What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

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

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

  Yes, the man said. Please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  How are you feeling? he asked.

  Better, she said.

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

  You must be hungry, he said. Are you?

  Yes, she said. A little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Are you sure you won’t come down?

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Good evening, she said.

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

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

  Excellent, said the man. Thank you.

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

  Yes, said the man. Everything has been fine.

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

  Do you? asked the man.

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

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

  That is good to hear, said the young woman.

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

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

  Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel

  MENU

  Table d’hôte

  First Course

  Hors d’Oeuvres Varies

  Oysters

  Second Course

  Consommé Olga, Cream of Barley

  Third Course

  Salmon, Mousseline Sauce, Cucumbers

  Fourth Course

  Filet Mignons Lili

  Sauté of Chicken, Lyonnaise

  Vegetable Marrow Farci

  Fifth Course

  Lamb, Mint Sauce

  Roast Duckling, Apple Sauce

  Sirloin of Beef, Château Potatoes

  Green Peas, Creamed Carrots

  Boiled Rice

  Parmentier & Boiled New Potatoes

  Sixth Course

  Punch Romaine

  Seventh Course

  Roast Squab & Cress

  Eighth Course

  Cold Asparagus Vinaigrette

  Ninth Course

  Pâté de Foie Gras

  Celery

  Tenth Course

  Waldorf Pudding

  Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly

  Chocolate & Vanilla Éclairs

  French Ice Cream

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Five nineteen, the man said.

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

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

  Oh! she exclaimed. You are sure?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Are we?

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

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

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

  Up in my room.

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

  Where are we going?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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