What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  Yes. I told you. She saw the boy bringing it up and commandeered it. She thought I might be lonely, up here without you. She saw you go out . . .

  The man said nothing but moved past her into the darkened room. Even though it was obviously their room, and his wife was his wife, it seemed all wrong. Changed, somehow. He couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a dress or spoken with such ardor.

  The woman closed the door and turned on the overhead light. Oh my God, she said. What happened to you?

  I was mugged. Last night at the restaurant. He stole my wallet. And my watch. He held up his left hand and shot the cuff back, revealing his naked wrist. My beautiful watch. My father’s watch.

  She came close to him and touched the bruised and discolored flesh beneath his eye and on his cheek.

  He winced. This is a horrible place, he said. A horrible country.

  We’ve just had bad luck, she said. It was bound to happen sometime. In a way it’s a relief.

  What’s happened to you?

  I told you. What’s happened to you? Where have you been all night?

  The businessman took me to his room. He cleaned my wound and put me to bed. I slept there.

  The businessman? What businessman?

  That giant Nordic businessman who’s always sitting in the lobby.

  Why did he bring you to his room? the woman asked. Why didn’t he bring you here?

  I don’t know, said the man. An excellent question.

  You didn’t ask him to bring you here?

  I was in shock! the man said.

  Are you still in shock?

  I don’t know. Perhaps. Or maybe a bit drugged—he gave me something to help me sleep.

  And then what happened?

  What do you mean, what happened?

  A strange man takes you to his hotel room, drugs you, and puts you in his bed. What do you suppose happens next?

  Nothing, said the man. They sleep. What’s come over you?

  I don’t know, said the woman. But it’s remarkable. Something has—something’s changed. I feel different. I feel changed.

  The man sat down on the bed. He felt suddenly as if the world was too big and complicated for him to manage. He lay back upon the coverlet and looked up at the ceiling, which was tiled with what looked like white linoleum floor tiles. Looking up at what appeared to be the floor thoroughly disoriented him, so he closed his eyes. What a relief it was to see nothing.

  He felt his wife sit down near him on the bed. For a moment she said nothing, and then she said, Actually, I do know.

  Know what?

  I know what’s changed. I think I have been cured.

  The man opened his eyes. He sat up. What do you mean, cured?

  Cured, she said. I feel well. All that was happening inside of me, the damage, the disturbance—I don’t feel it anymore. I know it’s impossible but it’s what I feel. I think he’s cured me.

  Who?

  Who! Brother Emmanuel of course. Who else? I’ve got to go back and see him. I’ve got be near him again, so that it doesn’t reverse itself. We’ve got to go as quickly as possible.

  What’s happened to you? the man asked. I think you’ve gone mad. Will you get out of that ridiculous dress!

  No, she said. The dress may be part of it. As soon as I put it on, I felt it. It’s a combination perhaps, of the dress and Brother Emmanuel. So I’m not taking it off and I’ve got to see him again. We should go now, shouldn’t we? What’s the point in waiting?

  What time is it? the man asked.

  It’s about six, she said. Twenty past six. By the time we get there it will be seven, or maybe even eight. He must be used to people arriving at odd times.

  Take off that ridiculous dress, the man said. Take off that dress and come to bed. It is time to sleep.

  No, she said. It isn’t time to sleep. Don’t you believe me?

  The man shook his head. No, he said. I don’t—can’t believe that. We’ve got to go and get our child this morning. That is where we have to go.

  The child can wait. We’ve all waited this long. A little longer won’t matter. I’ve got to see Brother Emmanuel first.

  Then go see him. Go! Wear that ridiculous dress. Put on a hat and gloves while you’re at it. I’ll go get our child.

  Why are you being mean? Why are you being mean about something so wonderful? Don’t I matter? Don’t I matter more than the child?

  The man lay back upon the bed and said, I just want to go to sleep. I don’t feel well. I’m exhausted. I was mugged. He kicked me in the balls. Hard.

  I was hurt too, said his wife. In the market. Maybe I had a concussion. But did I curl up into a little ball and cry boo-hoo? No.

  I’m not crying, said the man. Nor am I curled.

  Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.

  The man said nothing. He closed his eyes.

  Don’t go to sleep, said the woman. You’ve got to come with me, now, to see Brother Emmanuel.

  The man turned on his side and curled himself into a fetal position. Now I’m curled up, he said.

  He felt his wife get off the bed but she could not have moved far, because the carpet made no sound. After a moment he opened his eyes and saw that she was facing the wall, bracing herself against it with both hands. Her head was bowed and she appeared to be looking down at the floor. Was she doing yoga?

  Are you doing yoga? he asked.

  She did not answer. It took him a moment to realize she was crying. He got up from the bed and stood just behind her but did not touch her. She had told him, several months ago, that his touch was painful. That any amount of pressure applied to any place on her body hurt. She would wince when he forgot and tried to embrace her. Once, when he went along with her to an appointment at her oncologist, he mentioned to the doctor that his touch seemed to hurt her. When you touch her where? the doctor asked. Anywhere, said the man. Everywhere. Right? he asked his wife. Yes, she told the doctor. Sometimes I feel very sore—very tender all over, and it hurts when he touches me. Is this usually after you’ve had a chemotherapy? asked the doctor. No, said the woman. Not necessarily. Well, said the doctor, as I’ve said before, communication is very important. You’ve got to let him know how and when he should touch you.

  In the taxi going home she had said, Did you think I was making it up?

  What?

  That it hurts when you touch me. You didn’t believe me?

  No, he said. Of course I did—

  Then why did you ask him that?

  Because I thought he might be able to do something—

  What? What could he possibly do? There’s nothing he can do.

  Fine, he said. I won’t touch you anymore.

  Now, in the hotel room, close to her but not touching, he said, What do you need? What can I do?

  I need you to believe me! she said. Can you do that? Even if you don’t, just say you do. I can’t be alone in this.

  Of course I can, the man said. Of course I do. He reached out and very tenderly, very tentatively, put his hand on her shoulder, not resting it upon her but keeping it poised in the slightest and most gentle contact he could sustain. She neither flinched, as he had feared she would, nor acknowledged his touch, and so he rounded his hand the slightest bit so that it touched more of her shoulder, assumed the shape of it, and it seemed to him she had the bones of a bird, so delicate, so breakable, and his fear of breaking them caused him to take his hand away.

  This time, when Brother Emmanuel’s helpmate opened the door of his house, she did not greet the man and the woman with warmth and welcome. She stood there before them, holding the door open, regarding them with a troubled, puzzled look. Oh, she finally said, after a moment. Good morning. But she made no motion to welcome them into the house.

  The man could sense that his wife had expected to be welcomed with open arms and was taken aback by the lack of greeting they received. So the man stepped forward a little and put his hand on the opened door, as if he were helping
the woman to hold it open, or preventing her from closing it, and said, Good morning. We have come back, as you see.

  Yes, said the helpmate. I see.

  My wife would like to see Brother Emmanuel again. May she?

  I’m afraid not. Brother Emmanuel is in sequestration today.

  But I’ve got to see him! exclaimed the woman. Why is that? asked the helpmate.

  He’s changed something inside me. I think he’s cured me. Or is curing me. So I must see him again, now, before it . . . before it changes. Or stops.

  The helpmate looked at the woman for a moment, calmly, as if she were trying to discern something by gazing at her. Then she stepped back and opened the door wider, causing the man to lose his balance and fall forward, but he caught himself before he fell.

  Come in, the helpmate said. It’s cold outside. She stepped aside and the man and the woman crossed the threshold and stood in the large front hall. The skylight was no longer occluded with snow; someone must have gone out onto the roof and shoveled it, the man thought. Or perhaps it had blown off during the night.

  They all stood there silently for a moment, as if the atmospheric pressure were different inside of the house and needed adjusting to. Then, suddenly, the woman said, Oh, please, can’t I see him? I feel it so strongly: this urge—this need—to see him! To be in his presence, if only for a moment. I won’t even speak to—

  The helpmate reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm and shook it slightly. The man noticed that his wife did not recoil or even react to this ungentle touch and realized that something had changed.

  Listen, the helpmate said. Listen to me! Brother Emmanuel can’t have cured you. It doesn’t work like that. He can’t have changed you in any way—he only spoke with you for a few moments. To help you he must spend more time with you. A lot of time. It’s real, what he does; it isn’t magic. What you’re experiencing is false. We call it a therapeutic delusion; you feel you’re cured because you want to be cured. It happens often. But it is good, I assure you. You cannot be cured unless you want to be cured. And you want that so badly that you have fooled yourself. So do not despair.

  But nevertheless it is a kind of a cure, said the woman. It’s not delusional; it can’t be.

  You may think whatever you like, said the helpmate. But I have told you the truth of your situation. That, too, is a kind of cure.

  Would you tell him I was here? I think he might see me if he knew I was here.

  As I told you, he is in sequestration. He talks with no one on these days. Not even me.

  Perhaps you could give him a note?

  That’s impossible. He does not interact with anyone in any way on these days. If you want to see him, you will have to come back another time.

  Tomorrow? the woman asked.

  No. His schedule for tomorrow is complete. It will probably not be until next week that he can see you.

  That’s impossible! I’ve got to see him tomorrow; it’s a matter of life and death.

  The man stepped forward slightly, so that he was standing in front of his wife. My wife is very ill, he said. Gravely ill. Can’t you find time for her to see Brother Emmanuel tomorrow? It would mean so much to us both. I beg you.

  Do not insult me by begging, the helpmate said. This is not that kind of place.

  I implore you, then, the man said.

  It is not for me to decide in any case, said the helpmate. I will talk to Brother Emmanuel when he emerges from his sequestration later tonight. If you call tomorrow morning I will give you his answer. Call the number on this card—and she picked a card off a small wooden table and handed it to the man. And now I must ask you to leave. We try to keep the house inviolate on days of sequestration.

  They waited outside, on the dirt-covered steps, for the taxi to arrive.

  Thank you for speaking like that, the woman said. Thank you for supporting me.

  Of course, the man said. I think he will see you tomorrow.

  The woman said nothing. Her face was trembling, perhaps because her jaw was tightly clenched.

  The man looked down at the card he had been given. It was pale gray and slightly larger than a normal business card. On one side was printed an address and telephone number and on the other side a single Bible verse:

  The Hermitage

  Ulitsa Zarechnaya 36

  Borgarfjaroasysla 9

  6 - 238 - 994

  Trust in the Lord with all your heart;

  do not depend on your own understanding.

  Proverbs 3:4

  As soon as they got into the taxi the woman told the driver to take them to the hotel. Then she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Her face had relaxed itself.

  They drove out onto the road through the gap in the pine trees and headed toward town. They had gone quite far, perhaps half the distance from Brother Emmanuel’s house to the hotel, when the man said, You don’t want to go to the orphanage?

  The woman opened her eyes and shook her head slightly, as if she had been asleep.

  Oh, she said. The orphanage. I forgot.

  You forgot? How could you forget? It’s the whole reason why we’re here.

  I don’t think it’s the whole reason. It’s a reason. And really, who knows why we’re here?

  I know why I’m here, the man said. I’m here to get our child.

  The woman turned away and looked out the window.

  Do you really want to go back to the hotel?

  The woman did not answer him but continued to gaze out the window.

  Sometimes you amaze me, she said.

  How?

  You’re so unempathetic. Do you have any idea what it’s like? To feel that I’m cured, or being cured? To think that perhaps I won’t die?

  I suppose I don’t, he said. How can I? How could anyone?

  She turned to face him, and her face was flushed with rage.

  But you could try! Couldn’t you stop for a single moment and try?

  I do try, he said. I try all the time. But it’s never enough for you. You want me to be something I’m not, to give you something I can’t. I’m tired of feeling that I’m failing you. I know how difficult, how impossible, this has been for you but that doesn’t make you exempt. It doesn’t mean . . .

  Mean what?

  You could be a little kinder, the man said. A little more patient.

  She once again turned away from him and regarded the implacably white landscape they drove past. They traveled for a while in silence, and then she sat forward and reached out and touched the taxi driver gently on his shoulder.

  I’m sorry, she said. There’s been a mistake. It was my mistake. We don’t want to go to the hotel. We want to go to the orphanage. Do you know where it is?

  They climbed up the steps of the orphanage but before the man could open the door the woman touched his arm and said, Wait. Please. Just a moment. Aren’t you scared?

  Scared? he said. Scared of what?

  Of seeing—of meeting—the child. Of it finally . . . happening.

  No, he said. Why should I be scared?

  I’m scared, she said.

  Why?

  Because what if it’s a terrible mistake? What if it’s all wrong?

  It isn’t a mistake and so it can’t be wrong.

  How do you know?

  The man shrugged. I don’t know, he said. I just feel it.

  I don’t, the woman said. I don’t feel whatever it is you feel. It’s different for me. I mean different from how it was.

  How? asked the man

  If I’m cured, the woman said. That makes everything different, doesn’t it?

  How?

  How! Really, you ask how?

  Yes, said the man. I do. I really ask how. Can we go in? It’s freezing out here. He reached out to open the door but the woman grabbed his arm and held it.

  No, she said. Be a man. It isn’t so cold.

  Be a man? The man laughed. What is this? Who are you?

  The woman said not
hing.

  Let go, the man said.

  The woman let go of his arm with an abrupt, dismissive gesture as if it had been he who was holding her.

  I’m having a hard time keeping up with you, the man said. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by all this . . .

  Overwhelmed? the woman asked.

  For lack of a better word, the man said. Yes: overwhelmed. Can we go in now?

  You really did think I was going to die, didn’t you?

  What? asked the man.

  You heard me. You thought I was going to die. You had no hope. No faith. For lack of a better word. You resigned yourself to the idea that I was going to die. Didn’t you? Tell me. Be honest.

  Well, the man said. Given what the doctors told us, given what you yourself told me, given what I know about stage-four cancer, yes, to be honest, yes, I thought you were going to die. Think you are going to die.

  So you don’t believe in anything outside your scope of knowledge or experience?

  I suppose not, said the man. I’m sorry. You asked me to be honest.

  So you don’t think I could possibly be cured? That I might live?

  You might be cured, the man said. Of course, it’s possible. But not by that man. Not in that way.

  Why? asked the woman. Why not?

  How could he possibly cure you? He didn’t even know that you are ill.

  Of course he knew. Why else would he have come in to see me? There was no other reason for him to come in.

  Then why didn’t he see you today?

  Perhaps because he didn’t need to. Perhaps I don’t need to see him again. You’re being rational, asking these questions. Trying to make sense of it. But it isn’t rational. It doesn’t make sense.

  So it’s some kind of miracle? asked the man.

  That’s all there is for you? Reason or miracles?

  I suppose so, said the man. I’m very literal. I have no imagination, or so you have often told me. Remember when we tried to role-play? What a disaster that was?

  Yes, the woman said. I remember. You couldn’t even pretend to be a chef.

  A chef? I thought it was a cowboy.

  First it was a cowboy and then it was a chef. You failed at both.