upon each spoonful before hurriedly devouring it.
Something about her aloneness and the almost devout attention she paid to her soup made the man feel as if he were intruding upon a private scene. He was about to turn and try to slip back out the door when a woman emerged from the back part of the café through a pair of little swinging doors.
She said something in the native language that the man assumed was a greeting, but there was a harshness to her tone, as if she had been expecting him and he was late.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima laid down her spoon and turned toward the door. Look what the cat drug in, she said. You’re a sight for sore eyes. The more the merrier! Then she turned and said something to the woman in the same hectoring tone she used with Lárus. The woman bowed and scuttled back through the swinging doors.
Don’t just stand there with your mouth agape, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Come sit down. I’ve told the serving wench to bring you some soup. I’m afraid that’s all there is, and we’re lucky there’s that. You know, don’t you, about the trains? The Vaalankurkku Bridge collapsed the other day under the weight of the snow, so no food’s been delivered. I suppose we shall all starve before the winter’s out.
The man sat down across the table from Livia Pinheiro-Rima. What about the roads? he asked.
Roads? There are no roads. At least not in the winter. The only way to get into or out of this godforsaken place is the train.
So we’re all stuck here?
Until the bridge is repaired. Unless you have a sleigh and a team of reindeer.
How long will it take? For them to repair the bridge?
Oh, a few days. Or a few years. One never knows about these things. But in my experience it is always best to take the long view.
But we have to leave, said the man. My wife and I. And the baby. There must be some way to leave. What if there’s an emergency? Surely there’s a helicopter or something.
I’m sure there is a helicopter or something, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, but as I have nowhere to go I don’t concern myself with the question of leaving. My questions all have to do with staying. Excuse me but I am going to continue to eat my soup while it is hot.
Yes, yes, said the man. Please—go ahead.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima dragged the large silver spoon through the soup. Please, she said. Look away. No one likes to be watched while they are eating soup.
The man looked past her, out through the steamy window. A dog with only three legs hopped down the middle of the street, bucking in and out of the deep snow.
The dog disappeared and the serving wench approached with a bowl of steaming soup, which she carefully placed before the man. She laid a spoon swaddled in a white linen napkin beside the bowl. For a moment the man allowed the fragrant steam to rise up and warm his face. It was a dull khaki color and had an odd pungent odor he tried to find aromatic.
What kind of soup is it? he asked.
It’s a kind of soup that doesn’t have a name, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. It’s soup made from whatever is at hand—drippings and dregs and peelings. Actually, it does have a name. It’s called garbage soup.
Garbage? The man put his spoon down.
Oh, don’t be so American! Garbage isn’t considered dirty here. We throw hardly anything away—it’s impossible to get rid of anything with the land frozen solid most of the year. So garbage is thought of differently here. It’s what remains, what waits to be reused. Literally. Isn’t it delicious?
It’s good, said the man. But it has a strange flavor.
And how could it not?
The man put down his spoon. Despite his attempt to convince himself otherwise, it was not a very nice soup at all.
You don’t like your soup, do you? asked Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
No, said the man. The only good thing about it is that it’s warm.
So eat it up. You’ve got a long chilly walk back to the hotel.
Is it true about the bridge? I can’t believe we’re stuck here.
As far as I know it is true, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
Everything has gone wrong, the man said.
Everything?
Yes, said the man. Everything. Or everything that matters. Matters to me.
Well, that’s not everything. It’s not even close to everything.
The man said nothing.
What’s gone wrong? Tell me. I mean beyond the ordinary things I already know.
My wife has lost her mind.
How so?
She thinks she’s been cured.
Oh—that. Why are you so opposed to the idea? Don’t you want her cured?
Of course I do. How can you ask that?
Because I don’t understand. If your wife thinks that she has been cured, and you want her to be cured, then what’s gone wrong?
But she hasn’t been cured. She cannot be cured.
You seem very certain.
I am.
And what, other than ignorance, makes you so sure?
Ignorance of what?
Oh, it’s not that you don’t know something. It’s that you know nothing.
And you do? You think that quack has cured my wife of stage-four uterine cancer?
We’re all quacks, you know. Hardly what we pretend to be.
Okay, but do you really think this particular quack has cured my wife?
It’s possible. I’ve witnessed occurrences more miraculous than that. But what’s the point of all this? You wife is either cured or not cured. It all remains to be seen. So what’s the point of debating it now?
You’re observing from a great distance. It’s different for me.
Of course it’s different for you. But you asked me what I thought so I told you. Usually when one person asks another person a question it’s because they want to know what that person thinks. They are seeking a vantage point different from their own.
I’m sorry, said the man. I do value your opinion. It’s just—I don’t know. I’m feeling very discouraged. And tired. And defeated.
All the more reason for you to eat your soup. It’s a very healthful soup, because it combines so many different ingredients.
I don’t like the soup, said the man. I don’t want the soup. He tried to push it away from him but the plastic placemat it rested upon prevented him from doing this, and he only succeeded in causing the soup to throw a bit of itself up over the rim of the bowl.
It’s all become too much for you, I expect, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. The baby, and your wife, and the soup.
You’re right. It has. Last night I wished she were dead.
Who? You wife or the baby?
My wife. The baby’s a boy.
If everyone I wanted to be dead was dead, it would be a very lonely planet, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Wanting people dead is one thing. Killing them is something else entirely. And now, if you really aren’t going to finish your soup, pass it over here. It’s considered sinful to not eat every drop of this soup.
Why?
Because leftover garbage soup is garbage. There’s nothing to do with it except throw it away. And so it must be eaten.
Can’t it be reheated?
No. Don’t be ridiculous. Would you like to eat day-old reheated garbage soup?
No, said the man. But then I didn’t care for it when it was fresh.
It’s a very American thing, isn’t it—this thinking one should only eat what one likes?
And it’s a very European thing, isn’t it—this constant disparagement of Americans?
Touché, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. And now that I, at least, am warm and fortified, shall we venture out into the snow? I assume you’re headed back to the hotel?
Yes, said the man. And then to the orphanage. I’m meeting my wife there at three o’clock.
To pick up your baby?
No. We don’t get to do that until tomorrow. And then we have to stay here for another day, in the hotel. And then we can leave.
If the bridge is fixed, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. But I suppose you will cross that bridge when you come to it.
This time no one answered when the man knocked upon the front doors of the orphanage and so he opened them and stepped into the foyer. He could hear some kind of motor running and a baby’s heartrending shrieks. He hoped it was not his—their—baby.
He sat on one of the pews beside the front door. Where was his wife? Had she gone up already, to see their baby? Or was she even later to arrive than he? He decided he would wait there for five minutes and then decide how best to proceed. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A duct just above the front doors blew hot air down upon him, and he found the baked fragrant warmth of it comforting.
A nurse was shaking him. It was a different nurse: her blond hair as artificially colored as the other nurse’s had been red, and the man wondered at this. Was there perhaps a need, in this dark, cold place, to illuminate one’s life by dyeing one’s hair?
You sleep so good, the blond nurse said. Like a piece of wood.
I’m sorry, said the man. He had fallen so deeply asleep so quickly!
You come to see your little lamb? the nurse asked.
Lamb?
Yes, said the nurse. Your baby lamb. Your little lamb cake.
Yes, said the man. I am here to see my baby lamb cake. Is my wife here? I was supposed to meet her here, at three o’clock.
Ah, she a true mama! Come back again! Now mama and papa!
Can I wait for her before we go to see the baby?
You can wait, yes. But only until sixteen hours. No one sees a baby after sixteen hours. It is forbidden.
She left the man sitting alone in the vestibule, and the man knew that if he continued to sit there, in the warm draft, he would fall asleep again, so he stood up and opened the doors and stood on the front steps, hoping that this might hasten the arrival of his wife. But after five minutes of waiting outside in the freezing cold he went back inside the vestibule, thinking, She will get here when she gets here; where I wait has nothing to do with it.
At seven minutes before four o’clock he pressed the button and heard a deep reverberating faraway buzz. After a moment the nurse reappeared. Your wife has come?
She has not, said the man. I don’t know what’s wrong. But may I go now to see the baby?
Alone? asked the nurse.
Yes. Just to see him.
The nurse looked at her watch, which was pinned to the white cloth covering her bosom. It will only be for minutes, she said.
I know, said the man. I would just like to see him. To hold him.
Then we go, said the nurse. Follow me.
He followed her through the doors, down the hallway, and up the stairs to the second floor. The bucket of water and the mop had been removed but the dead tropical plant remained leaning forlornly against the ceramic tile wall.
He followed the nurse down the hallway and they entered the room with the ten cribs. It was dark inside and the nurse did not turn on the brutalizing overhead lights.
They sleep now, she announced. The little lambs.
The man followed her to his son’s crib. He was once again sitting up. With one hand he held the stuffed alligator against the plastic mattress and with the other hand he was tearing the white fabric teeth out of its mouth.
Oh, you bad boy, the nurse said. She reached down and jerked the alligator away from the boy and then bopped him on his head with it, a bit harder than the man would have liked. But the child did not seem to be bothered by it. He lifted up his hands, grabbing for the alligator, which the nurse held cruelly just beyond his reach. Then she tossed it into the neighboring crib, which the man could see contained two very small sleeping infants.
The boy began to cry and continue to grab for the stuffed toy, although it had disappeared. The nurse reached down again and swiftly unbuckled his harness from its leather leash. She picked him up and held him high above the crib and tossed him a few inches into the air and caught him as he fell. The shock of all this stopped, or at least interrupted, his crying. She held him for a moment and then said, Here is your devil lamb.
The man took the baby from her and held him gently against his chest, the baby’s heart beating against his own. He felt himself shaking a little—he did not know why—and held the baby tighter so he would not drop him. How terrible that would be, if he dropped the baby! They would probably take the baby away from him. Of course they would. You don’t give babies to a man who drops them.
The baby must have felt he was being clutched too tightly for he began to cry, and then to shriek. It was a horrible sound, and the man held the baby out toward the nurse, hoping she would take him and comfort him, but she stepped away and said, Move him. Bum bum bum. She made an up-and-down gesture with her arms.
The man tried to jounce the baby in his arm, but he could not get the motion right and he felt as if he were shaking the baby, who wailed louder. But then the proper motion came to him, and he loosened his grip and jounced the baby gently in his arms. Bum, bum, bum, he said, following the nurse’s instructions. After a moment the baby abruptly stopped crying and reached up one of his little hands toward the man’s face. The man lowered his face so that the baby could touch his cheek, his nose, and he could suddenly smell his son, a potent odor of damp wool, spring leaves, and shit. He raised the baby upward and kissed him.
It is sixteen hours, said the nurse. I am sorry but you must go.
The man looked at her. One more minute? he asked. Please?
She looked at her watch again and frowned. Two minutes, she said. And then you must go.
Yes, said the man. Thank you. He held the baby close against his face and kissed the baby’s warm blond hair. He remained like that, his lips pressed softly against the baby’s warm head, trying in some fantastic way to connect them; he wanted his breath to permeate the baby’s skin and skull and inhabit his brain like a warm breeze enters a room.
Eventually the nurse held out her arms and said, Give him.
The man handed her the baby, and she replaced him in the crib. Do not be sad, she said. Tomorrow you come and take him with you. You and your wife. Where is your wife?
I don’t know, said the man.
But tomorrow she comes?
Yes, said the man. Tomorrow she comes.
Good, said the nurse. Because you cannot take the baby alone.
I can’t? asked the man.
No. A baby must have mama and papa. We must see mama; we must see papa.
She was here yesterday, said the man.
Yesterday, today, it does not matter. Tomorrow is the time that matters. Of course she comes. How could she not come to receive her child, her baby lamb?
The woman awoke in what first seemed to be complete silence and darkness, but after a moment she heard the soft pinging of the snow against an unseen window, and slowly the room she was in became less dark.
She was lying on her back in a bed in a small room.
She tried to sit up but found that she couldn’t move. I’ve been put in a straightjacket, she thought, but then realized that the bedclothes had just been tucked with immobilizing tightness around her. She wriggled her arms out from beneath them and then pulled them away.
She sat up. The room seemed less dark now, the few objects revealed like timid animals who had hid themselves at her awakening and were now timidly emerging from their lairs. She got out of the bed and stood in the room, looking around for a lamp or a light switch, but saw neither. It was very cold and her feet were bare on the linoleum floor. She was wearing a long shift-like nightgown that tied with a ribbon around the neck, but the strings were not tied, so the gown slipped off one of her shoulders. She pulled it up and tied a tight, almost-choking bow just below her throat. She stepped toward the window and felt for the split in the curtains and pulled one panel aside. It was completely dark outside and all she could see were kamikaze bits of snow hurling themselves against the glass.
She was not sure where she was—she seemed somehow untethered from herself and her past, and the strange dark room did not offer an anchor. Was she dead? Except for the chill, it felt quite serene. She stood in the center of the room for a period of time she could not measure, and then she heard a noise somewhere outside the door to the room, and footsteps approaching it. She heard the door open behind her and found herself suddenly standing in a rectangle of dim light that appeared on the linoleum floor. She could feel the person who had opened the door standing a few feet behind her, in the doorway, and was aware of the shadow falling onto her back, and beneath her, onto the floor, a dark unfelt embrace.
Was it God?
She turned around to see a man standing in the doorway. Because the light was behind him, at first she could only make out his tall thin silhouette. But then, as if he knew she could not see him, he turned slightly, and the light from the hallway fell so that it revealed his face.
She realized then that it was Brother Emmanuel, but she had not recognized him because he had removed his ecclesiastical costume and was dressed very simply in trousers and a turtleneck sweater.
Please, get back into your bed, Brother Emmanuel said. It’s cold. He gestured toward the bed and stepped forward, as if he might help her get back into it, but then stepped back again, afraid, it seemed, of getting too close to her, or the bed.
Only because she was so cold, the woman sat on the bed and carefully drew her legs up from the floor and slid them beneath the bedclothes. Then she lay back and pulled the blankets up around her neck and waited, gazing up at the ceiling, like a child at bedtime. Would Nanny visit her again with supper on a tray?
She heard a noise and turned to see that Brother Emmanuel was dragging a small wooden chair away from the wall. He placed it in the center of the room, a distance from her bed, and sat down on it. She did not understand why he had not drawn the chair closer to her bed. She waited, thinking that he might sense the inappropriateness of his distance from her and move closer, but he did not, so she surprised herself by saying, Will you come closer?
Closer? he asked.
Yes, she said. You’re so far away. I can barely see you. This was true: the only light in the room was the light that fell in from the hallway through the open door, and Brother Emmanuel sat on the far side of that light, in shadow.
He waited a moment, and then moved the chair nearer to the bed, placing it exactly in the center of the pool of light.
She looked at Brother Emmanuel carefully for a moment, emboldened by the fact that he was now visible while she was obscured by darkness. She remembered she had come to see him that morning—unless it was longer ago than that; she had no sense of how much time had passed.
What time is it? she asked.
About five o’clock, Brother Emmanuel said.
In the morning?
No. The evening.
Why am I here? she asked. What happened?
You don’t remember?
No, she said. I remember coming here, and asking to see you, and waiting—
And nothing else?
No, she said. I remember the fire, the fire in the fireplace.
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. I’m not surprised. Fire is elemental. We always remember fire.
But what happened?
You became upset, said Brother Emmanuel. We thought you might harm yourself, so we gave you a sedative. You’ve slept all afternoon. How do you feel?
Cold, she said. I was upset?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. Very. You don’t remember?
The woman tried to think, tried to remember, but the fire in the fireplace was all she could recall: the heat and sound and energy of it, like something alive, something that belonged outdoors, trapped inside the room.
My husband, she said. I was supposed to meet him at the orphanage this afternoon. Has he come here?
No, said Brother Emmanuel.
What must he think? Where can he be?
Darlene left word for him at the hotel. He knows you are here.
Then why didn’t he come?
I don’t know, said Brother Emmanuel. Perhaps there are no taxis. The snow is overpowering today.
The snow, the woman said. How can you stand it? Why do you stay here?
In the summer it is beautiful, said Brother Emmanuel. The days are green and golden, and very long.
Yes, said the woman. But still—why don’t you go away in the winter?
I like the weather here. In the summer and in the winter. For me it is all beautiful.
Are you from here? asked the woman. Or did you come here?
I came here, said Brother Emmanuel. But what does it matter? There is no need for you to understand me. But we must discuss something.
What?
Brother Emmanuel looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. Along with his face they were the only part of him that was exposed, and there was something odd about the way he looked at them, as if they were not his hands but merely a pair of hands he held on his lap.
When he did not speak the woman repeated her question: What?
There has been a misunderstanding, said Brother Emmanuel. You have experienced a delusion.
A delusion?
Yes. If I understand correctly. Did you tell Darlene that you thought I had cured you?
For a moment the woman said nothing. She, too, looked at the hands folded in his lap. They appeared, for a moment, to be lit from within, but perhaps it was just their opalescent paleness.
She thought: Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors, and see all the people . . .
They’re like a church, she said. Your hands.
You are wrong to think that I may have cured you, he said. It is impossible. We have not even begun.
You cannot know, she said.
It has not happened, said Brother Emmanuel. People often think that something has happened when nothing has happened. Their desire for it is so great. The body fools itself.
But what is that—for the body to fool itself? Isn’t that something happening? How can you say that is nothing? How can you know that is not itself a cure?
You must listen to me, said Brother Emmanuel. You must hear me. I know it is difficult, but you must understand. Otherwise nothing can happen.
But something has already happened! You cannot tell me it hasn’t. I feel it! Here, inside me! I know it!
It is only your wanting something to happen that has happened. What I do is not science, but neither is it magic. You must not devalue me. I cannot help you if you have this delusion. And you must not upset yourself again. Please, try to stay calm.
The woman looked back up at the ceiling. She lay quietly for a moment. She thought, If I say nothing, and he says nothing, if we are both silent, nothing can happen. Nothing will change. I will forever be lying in the bed and Brother Emmanuel will forever be sitting in the chair. And the snow will forever be blowing against the window, at least until summer, when the days become very long. And green and golden.
So I am going to die, she said.
We are all going to die. There is no cure for that.
I know that. I don’t want a cure for that. I want a cure for my body. I had a cure for my body, but before it could even begin to work you took it away from me.
What you felt was not a cure.
How do you know? How can you possibly know?
I’m sorry, said Brother Emmanuel. I misspoke. I do not believe that what you felt—or feel—was a cure. At least I do not think it was a cure I had anything to do with.
But why would you say that—even if you don’t think I’m cured by you or anyone else, why would you tell me that? Why wouldn’t you let me believe it?
Because you came here for my help. And I cannot help you if there is a misconception, a misunderstanding between us. It is not something I do alone. We must do it together. So you see, I had to tell you.
The woman looked at Brother Emmanuel for a moment and then turned her face away, toward the wall. She said nothing.
I’m sorry, said Brother Emmanuel. I’m not saying it is hopeless. I’m only saying that to continue, we must be in accordance with each other.
The woman reached out and touched the wallpapered wall. In the darkness she could not make out the pattern, but she could feel it, repeating itself over and over again all around the room.
Brother Emmanuel rose from his chair and stepped near the bed. He reached out and gently put his hand on hers and pulled it away from the wall. He placed his own palm against the woman’s. He held their palms together for a moment, and then placed her hand tenderly upon the counterpane.
May I stay here tonight? the woman asked.
Of course you may. You may stay here as long as you would like.
No, said the woman. I’ll leave in the morning. I promise you. But if I could just stay tonight, I’d be grateful. The cold, and the snow outside—I don’t think I could bear it.
Stay in bed, said Brother Emmanuel. Are you warm enough? Would you like another duvet? A hot water bottle?
I’m fine, said the woman. It’s lovely and warm in this bed. Is it a feather bed?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel.
It’s like sleeping on air. Like floating. Like being dead.
Brother Emmanuel stepped away from the bed. You must be hungry, he said. I will have Darlene bring you some soup.
Brother Emmanuel left the door to the room open, so that the glow from the hallway continued to dimly light the room. The woman lay in bed, waiting for Darlene to bring her some soup. She thought: This is the part of my life when I lie in a strange bed in the middle of nowhere and wait for a woman to bring me soup. It is a part of my life. It may be one of the few remaining parts.
When the man returned to the hotel the clerk at the front desk handed him a small envelope along with his key. The envelope was the size of business card, and inside it was a small piece of paper, folded in half. He unfolded it and read:
Your wife is recovering from an incident of emotional and physical anguish. Because she must rest she will stay the night. If you wish you may come and see her tomorrow morning.
Emmanuel de Mézarnou
Is everything happening fine for you? asked the clerk.
No, said the man. Everything is happening badly.
I’m so sorry. But it is often the way things happen, don’t you agree?
Yes, said the man. I agree. Is there a phone I could use down here?
There is a public phone in the bar. Lárus protects it.
Thank you, said the man. He crossed the lobby and entered the bar. He found Lárus maintaining his stoic vigil. The businessman sat at the far end of the bar with an alarmingly red cocktail placed before him.
Good evening, the man said.
Why, good evening, said the businessman.
May I use the telephone? the man asked Lárus.
Telephone?
Yes. The concierge told me there was a telephone here I might use.
Of course, said Lárus. He bent down and when he rose he was holding a large black Bakelite telephone, the kind the man remembered being in the front hall of the house he grew up in. It sat upon a perpetually gleaming Hitchcock console table. A Windsor chair stood beside the table, guaranteeing that telephone conversations were brief. Other families had white or green or brown telephones hanging on the wall in the kitchen and on tables and desks throughout the house—there were even sleek pink princess telephones in the bedrooms of some girls—but his mother insisted that a family needed but one telephone, and it must be black, and rotary dialed, and reside in the front hall, which was, for some reason the man never understood, unheated. His mother, like so many wealthy New Englanders, was extremely—frighteningly—frugal. What was the point in heating hallways? Hallways were for passing through, not for living. That was why rooms had doors!
The phone Lárus held trailed a very long cord. Lárus placed it on the bar in front of the man and said, You are my guest.
The man had never used a phone provided like this in a bar and all he could think of was scenes in old movies where people in nightclubs had phones on long cords brought to their table. For a brief moment he felt glamorous and consequential. He was aware that both Lárus and the businessman were watching him, but then he realized that he did not know Brother Emmanuel’s number, and he stood for a moment, dumbly holding the receiver, as if it might come to him. But of course it did not. He looked again at the message, but of course the number had not been added to it in the interval since he had last looked. He replaced the receiver and stood there, exposed as the fool he was.
Do you know the phone number for Brother Emmanuel? he asked Lárus.
I have no brother, said Lárus. He is dead.
No, I mean Brother Emmanuel, the healer. He lives in a house not far from here. And I’m sorry about your brother.
He killed himself, said Lárus. How sad it was! He was far better than I.
I’ve got the number.
The man turned to see the businessman reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing a slim leather-bound book. He flipped through its pages. You’d better let me dial, he said. It’s a little tricky.
Thank you. The man held the receiver out, but the businessman did not get up.
Bring it here, he said. For God’s sake!
The man picked up the phone and walked around to the far side of bar where the businessman sat. He set the phone before him and handed him the receiver. The businessman dialed what seemed to be a very long number on the rotary dial and then handed the receiver back to the man. While the phone rang, the man picked up the phone and walked back to the other end of the bar. He did not want to be beside the businessman while he spoke. After five rings the call was answered. A woman’s voice chimed what was no doubt a greeting in the native language.
Good evening, said the man. This is—and here he said his name, and hearing it said like that, he panicked for a moment because he was suddenly not sure it was his name.
Yes, the voice said. This is Darlene.
I received your message. May I speak to my wife? Or to Brother Emmanuel?
Your wife is sleeping. But of course you may speak with Brother Emmanuel. One moment, please.
It seemed a long time—but he really had no idea how long—before he heard Brother Emmanuel’s voice. Good evening, it said.
Good evening, said the man. I received your message. I’m concerned about my wife. May I come and get her now?
It is not right to move her tonight. Come in the morning.
What’s wrong with her? What happened?
She became upset, upset emotionally, but the barrier between her emotional and physical self is so porous that she collapsed. We are taking good care of her. She is sleeping now, and that is good. She should not wake until the morning.
Why? asked the man. What have you done to her? Have you drugged her?
Don’t be alarmed. We gave her a natural remedy to soothe her by allowing her sleep. Sleep is a great healer, perhaps the greatest. We repair our bodies every night while we sleep.
Is she all right? Was whatever happened bad for her?
I think it was good, said Brother Emmanuel. An advancement. A clarification.
An advancement?
You would not understand. Come in the morning, and you may see her.
Brother Emmanuel hung up, and after a moment, so did the man. He pushed the telephone across the bar toward Lárus. Thank you, he said.
Lárus nodded and replaced the telephone somewhere beneath the bar.
Two more, Lárus! said the businessman. You need a drink, I think. Come sit here. He indicated the adjacent barstool.
The man felt too defeated and exhausted to disobey. He sat beside the businessman and they both watched Lárus make their cocktails. It was a Negroni, the man realized. He liked Negronis, but he associated them with summer, with the beach at Misquamicut, Rhode Island, where his mother’s family had what they called a “cottage.”
Lárus approached with two Negronis and placed one in front of each of them. The businessman picked his up and held it out toward the man. May our cocks always be harder than our lives, he said, and touched his glass against the man’s.
The man took a sip of his drink and felt it enter his body, like a magic elixir. He realized he had eaten nothing but the garbage soup all day. I want some food, he said. Do you want some food?
I always want food, said the businessman. He patted the belly that extended rotundly above his belt. He took the man’s hand and held it against his belly, as if he were pregnant and wanted the man to feel his baby kicking.
The man quickly withdrew his hand, but not before he felt the comforting pillowed warmth beneath it. We’d like to order some food, he called to Lárus. Lots of food!
Lárus approached them and the man said, Bring us two of everything. And ham in the sandwiches! The man felt proud that he had not consulted the menu or the businessman regarding their order of food.
Lárus disappeared behind the upholstered door, which swung back and forth a few times after his exit, and when it was still the businessman said, So your wife’s mixed herself up with the holy man.
I don’t think he claims to be holy, said the man. He can just heal people. He says.
That sounds holy to me. Sounds fucking miraculous.
I don’t want to talk about it, said the man. It is what it is. Or perhaps it isn’t what it is. It’s something, and something is good. Something is better than nothing. I mean for her: something is better than nothing for her.
And for you? Is something better than nothing for you?
I don’t know, said the man. It depends what the something is.
So you also have nothing?
I didn’t mean that, said the man. But yes, maybe. Who knows? Do you know what you have?
Yes, said the businessman. I have shit. Shit. Nothing but shit.
Lárus returned and placed a plate of hard-boiled eggs on the bar between them.
We ordered two, said the man. Two orders of everything.
It is two, said Lárus. Count them. I don’t cheat. He disappeared, abruptly, behind the upholstered door.
The man realized that there were many egg halves on the plate: more than he would ever want to eat. He counted them: eleven. An odd number. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong. Had Lárus, perhaps, eaten one? There could be no other explanation.
Have you really got nothing but shit? the man asked.
Yes. I never lie. Why do you think I’m here, in this fucking freezing godforsaken place?
I thought you were here on some sort of business. You don’t live here, do you?
No, said the man, I don’t live here. I’d rather die than live here. I’d rather die a horrible painful death than live here.
Lárus emerged from behind the door with a large tray upon which were several plates. He placed these before the two men and disappeared back behind the door.
Look at this, said the businessman. A feast. A feast of crap. He took two of the fish croquettes and made a sort of fish croquette sandwich with them, a sandwich with no filling, and hungrily bit into it. It took him a moment to chew and swallow all that he had bitten off, and when he had, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. Lárus! he called.
After a moment Lárus emerged from the land behind the upholstered door. Yes?
Two more drinks! said the businessman. He held up his empty glass. Come on, boy—do your job!
The man had not finished his drink, so he picked it up and drank all that was left. He placed it carefully back on the bar because he had a sudden fear that he might break it, that even so much as placing it back upon the surface of the bar might shatter it. But it did not shatter, or break, and the man felt relieved, and proud of himself, and thus emboldened he heard himself cry: Schnapps! I want schnapps! Not this sissy pink drink!
The businessman seemed surprised by this outburst. Yes, schnapps, he said to Lárus. But we’ll have Negronis as well. Won’t we? He turned to the man.
Yes, said the man. We will have schnapps and Negronis. And don’t forget, two of everything on the menu!
Your food is there, said Lárus, nodding to the welter of plates and bowls he had placed on the bar before them.
Ah, said the man. Yes. Thank you, Lárus! Lots to eat and lots to drink!
We shall drink and be merry, said the businessman. We shall drink and eat and fuck.
Lárus placed a small glass of schnapps before each of them. The man picked his up and swallowed it in one gulp. He pounded his empty glass down upon the bar. Another! he cried.
Well, said the businessman. Look who’s off and running.
I am, said the man. I am off and running!
Yes, but no more schnapps until you’ve had your Negroni. And you’d better eat something.
I want to get drunk, said the man.
You’re well on your way. But the evening is young. Pace yourself.
For what? Pace myself for what? What is there to pace myself for? I have always paced myself and look where it has gotten me.
Here with me, said the businessman. Eating and drinking and fucking.
We aren’t fucking!
Not yet, said the businessman. But we will.
You may be fucking. But not me. There will be no fucking tonight.
It remains to be seen.
Don’t talk about fucking, said the man. Please. It makes me sad.
That’s odd. Why?
I don’t know, said the man.
But it was true: the talk of fucking had made him sad. The exuberance he had just felt was gone. He looked dejectedly at the unappetizing array of food before him.
You’ve ruined everything, he said to the businessman. He pushed the plate of hard-cooked eggs toward the edge of the bar.
The businessman reached out and stopped the plate from toppling to the floor. Easy now, he said to the man. What’s gone wrong? A moment ago you were gay as a lark.
Stop this gay talk. I’m not gay.
I know. But you were. Gay as a lark.
Quickly, before the businessman could stop him, the man pushed the plate of eggs off the bar and onto the floor. The plate crashed. Lárus, who was standing sentinel in his spot, flinched. He quickly looked down at the mess on the floor but then looked away.
It was quiet for a moment and then the man said, Look what I’ve done. I’m sorry. He stood up and leaned over the bar so that he could see the mess he had made and then sat back on the barstool. I’ve made a mess.
It’s not so bad, said the businessman. But perhaps we should put you to bed, before things get worse.
I’m not a child, said the man.
Lárus disappeared behind the door and reemerged a moment later with a dustpan and brush. He knelt down and swept up the shards of plate and slivers of egg and dumped them into the garbage. Would you like more egg? he asked the man.
No, the man answered. No more eggs. And I’m sorry, Lárus. I’m sorry I acted badly and made a mess. Thank you for cleaning it up.
It’s my job, said Lárus. I only do my job.
You do it very well, said the man. Thank you.
Anyone can do this job.
The businessman stood up. He withdrew his billfold from his jacket, extracted several bills, and placed them upon the bar. I think we should allow Lárus to have an early night, he said. Do you agree? he asked the man.
Yes, said the man.
The businessman steadied the man as he climbed off his barstool. The man started walking toward the door but the businessman said, Wait. We need provisions. He studied the plates of food arranged on the bar top and then put two of the meat sandwiches atop the bowl of ham and potato salad. Follow me, he said to the man. He held the man’s arm with the hand that wasn’t holding the food, and half pushed, half pulled him toward the door. They both paused before the beaded curtain. A little help? the businessman said. I’ve got my hands full.
The man reached out and parted the strands of beads, and the businessman pushed him through the jangling screen into the lobby. The businessman did not release his hold on the man as they crossed the lobby, as if he was afraid the man might suddenly bolt. They climbed the steps to the landing and entered the elevator and stood close together as it ascended. When it stopped the businessman motioned to the man to open the door, and when it was open he pushed the man gently out of the elevator onto the fourth-floor landing.
I’m on five, the man said.
Come with me, the businessman said, and led the man down the hallway. He stopped outside a door, knelt down, and carefully placed the bowl of sandwiches and potato salad on the floor. Then he stood up and unlocked the door. He flung it open and gently pushed the man before him into the room and closed the door behind them. It was completely dark in the room. The two men stood in the darkness. Even though it was completely dark the man closed his eyes. Although there was no sound he wished he could stop up his ears as well, and remove himself as completely as he could from the world. Once, while he was on business in Frankfurt, a colleague had taken him, after a somewhat drunken dinner, to a place where they floated in sensory-deprivation tanks. The tanks were like coffins filled with salt water, each in its own closet-like room; the man was told to strip and lie down in the tank and pull the cover closed above him; in an hour lights would come on inside the tank and he would know it was time to get out. It was the best feeling the man had ever had, floating alone in the darkness. He forgot his body and his mind, which had been racing but gradually quieted itself into a sort of conscious unconsciousness, a waking sleep, where the man somehow had access to the true and free self that emerged only in his dreams. Remembering this experience, the man wanted to lie down on the floor of the businessman’s hotel room, lie down in this perfect darkness and silence and let go. He began to sink to the floor but he felt the businessman reach around him, pull him up, and hold him against the wall. He could feel the businessman’s large belly pressed against his own and smell and feel the businessman’s warm breath touching his face. Although he could not see the businessman’s face, he knew that it was very close, perhaps almost touching his own. And then he felt the businessman’s mouth lightly touching his mouth, and he relaxed his lips slightly against the gentle pressure, and the businessman’s tongue slid into his mouth, fat and warm, and the man opened his mouth wider and felt his own tongue come alive and then felt the businessman take both of his arms and raise them above his head and pin them there against the wall. The businessman pressed his body hard against the man, grinding him into the wall, and the man could feel the businessman’s cock pushing against him, humping his leg, and then pressing hard against his own cock, and still the businessman held the man against the wall with his arms raised above his head, kissing him and bucking into him as if there might be some hole, there in the front of him, he could fill.
When the man woke up he was in the businessman’s bed and the businessman was sitting up against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. A lamp on the end table was turned on but was shrouded with a dark-colored handkerchief, so it glowed dully.
What time is it? he asked.
The businessman leaned over and picked up a little travel clock that sat beside the lamp. It was the kind that folds into its own little leather case. The businessman looked at it and then held it against his ear.
It’s twenty past five, he said.
Why aren’t you sleeping?
I can’t sleep when somebody’s in my bed. I want to fuck too much. Even if I’ve already fucked. And fucked.
The man felt there was something wrong and looked around the room. The bed was backward, he realized: it had been on the opposite wall.
Did you move your bed? he asked the businessman.
No, said the businessman. This is a different room. I change rooms every other day.
Why?
Because there’s nothing more depressing than living in a fucking hotel room. So I change rooms. Although in this hotel every room is a nightmare.
Where do you live?
In hotels.
You have no home?
I have apartments. One in London, and one in Istanbul. You and wifey live in New York?
Yes, said the man.
I can just picture it: lots of family heirlooms. Uncomfortable chairs the pilgrims carted over on the Mayflower. Maybe a few Zuni pots thrown in to spice things up.
Our pots are Oaxacan.
Of course! said the businessman. That’s the ugly black shit, right?
You must be very unhappy.
Why?
Because you have such disdain for everything. Or pretend to. It’s more than a bit tiresome.
Oh, please. Don’t get all faggy and psychological on me.
The man got out of bed. He looked around and saw his clothes on the floor and began putting them on. Where are my underpants?
I don’t know where your fucking underpants are, said the businessman.
The man put on his pants without his underpants. He put on his undershirt and shirt and sweater, an Irish fisherman’s knit sweater his wife’s mother had made for him the year they got married. Eleven years ago. It had always been too big for him, and he realized that his mother-in-law had thought he was a larger man, or wished he were, but he liked the sweater even though it did not fit him well. It was warm. He looked around for his coat, but it, like his underpants, had disappeared. He must have left it down in the bar. But not his underpants. He would not have left his underpants in the bar. He turned around and looked at the businessman, who remained sitting up in the bed, smoking. He looked fat and unhappy.
The man took the stairs down to the lobby and entered the bar. It seemed darker than usual in the bar and there was no sign of Lárus, or anyone else. But he saw his coat hanging from one of the pegs on the wall. He put it on because he suddenly felt cold, or eviscerated. He felt in need of an additional layer. He sat on a stool he had never sat on before, as if this might change his luck.
After a moment Lárus appeared. The man realized that of everyone, he loved Lárus the most. Perhaps because he was the one most impossible, most resistant, to love.
Lárus! Oh, Lárus, he said. May I have a schnapps?
Lárus nodded. He pulled the silver stag’s head from the bottle of schnapps and poured some into a glass and placed it before the man.
Thank you, Lárus, the man said.
Lárus nodded and assumed his position against the wall. After a moment, he began to speak. He was looking, as always, through the beaded curtains, and the man assumed he was speaking to someone standing just outside them, in the vast murk of the lobby.
We always hoped the Olympics will come here, Lárus said. We build things so that they will come. This hotel is one thing. But they never come. Since I was a boy they never come. So we build more things. A mountain for ski. A large home for ice. Everyone says if they come we will be happy for a time. And rich, perhaps. But they will never come here. Even if we build everything they want they will not come here.
Lárus stopped speaking, and looked at the man, who nodded. Lárus looked away but continued speaking.
They kill all the dogs one year because they think dogs not good for Olympics. That ugly dog in street keep Olympics away. And the shit of the dogs. But of course it is not the fault of dogs. But still they kill. Anything to get Olympics. In the winter I allow the dogs to be gone. But in the summer, no. There should be dogs in the summer in field and wood and river. Swimming, perhaps, or running. Barking. What you kill like that does not come back. The dogs know, I think. Or else they would come back. Even in summer they would come, along the roads. But they know, I think. We have broken with them. You understand?
Yes, said the man.
Why do I stay? asked Lárus. Would you stay?
No, said the man. I would not stay.
Then you must leave, said Lárus. You must go back.
But I can’t, said the man. No one can.
Because of why?
The Vaalankurkku Bridge, said the man. It has collapsed. Haven’t you heard? Because of all the snow.
There is no bridge at Vaalankurkku.
For the railway. A railroad bridge. For the train.
No, said Lárus. There is no bridge at Vaalankurkku. And bridges do not collapse here. Not from snow. Snow is nothing here.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima told me, said the man. I had lunch with her today. She told me that bridge had collapsed and there was no other way to leave here.
Don’t tell me that you believe in this woman.
Of course I do. Why would she lie about a bridge?
Because she lie about everything. I thought you knew.
Oh. I believed her.
She lie because she wants you to stay here. Everyone wants everyone to stay here. Especially in winter. But you can leave.
So can you, said the man. We can both leave. If we want. We could leave together.
You can leave, said Lárus. I cannot.
Of course you can, said the man. If you want.
Of course I want. But it is not a matter of want.
I don’t understand, said the man. What prevents you from leaving here?
It is my home, said Lárus. My only home.
But lots of people leave their homes. And find new homes. Better homes.
Did you leave your home, and find a better home?
Yes, said the man. In America, almost everyone does that. Home is not where you were born. I mean, perhaps it is, for some people, yes, but not necessarily. Not always. You could find another home, Lárus. Anywhere in the world.
Only in this world? That is the only choice you give me?
When the man got to his room he realized he did not have the key. He remembered it had been given to him, along with the message from Brother Emmanuel, when he returned from the orphanage, but he could not find it in any of his pockets. He realized the key must have fallen out of his pocket in the businessman’s room—they had undressed very hurriedly in the darkness and flung their clothes all about them in an adolescent rush to be naked.
He was not about to go knocking on the businessman’s door, so he went down to the lobby and rang the little bell on the altar of the front desk, but no one came. Everyone was asleep or gone. Or hiding.
He took the elevator up to the fifth floor and marched down the hallway to his room. He tried to open the door, but of course it was locked. He stood back and then jumped forward, lifting his right leg as high as he could and kicking it against the door, just beside the doorknob. The door was hollow and his kick dented it considerably, and the second time he kicked it his foot went through the door but got stuck on the withdrawal and he fell backward onto the hallway floor with his foot hooked through the broken door. The wind was knocked out of him and so he lay on the floor for a moment, his foot still stuck through the door, and then he managed to free it by kicking back and forth and widening the hole. He stood up and reached his hand through the hole and unlocked the deadbolt. He then kicked the door once again and felt a huge, almost transfiguring satisfaction when it obediently swung open. He had never kicked a door open before and the fact that he had done this improbable thing made him feel almost happy. It would have been perfect if he had not gotten his foot stuck and fallen backward in that shameful fashion, but as no one had witnessed it he decided to erase it from the narrative. He had kicked the door open! Or maybe he had even kicked it down! It would be a good story to tell his child someday.
He entered the room and closed the door behind him. He stuck his hand through the hole and then bent down and peered through it, enjoying this view across the hallway at the opposite door. He could also kick that one down if he wanted to. So what if the doors were hollow? That was another fact that could be expunged. It was an old hotel, built like a castle, and the door was thick and solid, the hinges made of iron, and he had kicked it down.
The excitement of kicking down the door had restored his flagging energy—he had planned to collapse on the bed immediately upon entering the room, but that no longer was an option. He wanted to perform another violent act—with his hands this time. Could he punch through the fake brick wall? It was probably as cheaply constructed as the hollow doors, and he imagined the satisfying and exciting sensation as his hand pushed through the fiberglass and particleboard, or whatever other shoddy materials comprised the wall. He looked closely at the wall and realized that it was just begging to be violated. He moved closer and ran his open palm across the faux brick surface, and then drew his hand away, made a fist, and punched it as hard as he could.
After a moment—or perhaps it was longer than a moment, he had no idea—he realized he was once again lying on the floor. The wall, like the door, had thrown him backward. And then he felt that a very large throbbingly painful cabbage had been attached to the end of his arm where his hand once had been. Some prehistoric innate wisdom told him it was best if he did not get up, perhaps ever again, that by lying still on the floor he could accomplish no further violence. He instinctively moved his cabbage hand beneath his body, and pressed down upon it with all his might, and although this was painful it was a more endurable pain than the other, for it stilled the throbbing, contained it somehow, like one of those heavy lead blankets that deflect X-rays.