What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  And I fail at this too. Whatever it is that this is.

  It’s quite clear what this is. It isn’t role-playing. It doesn’t require imagination. It’s very simple. It’s my thinking I’ve been cured. Or rather, my feeling that I’m being cured.

  Yes, the man said. We’ve established that, so can we please go in now?

  Yes, the woman said. We can go in now.

  It became clear that the building that now housed the orphanage was once a school—or perhaps still was, for several of the rooms the man and the woman passed as they followed the nurse down a long hallway on the first floor were furnished with rows of desks, and chalkboards hung on the walls. At the end of the hallway the nurse opened a door that revealed a stairway. She held the door open while they passed through it and then led them up the stairway. On the landing a dead tropical plant of considerable height and stature had been removed from its pot and leaned against the tiled wall, exposing the naked dirty ball of its roots. Beside it a large metal bucket of sudsy water hosted some kind of mop. They followed the nurse up the second flight of stairs, where she once again opened a heavy metal door and motioned for them to pass through.

  This floor was identical to the one below it, but the rooms were empty. Even the chalkboards had been removed, leaving their ghosts behind on the painted cinder-block walls. Halfway down the hall, outside a door whose glass window was covered with newspaper, the nurse stopped. She turned to the man and the woman and said, You will see your child now. But I remind you that you cannot take him away until three days pass. You understand?

  Yes, the man said. But we may visit him, right?

  Yes, said the nurse. For an interval of an hour two times a day, once morning and once afternoon. Are you ready now?

  Yes, the man said. He reached out and offered his hand to the woman, as if she needed help to enter the room, but she pretended not to notice. She seemed to have removed herself from the situation, acting like a queen visiting a hospital who must not betray any emotion. His hand, reaching out, empty in the air between them, appeared odd, or injured. Because the nurse was watching, he shook it as if it had fallen asleep.

  What are you doing? asked the woman, suddenly observant.

  My hand fell asleep, the man said.

  The nurse opened the door and motioned for the man and the woman to enter the room. The lights were off and the curtains were drawn so it was very dark. The nurse switched on the overhead lights. The fluorescent tubes buzzed angrily for a moment and then flickered alight. There were ten cribs in the large room, placed around its perimeter; three on each side and two at either end. The air in the room was close and slightly fetid. From several cribs crying babies could be heard.

  The nurse closed the door and said, Come. Now we will meet your child. She walked across the room and the man and woman followed her. She stopped beside the middle crib along the far wall and said, Here lives your baby.

  The sides of the crib were covered with bunting so the man and woman drew close to look down into it. A small child sat upright in the middle of the crib. He was wearing a white ruffled pinafore over a mustard-colored hand-knit sweater and red corduroy pants. On his feet plastic bags covered thick knitted booties. A leather harness that strapped round his waist and over his shoulders was attached by a leash to one of the slats of the crib. Although he was sitting up, he appeared to be in a somewhat somnolent state, staring down at the plastic-covered mattress, which was patterned with a cartoon version of baby lambs frolicking in all directions. A shaggy green alligator whose widely opened mouth exposed many fabric teeth rested upside down at the far end of the crib.

  The nurse leaned down into the crib and unsnapped the leash from the harness. She grabbed the child under his arms and hauled him up and out of the crib. She held him for a moment in the crook of her arm so that he faced the man and the woman.

  He is good and fat, she said, jouncing the child in her arms. Let me see if he has done bad. She carried the baby over to a table in the center of the room. It appeared to be made of stainless steel and its surface was shining. She sat the baby atop the table and then gently pushed him down so that he was lying on his back.

  Come, the nurse commanded them. Come and see.

  The man and the woman approached the table and watched as the nurse lifted up the pinafore and pulled off the corduroy pants, beneath which the child wore a cloth diaper, which was very obviously soiled. The nurse uttered a single word in her own language and undid the safety pins that held the diaper in place. She peeled the diaper off the child and briefly examined its contents before folding it and placing it on the far end of the table. One moment while I wash, she said.

  She left the couple standing by the table, looking down at the baby. His uncircumcised penis seemed disproportionately large and flushed a deep pink, while the rest of his skin was milky white. It looked like something that had been added to him rather than something that was integrally his. He wore a cap of beautiful blond hair and his eyes were as large and as soft as a dog’s, and he appeared to be merrily smiling at them. He had a large purple birthmark on the inside of his right thigh, which seemed to be the price he paid for otherwise being so beautiful.

  The nurse had gone over to a sink in the corner of the room and moistened a washcloth beneath the tap. She returned to the table with the cloth and briskly wiped the baby’s loins clean, and then patted him dry with another cloth. Then she stood looking down at him, beaming proudly. A nice baby, you think?

  Yes, the man said, he is a beautiful baby.

  The woman said nothing.

  You would like to carry him? the nurse asked. She cradled her arms and rocked an invisible baby by way of example.

  The man, who could not imagine picking the baby up so soon, reached down and tenderly touched his cheek, and then gently nuzzled it with the backs of his fingers. The baby tried to grab at his finger and slapped at his hand. The man laughed and took his hand away. He looked at his wife. She stood a step or two away from the table and was looking down at the baby dispassionately, her arms crossed against the front of her parka. She had neglected to remove her hat, a fur-lined leather aviator’s cap that had earflaps that could be pulled down and tied beneath her chin but which now somewhat comically stuck straight out on either side of her head.

  Take off your hat, he told her.

  What? she answered. She seemed submerged inside herself, which was an affect she often had. He knew it was a way she had of dealing with her pain or her depression, as if to be completely alive and fully engaged with the world only exacerbated her condition. He reached out and pulled the hat from her head. She seemed not to notice the removal of her hat and continued to stare down at the baby on the table.

  Touch him, the man said. He reached out and touched the baby as he had done before, and this time the baby seemed surprised by the touch and stopped fidgeting and closed his eyes and lay perfectly still, as if he were an opossum playing dead.

  He’s quite chubby, isn’t he? the man asked. How much does he weigh?

  Four, maybe five, said the nurse. Six perhaps.

  Pounds?

  Pounds? No. Kilos.

  The man turned to his wife. How many pounds is that?

  I have no idea. She seemed to have roused herself from her stupor, for she stepped forward and leaned down toward the baby. For a moment she only observed him, closely, as if she were nearsighted, and then she picked up his arm and held it for a moment. Then she let it go, so that it dropped down upon the table.

  She made an odd sound that might have expressed surprise or disgust and said, His muscle tone seems . . . poor.

  Muscle! exclaimed the nurse. We have a baby. Later, the muscles grow. Pick him up! Don’t be scared! Hold your little baby!

  But the woman had stepped back and once again crossed her arms before her, as if stopping them from somehow independently reaching out to pick up the baby.

  To compensate for his wife’s behavior, the man reached down and scooped the chi
ld up into his arms and held him tightly against his chest. Even through his clothes he could feel the warm weight of the baby. His naked legs were soft and delightfully warm. The man wished that he were naked too, wished he could hold the baby against his naked chest, his beating heart pressed softly against the child’s. He closed his eyes. He bent forward and kissed the baby’s blond head and inhaled the clean scent of his hair. Then he slightly increased the pressure of his grasp, because he wanted to make sure the baby knew that he was being held.

  When the taxi had left the parking lot of the orphanage and driven some distance back toward the town, the man turned to his wife, who was looking out the window.

  Why were you like that? the man said. Why didn’t you pick him up?

  She shrugged, but the motion was almost lost inside her cocoon of clothes.

  It seemed perverse, he surprised himself by saying.

  That made her turn and look at him—perhaps that’s why he had said it.

  Perverse! What are you talking about?

  To come so far, to come all this way, and then not pick him up. To drop his arm like that.

  I’m sorry I didn’t respond the way you wanted.

  No, said the man. Don’t be sorry. Just tell me why. Why did you respond like that?

  I don’t know. It just seemed so . . . odd.

  Odd? How odd?

  So random. I didn’t feel connected to him.

  Well, of course you didn’t! We were seeing him for the first time. How could you feel connected?

  But you did. I could tell. When you held him—you felt connected.

  Yes, because I was holding him. That’s why you should have held him. It was amazing—what it felt like, holding him.

  That’s why I didn’t pick him up, the woman said. Because I knew even if I was holding him, I wouldn’t feel anything. I’d just be holding him and feeling nothing. And I couldn’t bear that.

  But you don’t know. How can you know that?

  I know, said the woman. Part of what’s happening to me—the change I’m feeling—is that I know things like that. Everything is very clear. Apparent. I feel like I know everything.

  They found the lobby of the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel uncharacteristically populated when they entered it. A large group of about twenty people occupied several of the archipelagoes of chairs and tables at the far end of the lobby just outside the closed restaurant. They ranged in age from very young to very old, but all were dressed in colorful and shiny finery. While the children raced round and round the chairs and screamed, the adults were occupied with bottles of champagne that lounged in silver buckets on several of the tables. It was obviously a celebration of some sort.

  All hail the conquering heroes! cried Livia Pinheiro-Rima, striding toward them from the opposite direction. That’s what you are—rushing all over this dismal town in this freezing weather! You deserve medals, really you do! Come and sit down and get warm. I’ll ask Lárus to make us a nice pot of tea. Or would you rather some schnapps?

  Tea is fine, said the woman. Tea would be lovely.

  Then tea it is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. No, don’t sit there—it’s draughty by the door. Come over to my cozy little corner by the bar. It’s ever so much warmer over there. Sans parler d’intime.

  The man and the woman followed Livia Pinheiro-Rima to the corner outside the entrance to the bar. She helped them out of their coats and got them settled into two of the club chairs.

  I’ll be back in a minute, she said. With a nice hot pot of tea. She parted the red beads and disappeared into the bar.

  We don’t have to have tea with her, the man said. Do you want to go back up to the room? Are you tired?

  No, said the woman. I’m tired but I’d love some tea. And I find her interesting. She was very good to me last night. And besides, we can’t leave now, while she’s getting the tea.

  The man sighed but said nothing. He was beginning to find Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s attention a little exhausting, not to mention suspect. He looked around the lobby. The large celebratory party was entering the grand dining room.

  His wife appeared to be sleeping, slumped back in the deep chair, her head lolling to one side. Her face, bathed in the dim light glowing softly out of the golden sconces on the wall behind them, looked fuller and softer than he had seen it in a very long while. Her cheeks, which had been sunken and gaunt for so long, were actually convex, and he resisted an urge to reach out and touch her for fear of waking or disturbing her.

  Was it possible that she had really been cured? Or changed in some way?

  He must have fallen into a daze for a moment, and then suddenly Livia Pinheiro-Rima was there, gently lowering a large silver tray onto the table. On it was a small brass samovar and three brass cups.

  This is a lovely white Darjeeling, she said. It’s similar to white peony tea from China, but it’s from India. She sat down and filled the cups from the samovar’s spout and placed one before each of them. You can’t tell from these cups, but it’s the most unusual color—a sort of clear chartreuse. She picked up her cup of tea, held it beneath her nose for a moment and closed her eyes, and then took a sip. She opened her eyes and returned the cup to the table. It’s heaven, she said. Not heavenly—no. Actual heaven. Try it, she said to the man. You must sip it, like a bird. She nodded at the woman. Is she sleeping? she whispered.

  Yes, said the man. She’s exhausted.

  Poor dear, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I was really worried, the night you arrived. There seemed to be hardly anything left to her! But you know, she looks better than she did. Of course, women’s lib and all that nonsense not-withstanding, any woman feels inordinately better wearing a dress. Especially a Balenciaga.

  She likes the dress, the man said. She won’t take it off.

  Of course she won’t, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. It will keep her alive, that dress: She’ll gain some weight and fill it out and look like Romy Schneider.

  She thinks she’s been cured, the man said.

  I’m not asleep, the woman said. She opened her eyes and then leaned forward and picked up the little cup of tea. So it’s heaven, is it?

  It is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. But taste it. I doubt you’ll agree.

  Why do you say that?

  Because I think your spectrum is rather narrow.

  My spectrum? What do you mean?

  Your capacity to enjoy and appreciate life.

  And I suppose your spectrum is wide?

  In fact it is, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Despite my great age. Or perhaps because of it.

  The woman lifted the cup of tea to her lips and sipped.

  It’s odd, she said, but I like it. She took another sip and then returned the cup to the table.

  No one said anything for a moment and then Livia Pinheiro-Rima softly clapped her hands together and said, So! It was quite a day for you, I imagine. I want to hear all about it.

  Really? said the woman. That’s odd.

  But of course I do, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Why would it be odd?

  Because it’s really none of your business, is it? The woman said this kindly, without a trace of malice, and for a moment neither the man nor Livia Pinheiro-Rima responded. Then Livia Pinheiro-Rima smiled. She leaned forward and took one of the woman’s hands into her own, and then rested her other hand on top of it, as if she were making a hand sandwich. The man was surprised to see that his wife did not withdraw her hand but allowed it rest between Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s hands.

  Oh, my dear, she said. I wasn’t attacking you. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your soul has spilled into mine. Of course it concerns me. She held the woman’s hand between her own and stared intently at her.

  Perhaps she is the healer, the man thought. She has some power. Even he felt it.

  After a moment, the woman withdrew her hand from between Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s hands and stood up.

  I’m tired, she said. I’m going up to the room to take a nap. It’s been a tiring day. Exhausting, in
fact. I’m sure my husband will tell you all about it.

  Do you want me to come up with you? the man asked his wife.

  No, she said. Stay here with your friend. She walked, a bit unsteadily, through the crowded field of tables and chairs and up the steps to the elevator, where she could no longer be seen.

  After a moment Livia Pinheiro-Rima said, She’s overwrought, poor thing.

  Should I go up to her? asked the man.

  No. Drink your tea. Sit quietly. Talk, or don’t, as you please.

  The man picked up his cup and took several sips of the tea and then replaced the cup on the table.

  The man closed his eyes. He could sense Livia Pinheiro-Rima sitting across from him, waiting.

  Do you know the Norwegian? he asked. The businessman who’s always lurking about here in his suit?

  Yes, of course, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I know everyone. But he’s Dutch. What about him?

  I slept in his bed last night, said the man.

  Did you?

  Yes, said the man. I did. I got mugged last night. Mugged and robbed.

  What an exciting night you had: violence and romance. Tell me all about it.

  It wasn’t romance, said the man.

  I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me. Start at the beginning. With Adam and Eve in the garden.

  The man told her what happened the night before. How he had been mugged in the toilet of the restaurant. How the businessman had rescued him and brought him back to the hotel.

  Wasn’t that nice of him? said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. To clean you up and put you to bed. I’d give anything to be cleaned up and put to bed. So you slept with him?

  Yes, said the man.

  I meant did you fuck with him, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Pardon my French.

  No! said the man. I’m not gay.

  Oh, come, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Everyone’s at least a little homosexual. And I’d say you’re more than a little. I’ve thought that from the moment I first saw you.

  How?

  The timid way you entered the bar and the way you looked around, as if you were lost, or didn’t belong.