What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  Yes, said the woman.

  Yes, what?

  Yes, please, said the woman.

  There’s a good girl.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima returned the empty soup bowl to the tray and lifted the dome from the other dish and returned to her place on the bed beside the woman. It isn’t really Toad-in-the-Hole, she said. It looks like creamed chicken and mushrooms over rice. Ouvre la bouche.

  As she fed the woman the creamed chicken, Livia Pinheiro-Rima suddenly said, in a voice quite unlike Nanny’s, Now, listen, you’ve got tell me what you thought of him!

  What I thought of who?

  Who? Why, Brother Emmanuel, of course!

  How did you—

  How do you think? I set it all up. I told the taxi driver to take you there. The last thing you need is a child. It’s obvious what you need is Brother Emmanuel. So I had to interfere.

  How dare you! said the woman.

  Yes, exactly, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima: How dare I! What is it they say—better to dare than to dream? Or perhaps it’s the other way round, but in any case I got you there, didn’t I? So the least you can do is tell me what you thought of him.

  I think he’s a fraud, said the woman. I mean, obviously.

  But will you go back?

  If he’s a fraud, why go back?

  Perhaps you aren’t sure.

  Oh, I’m sure, said the woman. It’s really shameless, what he does. I think it’s the worst deception that exists. To take advantage of vulnerable people—

  He took advantage of you?

  No. Of course not. I didn’t allow him to. And I won’t.

  Then there’s no harm in going back, is there?

  Perhaps there’s no harm, but there’s also no purpose, said the woman. Besides, we’re going to the orphanage tomorrow. Tomorrow we see our child.

  And while we’re on that subject, please tell me, what in the world do you need a child for? They’re really nasty little creatures, babies.

  Did you ever have a baby? asked the woman.

  Yes. Several, in fact. I speak from experience.

  And you didn’t love them?

  No, not when they were babies. What a nuisance they were!

  But later you did?

  Oh, yes. There are a few years—between five and ten, if I remember correctly—when they’re lovely. But it doesn’t last long.

  Well, I’m sure we shall love our baby because we want it so badly and have gone through so much to adopt it.

  If I may once again speak from my own experience—I suppose one always speaks from one’s own experience so there’s no need to qualify in this way—but my experience has taught me that things we badly want and strive desperately for are the things that most keenly disappoint us. For this reason alone I think you should forsake the orphanage and go back and see Brother Emmanuel. Of course one does not preclude the other. I understand why you might not listen to me—although you should, you really should—but my dear, don’t you believe in fate?

  Fate?

  Yes, fate. Fate! Why else would you have come here, of all places, to adopt a baby, if it wasn’t to meet Brother Emmanuel? I can’t tell you how strongly I feel that you were meant to meet him.

  Are you part of his scam? Does he give you a percentage of his blood money?

  That’s a vile, stupid thing to say, and if I’ve caused you to say something like that I’m truly sorry, because I know you are neither vile nor stupid. But let me tell you that Brother Emmanuel has never taken so much as a penny from anyone. And I have a lifetime sinecure at the National Theater, which I founded and ran for thirty-seven years, so I’m neither in need of nor in the habit of taking anyone’s money, thank you very much.

  I’m sorry, said the woman. It’s just that I don’t know what to think and so I don’t know what to do.

  All the more reason to listen to me, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Your husband told me how ill you are. Not that he needed to tell me—one look at you and I knew.

  Knew what?

  How ill you are. Let’s not beat around the bush. I don’t have the time for that, and frankly, my dear, neither do you. You’re far too ill to become a mother.

  I know that, said the woman. Do you think I don’t know that? But that’s the whole point, the whole reason we’re here, now. So we can be a family for however long it lasts. It may be as long as a year, and when it happens—when I die—they’ll have each other. They’ll be family. He won’t be alone. You don’t know how difficult it’s been—finding someone who would let us adopt, at our age, and under these, under my conditions. That’s why we’ve had to come so far, to this place. That’s why we’re here—to start something real. Not to see some charlatan.

  But why not see him, now that you are here?

  You don’t understand! It’s taken me so long, so unbelievably long, to resign myself to what’s happening. But I am resigned. I can’t allow any more possibilities, everything that can be done has been done, and I’m too tired, too—

  Excuse me, but everything hasn’t been done! exclaimed Livia Pinheiro-Rima. You haven’t seen Brother Emmanuel! I mean you did today, but not properly, not the way you need to. Why would you not go back? Don’t you owe it to yourself? Your husband? And yes, of course, if it gets there, your child?

  I told you, I don’t believe in that. I have this time—this short time—and I want to spend it living, not trying to stay alive, not even hoping to stay alive. I know my body. I know what it’s doing.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima stood up and returned the emptied dish of not-Toad-in-the-Hole to the tray. She lowered the silver dome over it with a bit of a flourish, as if it were a magic trick. Without speaking she came around the bed and gently pulled the napkin from around the woman’s throat. She shook it out and then folded it in half, quarters, eighths. After a moment she said, once again in her Nanny voice, You must have been a bad girl. Cook didn’t send up a pudding. Now, hunker down. She pulled the pillows out from behind the woman and helped her to resume her recumbent position upon the bed and smoothed the golden coverlet over her. She pointed to the little bedside lamp and said, On or off?

  On, the woman said.

  Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, I should leave it on all night if I were you. It casts such a warm light. You’re sure to have sweet dreams sleeping in such lovely light. She sat down on the bed beside the woman.

  Close your eyes, she said. There’s a good girl. She reached out and gently stroked the hair off the woman’s forehead. That was quite a dramatic little speech you just gave. I think you’ve exhausted yourself. You need to go to sleep. It’s only in English, you know, that people go to sleep. Everywhere else people sleep right where they are. You’re ready to sleep now, aren’t you?

  Yes, said the woman. She was feeling full and warm and sleepy and a little narcotized, as if the meal she had just eaten had some magical restorative powers, and her body was full again, not hollow and brittle. It was the most she had eaten in quite some time.

  Good, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. She leaned forward and softly kissed the woman’s forehead, which was slightly damp. She stood up and went into the bathroom and found a washcloth and doused it in cool water and then came back and gently touched it to the woman’s face.

  That feels good, said the woman. Thank you.

  You’re most certainly welcome. She paused for a moment, and then said, You’re lost, aren’t you?

  Yes, said the woman. I am.

  The thing to remember is that we’re all lost, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. We’re living in a dark time. No one can find their way. Everyone’s fumbling, blindly fumbling. Like those little underground animals who sightlessly push themselves through the cold damp earth, hoping to encounter the root of something edible. We’re no better than that.

  Is it that bad?

  Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, it’s that bad. But there are worse things than being blind, and stumbling in the dark. Much worse things.

  What?

  Being dead, said Livia Pinhe
iro-Rima.

  I don’t think that’s worse, said the woman. It’s just—nothing.

  Perhaps. Who knows? But isn’t nothing worse than this? Worse than this cozy warm bed and Nanny here beside you, to watch over you and protect you all night long, until the morning comes with the dew on the hyacinths and the roosters cock-a-doodle-dooing? Surely that’s better than nothing?

  Yes, said the woman.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima stood and picked the tray up off the bed. Can I get you a glass of water? Are you warm enough?

  I’m fine, said the woman. Thank you, she said again. And then she said, Perhaps you’re right.

  Of course I’m right, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. There’d be no point in telling you what to do if I were wrong. I’ll come back and check on you later. Now you must sleep.

  The next thing the man knew was that he was sitting on the toilet in a bathroom and the businessman was dabbing at his head with a clean white handkerchief. The businessman had one hand at the center of the man’s back, supporting him, while the other hand administered to his wounds.

  It’s stopped bleeding, he heard the businessman say. That’s good—it means you won’t need stitches.

  Where am I? the man asked. How did I get here?

  The businessman chuckled. Such existential questions, he said. We’re back at the hotel. In my room. You were in need of a bit of patching up.

  How did we get here?

  I practically carried you. Not that you owe me your life or anything, but still. You’re heavier than you look. Skinny blokes often are. I think you were in shock. How are you feeling now?

  I don’t remember much, said the man. What happened?

  You were attacked down in the toilet at the restaurant. Do you remember that?

  Yes, said the man. At least some of it.

  Is there any reason why you might have been attacked?

  What do you mean? the man asked.

  I mean, might someone here want to attack especially you?

  No, said the man. Of course not. I know no one here. I only arrived last night. I know no one.

  You know me, the businessman said.

  Did you attack me?

  No, my friend. I saved you. Now I’m going to clean you up a bit and put you to bed.

  The businessman put a washcloth in the basin of the sink. He turned on the hot-water tap. As the basin filled, he picked up a bar of soap and lathered it between his hands, allowing the suds to fall into the basin.

  The man could smell the strong pine resin scent from across the room. When the basin was filled with suds the businessman turned the water off. He picked up a corner of the washcloth and swished it through the water, and then wrung it partially out. He walked back to the man and gently swabbed his bloody face with the cloth, and it felt good to the man, and smelled good, and he turned and lifted his face toward the businessman, like a sunflower following the sun.

  The businessman wrung out the cloth in the basin several times. He cleaned the man’s face, and his hands, and swabbed around his neck. A feeling of childhood overcame the man, of being tended to and cleaned.

  Let’s get you into bed, he heard the businessman say, and he forced himself to open his eyes and lift up his head, which felt clean but heavy, and said, What do you mean?

  I’m putting you in my bed, said the businessman. You need some looking after. You’re not completely out of the woods.

  But my wife, the man said. My wife will be worried if I don’t come back—

  Your wife is fast asleep, the businessman said. Do you have any idea how late it is? And I honestly don’t think it would be good for you to wake her up looking as you do now. Much better to sleep here and go up in the morning. How are you doing? Can you stand?

  The man found that he could stand but immediately felt the entire world spinning around him, so he sat back down on the toilet.

  Perhaps I have a concussion, he said. Everything spins around when I stand up.

  All the more reason to get you in bed, said the businessman. Put your arm round my shoulder. Close your eyes. I’ll heave you up and walk you to the bed. Just let me lead you. Can you do that?

  Yes, the man said. He closed his eyes and felt the businessman hunker down beside him and throw his arm around his shoulder and grab him firmly around the waist.

  One, two, three, the businessman said, and stood up, pulling the man up with him. Keep your eyes closed. Come along with me.

  The man let the businessman half carry him into the bedroom, relaxing into the strength that supported him.

  Sit, the businessman said, and the man sat.

  You can open your eyes now, said the businessman.

  Can I keep them closed? It’s better that way, I think.

  Of course you can. Whatever you like.

  The man felt the businessman undressing him. He pulled his sweater off over his head and then unbuttoned his shirt and peeled that away, revealing the man’s long-sleeved silk undershirt. The businessman quickly ran his hands down along both the man’s arms, down the slippery slopes of silk, and said, We’ll leave your silkies on.

  Then he unbuckled the man’s belt and unzipped his trousers. Lie back, he said, and the man, with his eyes still closed, lay back upon the bed. He felt the businessman lifting up his hips and sliding his pants down, but they would not come off over his boots.

  Damn it, the businessman said. He knelt down and unlaced the man’s boots and pried each one off.

  Socks on or off? he asked.

  On, said the man.

  All right, said the businessman, I want you to stand up just for a second so I can turn back the covers. You don’t really have to stand, just get your ass up off the bed. Can you do that?

  Yes, said the man. He leaned up and off the bed.

  The businessman steadied him with one arm while the other quickly snatched back the bedclothes. There we are, he said, and pushed the man back down on the bed. You can lie down now. Why don’t you open your eyes now? It might make it easier.

  Yes, said the man. He opened his eyes. The businessman’s hotel room was similar to his own only all the colors were different. The coverlet, for example, was royal blue.

  Lie down, said the businessman, and I’ll tuck you up.

  The man lay back upon the bed and let the businessman yank the bedclothes out from beneath him and then pull them to his chin and tuck them tightly under the mattress.

  Don’t move, he said. I’m going to get you something that will help you sleep.

  The man watched him enter the bathroom. A moment later he returned with a glass of water in one hand and a pill in the other. He held out the hand with the pill but the man’s arms had been tightly tucked beneath the coverlet and he did not want to extract them so he opened his mouth.

  The businessman put his hand on the man’s back and lifted him up a bit, and then he put the pill in the man’s mouth. He held the glass of water to the man’s lips and the man sucked in enough water to swallow the pill. The businessman put the glass, which was still almost full, on the night table. He turned off the bedside lamp. Now the only light came from the lamp on the other night table and from the open bathroom door. The businessman sat on the bed, stroking the hair off the man’s forehead. I’ll stay here till you fall asleep, the man heard him say.

  Thank you, the man said. You’ve been very kind.

  The businessman moved his hand from the man’s forehead to his cheek, which he cupped with his large hand. The man felt the warmth and surprising softness of the businessman’s hand on his cheek and pushed his face against it, like a cat making sure it gets petted the way it wants.

  THREE

  The lobby was empty and cold. It was the size of a skating rink. It was dark; there was no red glow from the bar. It looked like the photographs the man had seen of ballrooms in sunken ocean liners.

  He had left the businessman sleeping in his bed and had gone down to retrieve his room key from the reception desk but there was no one there and his key wa
s not in the appropriate cubbyhole. He could not remember if he had returned it to the reception desk before going out to dinner the night before. Or perhaps it was in the businessman’s room, or perhaps he had lost it in the basement toilet of the restaurant. But in any case he did not have the key and if he wanted to get back into his room he would have to knock on the door and awaken his wife, assuming she was sleeping. Assuming she was in the room.

  He took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the darkened hallway. Just as he was about to knock he noticed a mezuzah affixed to the door frame. He had not noticed it before. Was it the wrong floor? Or the wrong room? But no, there was the number, 519, affixed in faux-gold plastic numbers at the center of the door.

  He knocked, quite loudly, because he wanted to only knock once. He waited a moment, but nothing happened, so he knocked again.

  He was about to knock a third time when he heard his wife say, Who is it?

  It’s me, he said.

  The door opened and his wife stood there, but for a moment, in the dimness, he did not recognize her. She was wearing a long velvet dress that was too big for her and was cinched around her tiny waist with a thick tasseled cord. She looked at him and said, Oh, it’s you.

  My God, he said. What are you wearing?

  A dress, the woman said.

  Where did you get it?

  That woman—the one we met here the other night—gave it to me.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima? When did you see her? You didn’t run outside again, did you?

  No, of course not. She brought up my supper. She was so kind, so lovely. We had an interesting talk and she let me sleep for a while and then came back and told me I’d feel better if I got out of that long underwear and into something pretty. And she was right. We went to her room and she showed me all her clothes. She gave me this dress. It doesn’t fit now, but it will when I regain the weight. We’re the same size. Or were. It’s a Balenciaga. And this cord is from the old Metropolitan Opera House. It held back the curtains or something. Can you imagine! She’s got the most amazing collection of things—not just clothes, although, my God! the clothes she’s got—a Balenciaga!

  I think she’s a bit mad, the man said. But I don’t understand. She brought up your dinner?