The man woke to find something disagreeably wet and furry invading his mouth. He was lying facedown upon the floor, with his face mashed into a puddle of drool on the shag carpet. He quickly lifted himself up onto his hands and knees and then rubbed at his mouth with one of his hands, pulling at the moist fibers stuck to his lips. He went into the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out and washed his face and felt much better.
He heard someone knocking on the door and left the bathroom. Halfway across the hotel room he noticed the large hole in the door and he remembered what he had done the night before. Through the hole he could see someone standing in the hallway, and for a moment he had the ridiculous urge to lean down and speak through the opening, but he more sensibly opened the door.
The elderly concierge with the walrus mustache stood in the hallway.
I understand there has been an accident, he said.
Good morning, said the man.
Good morning. There has been an accident?
Where?
The concierge nodded toward the door and then reached out and inserted his hand through the opening. He withdrew it and then reinserted it, moving it back and forth within the opening, as if to prove without a doubt that the hole was real and not a magical illusion.
Oh, the door, said the man. That was not an accident.
It was not?
No, said the man. I lost my key last night and there was no one at the front desk. What else could I have done?
There is always someone attending the front desk. If they are not there, they shall return within minutes. You had only to wait to get your key.
I did wait, said the man. But there was no one there and no sign that anyone might appear. Or reappear. And I needed immediate access to my room.
Immediate? You could not have waited a moment or two? Was your need so urgent?
Yes, said the man. My need was extremely urgent. I needed to sleep. It is, after all, primarily what one comes to a hotel for.
I am afraid we must add the cost of replacing the door to your tariff.
Fine, said the man. Do that. It’s a very cheap door so it can’t cost very much.
On the contrary, said the concierge. It is a very valuable door. In fact, one might call it irreplaceable.
Irreplaceable? You’re kidding me. It’s hollow.
Just because something is hollow does not mean it is without value.
I’m not saying it’s without value. I’m just saying if it cost ten dollars I’d be surprised.
All the doors in the hotel were salvaged from the original Khedivial Opera House in Cairo. They are UNESCO-certified artifacts.
I don’t believe you, said the man. Why would an opera house have all these doors? And the last thing they’d be is hollow.
For the first, said the concierge, the Khedivial Opera House was all boxes. Each box had two doors. For the second, every door in an opera house is hollow. It is what keeps the sound alive.
Thank you for elucidating me, said the man. But now I must go to Brother Emmanuel’s and collect my wife. Can you arrange for a taxi to take me there?
Certainly. You wish to leave—
Now, said the man. Or as soon as possible. Will you call me when the taxi is here?
Yes, of course, said the concierge.
Darlene opened the door at Brother Emmanuel’s almost as soon as the man knocked on it. She told the man he was expected and showed him into the room with the fireplace and the parrot. This morning the fire had not been lit and it was cold in the room. The parrot’s cage was shrouded with a black leather cover, which appeared to be snugly custom-fitted.
Darlene told the man that Brother Emmanuel would be with him shortly and left the room, sliding the two doors closed behind her.
The man stood near the cage and listened for the bird. He thought of the total darkness inside the cage and imagined the bird sitting inside, alive, like the beating heart in the dark cavity of his chest. He listened carefully but there was no sound from the bird. The man was disappointed. He wanted some proof that the bird was inside the cage, and alive. How did it breathe? The leather must be invisibly perforated. Tiny pinpricks through which air, but not light, could travel.
The man became aware of a presence behind him and turned to see Brother Emmanuel standing just inside the opened doors. He was once again dressed in the black cassock that buttoned diagonally across his chest. Its skirt fell all the way to the floor. He stood there, motionless, gazing at the man.
The sudden and silent appearance of Brother Emmanuel unnerved the man, and in an effort to regain his sense of control he asked if the bird was in the cage.
Yes, Brother Emmanuel said. He is sleeping.
How do you know? asked the man.
How do I know he is sleeping?
Yes, said the man. I hear nothing.
Of course. He makes no noise when he sleeps.
Shouldn’t you take the cover off? It is daytime. Shouldn’t he be awake?
On most days, yes, said Brother Emmanuel. But Artemis slept poorly last night. In fact, we all did. So we are letting him rest this morning. You see, he is an extraordinary creature. He always senses when there is distress in the house. It upsets him.
And last night there was distress in the house?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. I’m afraid there was. But this morning things are calm. Everything is fine. God has been good to us.
I’m glad to hear it, said the man. I have come to get my wife. We must go to the orphanage today and take possession of our baby.
Brother Emmanuel said nothing for a moment, and in the quiet the man thought that he did perhaps hear a faint rustling sound from within the cage.
It seems an odd way to express it, said Brother Emmanuel.
Express what?
To take possession of a baby. As if it was something you had purchased.
In a way we have, said the man. It was difficult for us to adopt a baby. Because of our age. And my wife’s health.
So you bought one? That now you must take possession of?
Yes, said the man. Exactly. And I cannot do that alone. I need my wife. Would you get her?
Sit down, said Brother Emmanuel. He stepped farther into the room and indicated the long sofa that faced the fireplace.
Why? asked the man.
Please, sit down. I need to speak with you. It is necessary for us to speak before you see you wife.
Why? Has something happened?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. Something has happened. Please sit down. Once again he indicated the sofa.
The man sat at the end of the sofa nearest to him. Brother Emmanuel came close and knelt on the floor before the man.
You wife has made a decision, Brother Emmanuel began. It was a difficult decision for her to make, a decision that cost her much anguish. If you love her, it is a decision you must respect. You must know that she arrived at this decision herself. That is why you must respect it.
What did she decide?
Your wife has decided to stay here.
For how long? asked the man. We are expected at the orphanage this afternoon.
You don’t understand, said Brother Emmanuel. She has decided not to leave here.
You’re right, said the man. I don’t understand.
She has decided this is where she wants to pass.
Pass? asked the man. You mean die?
I, myself, do not use that term.
I do, said the man. And it is impossible. She is my wife. She must come back with me. She must come home.
Home, yes, said Brother Emmanuel. Exactly. But she now feels that this is her home. It is very clear to her, very strong, this feeling. She is at peace. It is good.
It is not good, said the man. And you have no right to keep her here. If she thinks that this is her home it is because you have brainwashed her.
Brother Emmanuel abruptly stood up and stepped back, away from the man. It might be said that he recoiled.
You have insulted me, he said.
I don’t care, said the man. He, too, stood. Where is my wife? I demand to see my wife. Now.
Your wife has decided it would be better—easier—if you do not see each other. She feels that her life with you has ended. I beg you to respect her wishes. You must let her go.
I will not let her go, said the man. I will not leave here until I have seen her. He grabbed the iron poker that stood along with a brush and little shovel in a tray beside the fireplace. He pointed it at Brother Emmanuel. It shook because his hand was shaking.
If I have to, I will kill you.
Brother Emmanuel reached out and held the end of the poker that was pointed at him. His hand was steady and the poker stopped shaking. The two men stood for a moment, thus connected, the poker unwavering between them. Then the man relaxed his shaking grasp on the poker and Brother Emmanuel gently pulled it away. He returned it to its home on the hearth. He wiped his hands together, because his end of the poker was the one that was used to maneuver the logs in the fire and was consequently dirty.
Put away the things of this world, he said to the man. Put away your sword. Put away your fear, and your anger.
I cannot, said the man. Could you?
I understand, said Brother Emmanuel. I am asking too much. Your wife is asking too much. There is a limit to what you can understand, and give.
Yes, said the man. There is a limit.
And you cannot leave her now? You cannot give her this?
No, said the man. What would anything mean if I left her now? And isn’t there something she must give me?
What is it you want from her?
I want for her to not turn away from me. If you have told her that is what she must do, I don’t blame you. I know you are trying to help her. But you must respect me as well as her.
But she is dying, said Brother Emmanuel.
I know that, said the man. That is why I must see her. Surely you can understand that.
Brother Emmanuel reached out and laid his hand upon the man’s shoulder, and although he tried not to, the man felt in the sudden warmth a stilling gentleness. He remembered Livia Pinheiro-Rima patting his back in the bar of the hotel the night they arrived. Had he always been touched like this, or had something changed about him, had a need become apparent, that had elicited all this coddling? This contact happens all the time, he realized, but we’ve all become inured to it. That is why we long for sex and are excited by violence: because that is the only touch we can still feel, the only touch that penetrates our armor.
Come with me, said Brother Emmanuel. The man followed him out of the room. Darlene stood in the vestibule with a sense of permanence that made it seem as if she might never leave it. Brother Emmanuel climbed one of the staircases and opened a door on the second floor. The square room they entered had no windows, only two doors in each of its walls. All these doors were closed and so the room was dark. The only light came from an alabaster chandelier that hung on tasseled ropes from the ceiling, glowing dimly like a moon seen through a scrim of clouds. In the exact center of the room, directly beneath the alabaster chandelier, bathed by its lunar glow, stood an S-shaped tête-à-tête love seat upholstered in green silk. Brother Emmanuel opened one of the doors on the opposite wall, which revealed a narrow and steep staircase. He turned back to look at the man.
She is up here, he said. Follow me.
But the man did not move. He felt safe there. He wished Brother Emmanuel would shut the door he had opened so they could be alone in the closed box of the room. All he wanted was to fall to the floor and sleep.
Brother Emmanuel closed the door and stepped back into the room. He looked at the man. Are you frightened? he asked.
The man was frightened, but had not realized it until Brother Emmanuel asked his question.
Yes, he said.
Of course you are afraid, Brother Emmanuel said, but you must be strong now. You have strength and she does not.
But she is strong, said the man. She has always been stronger than me, and less afraid.
That is no longer true, said Brother Emmanuel. May I embrace you?
Yes, said the man. Please.
Brother Emmanuel pulled the man close and held him against his chest—one hand on the man’s back, and one hand holding the man’s head against his tunic, pressing his cheek into the gold buttons that crossed his chest.
The man could feel Brother Emmanuel’s heart beat in his chest.
After a moment Brother Emmanuel gently pushed the man from him and stepped away. Come with me, he said. Do not think too much. In fact, do not think at all.
He turned and opened the door, and this time the man followed him up the dark narrow staircase to the third floor, emerging into a hallway lined with several doors, each of them open except for one. The open doors revealed small bedrooms, each one simply and identically furnished with a bed and dresser and chair. A duvet was coiled into a roll at the foot of every bed. A small circular rag rug lay in the center of every floor.
The room with the closed door was at the far end of the hall and Brother Emmanuel walked deliberately toward it, and the man followed behind him. Brother Emmanuel opened the door without knocking and entered the room. It was completely dark. Brother Emmanuel reached down and turned on a lamp that sat on a small table beside the bed. The man entered the room and saw that his wife was lying in the bed. Her face was turned toward the wall and the sudden light and men entering the room did not appear to disturb her, for she did not move or in any other way acknowledge these alterations to her environment.
Brother Emmanuel knelt beside the bed and placed both of his hands upon the duvet. He moved his hands several times, sliding them far apart and then drawing them back together, as if he were attempting to gather something up at the center of the woman’s body. And then he lifted his hands and let them hover for a moment over her body, the way pianists lift their hands above the keyboard and let them hang there, momentarily, as the last notes fade away. But Brother Emmanuel’s hands fell gently back upon the duvet that covered the woman’s body and rested there for a moment. Then he lifted one of his hands and reached and touched the woman’s face. He placed all five of his fingers softly upon her cheek.
Your husband is here, he said. He has come to see you.
For a moment the man thought his wife might be dead. She had not moved during Brother Emmanuel’s interference and did not respond when he touched her face. Surely she must be dead to allow herself to be touched in this extraordinary way. But after a moment she shifted in the bed, turned her head, and looked directly at the man. He could not read her expression. She had none.
I will leave you, said Brother Emmanuel. He moved a chair away from the wall and positioned it beside the bed and then left the room, shutting the door behind him.
This all happened more quickly than the man had expected. He had not thought he would be left alone with his wife, not without some period of reacquaintance.
The man felt himself shiver. I’m cold, he said.
The woman said nothing and her face did not alter but she slid closer to the wall and lifted the far edge of the duvet.
Get in, she said.
It was odd that she offered such an invitation to intimacy as a command.
The man sat on the chair and took off his boots and then got into bed with his wife. For a moment he lay on his back beside her, not touching, but then he turned and gathered her in his arms and held her carefully against him.
What are you doing? he whispered. Why are you here? Why won’t you come with me?
I’m tired, said the woman.
Yes, I know, said the man. But still—
I have decided to stay here, said the woman. Please accept that.
But why here? Why not with me?
Because, said the woman. This is where I want to be now.
Do you still think he has cured you?
The woman made a sound like laughter, but it was mirthless and brutal. Yes, she said. In fact, I do. But he says he hasn’t. It’s just my luck, isn’t it? Finding a healer who says he hasn’t healed me. Only I could do that.
But maybe—maybe what you sense, or feel, is a premonition.
Yes, she said. Perhaps.
It’s possible, he said. It’s your body after all. You could know better than him.
The woman said nothing. She reached out and touched the wallpaper, a nonsensical design of sheaves of wheat interspersed with bugles and roosters.
What does it mean? the man asked.
What?
The wallpaper, he said. He reached past her and touched it himself. The wheat, and roosters, and bugles. What does it mean?
It means life, she said. They are all symbols of life.
Roosters?
Yes, she said. Of course. Cock-a-doodle-doo. They alone start the world again every morning. Or so they think.
He held her a little bit closer to him.
And the bugles wake us up as well, he said.
Yes, she said.
And the wheat?
The staff of life.
Of course, he said. I forgot.
They were quiet for a moment, both regarding the wallpaper, as if there might be a flaw in the pattern: a rooster with two heads or a bugle facing left instead of right. The man liked the idea of patterns, that once something proportionately replicable was established it could go on and on repeating itself, spreading like kudzu or cancer.
I know you want to stay here, he said. But will you come with me?
Where?
To get the baby, he said. I need you to get the baby.
Why? They saw me. I was there.
I know, he said. But they won’t give him to me unless you are there.
Of course they will. You just have to say—something. That I have a cold. That I have caught a chill. They can hardly doubt that, in this frozen place.
You need to be there with me, he said. They have made that very clear.
The woman sighed. She pulled away from the man and shifted closer to the wall.
The man let her go. He felt the cold space open between them.
I don’t think you ever wanted a baby, he said.
The woman touched the wallpaper again, but this time she pressed her palm flatly against the wall. As the man watched, the pale skin on her hand blushed, and he realized that she was bracing herself.
Then, suddenly, the woman pushed against the wall, turned toward him, and sat up in a single contorted motion. She reached her hand out and hit him, several times, tried to beat his arms and his chest, but she had so little strength that the gesture had only symbolic effect. After a moment the man took her hand and held it, and then, when he felt her fury had abated, released it. She rubbed the hand with which she had beaten him with her other hand, as if it had been hurt, and looked at him as if the fault was his.
How could you say that! she cried. How dare you! There is nothing I wanted more than that. Nothing! My God! Don’t you remember what I did for a child? All the injections, the pain, the relentless fucking. That’s what killed me, I think, trying to have a baby! How dare you say that!
I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean—I only meant—forget it. Please, lie down. I’m sorry. Lie down.
She stared at him for a moment and then lay down on the bed and pulled the duvet around her. She lay on her back, the duvet clutched with both hands beneath her throat, gazing up at the ceiling.
Would you go? she asked. Please go. Can’t we just—
What?
Let go, she said.
Let go of what?
Of us, she said. Let go of us. I’ve let go of you. Won’t you let go of me?
No, the man said. Why would I let go of you? I don’t understand you anymore.
I know, said the woman. You don’t. So let me go. Please.
I can’t let you go. He reached out to touch her but then thought that he’d better not. He pulled the duvet up and tucked it more snugly around her. It was warm in the bed. If her body had lost vigor and strength, it had not lost heat. Perhaps that was the last thing to go.
Fine, said the woman. Don’t let me go, then, but at least leave me alone.
I won’t, said the man. I can’t.
The woman said nothing. She sighed and turned back toward the wall.
The man got out of the bed. He once again fitted the duvet snugly around his wife. He knelt down beside the bed and rested his arms upon it with his hands clenched, as if he were praying.
Please come with me, he said. I beg you.
He reached out and touched her, tried to turn her gently away from the wall, but her body was tense and impossible to move.
Come with me to get the baby. I beg you. And then you can come back here, and stay here, or do whatever you like.
Go have a baby with another woman. That’s what you should do. You always wanted your own baby. That’s the only reason you fucked me.
Please don’t say these things. We have . . . we have always been kind to each other. Can’t we at least keep that?
She turned back toward him. Exactly! she exclaimed. Kindness! How I hate it! I never wanted kindness. Especially not from you.
What did you want from me?
What a question! How can you ask it?
The man said nothing.
Love! said the woman. I wanted love! She began to cry.
Of course I loved you. Love you. Kindness is a part of love.
It’s got nothing to do with love, the woman said. Kindness—what a horrible word!—is what we give to those we don’t love. Can’t love. We’re kind to those we don’t love for that very reason. That’s where kindness comes in—when there isn’t love.
The man stood up, unbalanced. He reached out and steadied himself by holding on to the chair, which creaked a little from the pressure he placed upon it. For a moment he thought it might collapse, but it did not. It was an old chair, well made and strong. He pushed it over and kicked it, so that it skidded across the floor until it reached the circular rag rug in the center of the room.
The woman looked at the chair. It lay there on its side, as if it had fainted or collapsed.
I’m sorry, she said. I don’t wish to blame you. You always did what you could. I know that.
But it wasn’t enough, the man said.
It’s not the amount. It’s the thing itself. It wasn’t what I wanted, or needed.
Why didn’t you tell me? How was I to know?
She reached out her hand, and when he did not take it, she turned it over, palm up, and shook it. He reached out his own hand and held hers. She pulled it gently so he was forced to sit down beside her on the bed. She turned toward him, curling around him, and let their joined hands fall into his lap. Her head was slightly behind him, so he could not see her face when she began to speak.
Everything feels different when you’re dying. Words mean different things, or nothing at all. It’s why I shouldn’t talk to you. I wish I could make you understand. It’s got nothing to do with how I feel about you. Or felt about you. So please don’t ask me these questions.
She stopped talking. After a moment she squeezed his hand. Do you understand? she asked. Even a little?
Yes, he said.
Thank you. Thank you for understanding.
A little, he said.
Yes, she said. A little. Go and get the baby. I know you want it and I think it is yours. Please go now. I’m tired.
It’s not it, said the man. It’s him. He’s Simon. He waited, but the woman said nothing. He stood up. I will come back tomorrow.
Please don’t, she said. Please. I beg you.
I will leave now only if I can come back tomorrow.
She sighed. She turned away from him and faced the wall, faced the roosters and bugles and sheaves of wheat.
It was early evening when he returned to the hotel but it felt like the middle of the night. It had been dark for hours. He stood on the sidewalk and watched the taxi slowly drive away.
The night was very still and quiet. The cruel wind that usually blew through the streets had momentarily subsided. In fact, nothing moved; there were no cars or people anywhere in sight. The street looked like an opera set just as the curtain is going up and no one has entered. Perhaps he thought of opera because he could hear, faintly, the barcarole from The Tales of Hoffmann being played on the piano inside the lobby.
It was so cold standing there that he felt the skin on his face might crack, so he turned away from the street and pushed himself through the revolving door. Once he was inside the lobby he took off his gloves and held both his hands against his face, covering his eyes, like someone crying.
In fact he was crying, but that was not why he had covered his eyes. He stood like that, clasping his face, listening to the music. He and his wife had seen a production of Hoffmann at the Met on one of their very first dates. After the second intermission, the curtain rose on the scene set in Venice, and in the golden gloom a gondola floated miraculously from the wings to the center of the stage and the man had felt so exhilarated by the sublimity of the moment he had reached out involuntarily for the woman’s hand and held it, thrillingly, during the entire act. It was the first time he could remember touching her.
When the barcarole ended, he took his hands away from his face. He looked across the lobby, which seemed to be filled with a fine smoky mist, which may have been caused by the pressure his hands had placed upon his eyes, for as he looked it disappeared. Livia Pinheiro-Rima was seated at the piano, wearing a black toga-like gown that revealed her white bony shoulders. Something glittered on her head—a little sequined fascinator. She looked around the room—only a few people sat in the lobby: two men, each sitting alone, and a party of two men and a woman seated together—and saw the man standing by the door. She looked at him curiously, as if she did not recognize him, and then she leaned down and opened a little spangled bag and extracted a matchbox and a cigarette. She flicked the cigarette into the air and caught it neatly in her mouth, and then struck a match, lit the cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled a plume of smoke toward the dark distant ceiling.
She put the cigarette down and struck a few chords and then picked it up and took another drag, which she similarly exhaled.
It’s very lonely, you know, performing solo like this. It’s like a tree that falls in a forest when there’s no one there. I know there are a few of you here, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you that you don’t form a critical mass. I’m supposed to be singing Brecht tonight but really, haven’t we all had enough Brecht? I mean there’s nothing like him, no one else touches him, but nevertheless, it’s a bit exhausting after a while, isn’t it? All that flaying and flensing of the soul. But if anyone here does want to hear Brecht, stand up and set yourself on fire. Good. This next song I’m going to sing, since we’re renouncing Brecht, is from Noël Coward’s musical Ace of Clubs. I understudied the role of Pinkie Leroy, officially played by Pat Kirkwood, who was a real darling but having a terrible time. She had just returned from a treacherous year in Hollywood, starring in a wartime picture with Van Johnson. The film studio wanted to slim her down and gave her some pills that affected her thyroid and pituitary and lots of other glands as well, and she ended up spending several months in a sanatorium somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Well, when Pat finally got back to London, more dead than alive, Noël took pity on the poor thing and wrote the role of Pinkie for her, but her glands were still vacillating and so I went on for her almost every night. Enough: “Why Does Love Get in the Way?”
When Livia Pinheiro-Rima had finished singing the song she stood up and said that she’d be taking a short break. She walked over to where the man was still standing just inside the revolving door.
What’s the matter? she said.
I’m fine, said the man. I’m just tired.
Well, come with me to the bar and we’ll have a drink. You obviously need one. Come. She took his arm and led him across the lobby, through the beaded curtain, and into the bar. A person of indeterminate gender sat at the far end of the bar in the seat usually occupied by Livia Pinheiro-Rima, so she pushed the man onto a stool near the door and sat down beside him.
Of course he’s never here when you need him, she said. Lárus! she called, and a moment later the padded door swung open and Lárus appeared.
We’ll each have a double, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
Good evening, said Lárus.
Good evening, said the man.
Good evening, Lárus said again, this time directly to Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
Oh, you great big fool, don’t play that game with me! Good evening. Hyvää iltaa. Buona sera, bonsoir. Happy now? Two doubles, if you please.
Lárus placed a small paper napkin on the bar top in front of each of them and then reached down below the bar for glasses, which he placed carefully upon the napkins. Then he turned and took the schnapps bottle and carefully poured an equal amount into each glass. He twisted the silver antlered stopper back into the bottle, returned it to its spot, and then assumed his usual place, leaning against the wall in front of them.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima picked up her glass and said, To your health and happiness. The man raised his glass and touched it to hers. He said, To yours. They each took a sip of the schnapps and then put down their glasses.
Have you had a day anything like the kind of day you look as if you had? Livia Pinheiro-Rima asked the man.
Yes, he said. I have.
Well, I’m sorry to hear it.
Oh, and by the way, the man said. Lárus told me that the railroad bridge you told me had collapsed hasn’t collapsed.
Well, we all can’t agree about everything.
He said there isn’t even a bridge there. And that in any case bridges never collapse here.
It sounds as if you and Lárus had quite the conversation. I didn’t know he was capable of anything like that.
I like Lárus, the man said. We have an understanding.
An understanding of what?
Of life, I suppose. So am I really stranded here? Or did you just make that up?
Whether you are stranded here is not a question I would presume to answer.
Did you lie about the bridge?
I don’t like that word: lie.
Yes, but a bridge is either up or down.
I assume you’re speaking of London Bridge. And it proves my point perfectly: London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. It isn’t up or down. It’s falling. But I find all this talk of bridges boring. Tell me about your difficult day. Where did you go? Who did you see?
Isn’t that Elizabeth Bishop?
Yes. How did you know?
I read poetry, said the man. Or did. In college.
Well, Lota de Macedo Soares was my second cousin.
Are you Brazilian?
My mother was Brazilian. My father was English. But we digress. You were about to tell me about your day. How is your wife? Where is your wife? Where is your baby? For a man with a family you seem remarkably alone.
I am alone, said the man. My wife is at Brother Emmanuel’s. The baby is at the orphanage. I may never see either of them again.
I’m sure you exaggerate. Why do you say that?
My wife forbids me to see her again. And they won’t give me the baby unless my wife is with me.
Listen, I thought the baby had a name. Didn’t we establish that?
Yes. Simon. But it’s not going to be my baby so it isn’t Simon.
Of course it’s Simon. He’s your baby and he’s Simon. They can’t keep him from you just because your wife is indisposed. That’s absurd. It’s criminal. People here make a great show of following rules and regulations but they could really not care less. You’ve just got to speak to them very plainly and show them that you mean business.
The nurse I spoke with made of point of saying they wouldn’t release the baby if my wife wasn’t there.
Of course she did. But that doesn’t mean she won’t give him to you without your wife. If your wife won’t go with you, I will. I know how to handle these people. We’ll tell them I’m your mother. Little Simon’s grandmother. And they’ll hand him right over, mark my words.
I suppose it’s worth trying.
Of course it is! Unless you don’t really want the baby. Is that why you’re prevaricating?
I’m not prevaricating! I want the baby. Simon. I’ve done everything I could possibly do to get him.
Then you shall have him. Of course that’s a horrible way to put it—no one ever has a child. Most of the misery in the world comes from people thinking that they do, that they own their children when all they’re doing is taking care of them until they can take ownership of themselves. And some children do it very early on—I’ve known six-year-olds that are completely self-possessed and autonomous. But I’m sure Simon needs some looking after. So we will go and get him tomorrow.
Thank you, said the man.
There’s no need to thank me. It’s an adventure. I love adventures and they don’t come along very often. I can’t remember the last time I had an adventure . . . oh, wait: I can, but I shan’t tell you about it because it ended somewhat disastrously through no fault of my own, but nevertheless it wasn’t a particularly happy adventure. And I’m sure our adventure tomorrow will be very happy.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea, the man said.
You’ll never manage to get poor little Simon out of there by yourself.
Perhaps you’re right, said the man.
Of course I’m right! There can be no doubt about it. Now you must go to bed. You look exhausted. Have you had your supper?
No, said the man.
Well, you must eat something. Lárus, bring our friend here some of your delicious scrambled eggs. And fry some of those little potatoes along with them. I must return to the piano. Some of us must sing for our suppers.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima drank the schnapps that was left in her glass and slid off her stool. She reached out and touched the man’s cheek, cupped it with her hand for a moment, and looked into his eyes. Then she bent down and kissed him, tenderly, on his lips.
Don’t worry, she told him. Everything will be fine.
Someone had taped a piece of cardboard over the hole in the door, which of course didn’t protect him at all—anyone could easily rip it off and reach inside and open the door, as he had done. He supposed he should ask for another room with a properly locking door, but he realized he did not care very much about this.
He unlocked the door and entered the room. He decided not to turn any of the lights on, for he did not want to see the room. He did not mind being in the room, but he did not want to see it. He entered the dark bathroom and felt his way to the toilet. Then he went to the sink and felt for the taps. Even though he had a pretty good idea of where his toothbrush and toothpaste were, he decided to forgo brushing his teeth. He splashed cold water on his face—the cold water here was, unsurprisingly, very cold—and then he felt for the towel on the rack and patted his face dry.
He returned to the bedroom and stood for a moment in the darkness, trying to think if there was anything he should do, or anything he had forgotten. There was such a lot to remember. He wanted to remember something he should do so he could do it and subsequently feel that he was in control of his life, or at least that he was not forgetting to do all the things he should do, but he could think of nothing. Of course he had not brushed his teeth and that was something he should do but it was fine not to do that as long as he was aware of not doing it.
He took off his clothes but left on his long silk underwear and lay down on the bed, on top of the coverlet. He reached inside his underpants and held his penis in his hand. He did not stroke it but simply held it, gently squeezing it now and then. Holding his penis like this made him feel safe, and self-contained, like an electrical extension cord that is coiled up and then plugged back into itself.
The woman could not sleep. A deep restlessness had come over her. It was as if her body were pumped full of some ricocheting current. It hurt not to move her arms and legs. And something was shaking in the air. Or the air itself was shaking. She sat up and saw that a woman was sitting on the chair the man had kicked over. The shaking air made it difficult to see her, but the woman knew it was not Darlene. This woman sat on the chair sideways and had turned and rested her arms along its back. She was positioned to look at the woman but her gaze had no direction. And then the woman recognized her—she was the woman who had appeared in her hotel room the night they arrived.
Hello, she said.
The woman in the chair said nothing. She leaned toward the woman in the bed as if she wanted the woman to see her more clearly, and then she pushed herself off the chair and rose backward through the window. The drapes had been opened.
The woman fell back upon the bed. The wind that had pulled the woman out the window had somehow pushed her as well. She tried to lie still but the coursing energy had returned to her body. She quickly got out of bed and went to the window. The moon had appeared and was casting a phosphorescent light over the fields of snow. She realized that she was sweating, so she opened the window wide and leaned out as far as she was able into the chilling air. Suddenly something within the woman folded open, succumbing to a constant pressure, and, feeling freed, she turned away from the window and crossed the room. She opened the door and walked down the hallway, down the stairs and through the room with the alabaster lamp and the tête-à-tête, down through the dark house and into the vestibule, where she paused for a moment, trying to pull the warmth and color of the house into her, and then she opened the door and stepped out onto the dirt-covered steps. The row of sentinel fir trees shook themselves in the wind and beckoned, but she stepped down onto the drive and walked around the side of the house, moving through the snow like a ship, out into the vast field she had seen from her window. As she walked she could feel the restlessness leave her body, and she grew tired and finally had to lie down in the snow. It was only then that she felt the cold, painfully biting at her, and she tried to stand up, but she could not, the snow held her to it, and once she gave up her struggle she felt herself growing warm, deliciously warm, and she realized that someone had kindly swaddled her in Nanny’s Russian black bear coat.