He must have called earlier than the other times, because I was in the middle of that first deep sleep, and at first I couldn’t figure out if it was in a dream or reality that I stuck out an arm and felt some smooth, hard, slightly warm object against my ear.
Nothing happened. It was a dream.
“Jean-Baptiste?” I murmured groggily.
“ . . . ”
“Is it you?”
“Yes.”
“The other times, too?”
“ . . . ”
“Why are you doing that? Why aren’t you talking?”
“ . . . ”
I was curled around the phone in my hand. A long time went by. Much too long. I fell asleep waiting for him to answer.
I don’t know how many minutes went by. In the morning my call log would say that our conversation lasted two hours and thirty-four minutes, but I think I must not have hung up correctly. Finally I heard:
“Mmmffrffmmteet.”
I opened my eyes, and this time it was my turn to be silent.
“Are you still there?” he asked anxiously.
“Yeah.”
“I’m . . . I’m a chef, you see.”
“ . . . ”
“ . . . and I’d like to have you over for something to eat.”
Ohh. Okay. I’d thought he was saying something about fixing his heat. I mean, what bizarre parallel dimension had we fallen into? A weird, inhibited, insomniac chef calling me at twelve-fifteen in the morning to read me his menu? Go back to sleep, kiddies! Everything’s under control! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!
“Would you like to?”
“Now??”
“No.” His voice sounded happier. “I have to prepare!”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know. I need to get organized. Can you write down a phone number and call me back tomorrow night at the same time?”
What a practical schedule.
“Go ahead; I’m listening.”
I grabbed a book at random from my bedside table. Still half-asleep, by the light of my phone’s screen, I wrote down the string of numbers he dictated. After that, I don’t know. I heard my first name one or two more times, but I’ll never know if it was his voice or its echo in my sleep-fogged mind.