What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  I am afraid we must add the cost of replacing the door to your tariff.

  Fine, said the man. Do that. It’s a very cheap door so it can’t cost very much.

  On the contrary, said the concierge. It is a very valuable door. In fact, one might call it irreplaceable.

  Irreplaceable? You’re kidding me. It’s hollow.

  Just because something is hollow does not mean it is without value.

  I’m not saying it’s without value. I’m just saying if it cost ten dollars I’d be surprised.

  All the doors in the hotel were salvaged from the original Khedivial Opera House in Cairo. They are UNESCO-certified artifacts.

  I don’t believe you, said the man. Why would an opera house have all these doors? And the last thing they’d be is hollow.

  For the first, said the concierge, the Khedivial Opera House was all boxes. Each box had two doors. For the second, every door in an opera house is hollow. It is what keeps the sound alive.

  Thank you for elucidating me, said the man. But now I must go to Brother Emmanuel’s and collect my wife. Can you arrange for a taxi to take me there?

  Certainly. You wish to leave—

  Now, said the man. Or as soon as possible. Will you call me when the taxi is here?

  Yes, of course, said the concierge.

  Darlene opened the door at Brother Emmanuel’s almost as soon as the man knocked on it. She told the man he was expected and showed him into the room with the fireplace and the parrot. This morning the fire had not been lit and it was cold in the room. The parrot’s cage was shrouded with a black leather cover, which appeared to be snugly custom-fitted.

  Darlene told the man that Brother Emmanuel would be with him shortly and left the room, sliding the two doors closed behind her.

  The man stood near the cage and listened for the bird. He thought of the total darkness inside the cage and imagined the bird sitting inside, alive, like the beating heart in the dark cavity of his chest. He listened carefully but there was no sound from the bird. The man was disappointed. He wanted some proof that the bird was inside the cage, and alive. How did it breathe? The leather must be invisibly perforated. Tiny pinpricks through which air, but not light, could travel.

  The man became aware of a presence behind him and turned to see Brother Emmanuel standing just inside the opened doors. He was once again dressed in the black cassock that buttoned diagonally across his chest. Its skirt fell all the way to the floor. He stood there, motionless, gazing at the man.

  The sudden and silent appearance of Brother Emmanuel unnerved the man, and in an effort to regain his sense of control he asked if the bird was in the cage.

  Yes, Brother Emmanuel said. He is sleeping.

  How do you know? asked the man.

  How do I know he is sleeping?

  Yes, said the man. I hear nothing.

  Of course. He makes no noise when he sleeps.

  Shouldn’t you take the cover off? It is daytime. Shouldn’t he be awake?

  On most days, yes, said Brother Emmanuel. But Artemis slept poorly last night. In fact, we all did. So we are letting him rest this morning. You see, he is an extraordinary creature. He always senses when there is distress in the house. It upsets him.

  And last night there was distress in the house?

  Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. I’m afraid there was. But this morning things are calm. Everything is fine. God has been good to us.

  I’m glad to hear it, said the man. I have come to get my wife. We must go to the orphanage today and take possession of our baby.

  Brother Emmanuel said nothing for a moment, and in the quiet the man thought that he did perhaps hear a faint rustling sound from within the cage.

  It seems an odd way to express it, said Brother Emmanuel.

  Express what?

  To take possession of a baby. As if it was something you had purchased.

  In a way we have, said the man. It was difficult for us to adopt a baby. Because of our age. And my wife’s health.

  So you bought one? That now you must take possession of?

  Yes, said the man. Exactly. And I cannot do that alone. I need my wife. Would you get her?

  Sit down, said Brother Emmanuel. He stepped farther into the room and indicated the long sofa that faced the fireplace.

  Why? asked the man.

  Please, sit down. I need to speak with you. It is necessary for us to speak before you see you wife.

  Why? Has something happened?

  Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. Something has happened. Please sit down. Once again he indicated the sofa.

  The man sat at the end of the sofa nearest to him. Brother Emmanuel came close and knelt on the floor before the man.

  You wife has made a decision, Brother Emmanuel began. It was a difficult decision for her to make, a decision that cost her much anguish. If you love her, it is a decision you must respect. You must know that she arrived at this decision herself. That is why you must respect it.

  What did she decide?

  Your wife has decided to stay here.

  For how long? asked the man. We are expected at the orphanage this afternoon.

  You don’t understand, said Brother Emmanuel. She has decided not to leave here.

  You’re right, said the man. I don’t understand.

  She has decided this is where she wants to pass.

  Pass? asked the man. You mean die?

  I, myself, do not use that term.

  I do, said the man. And it is impossible. She is my wife. She must come back with me. She must come home.

  Home, yes, said Brother Emmanuel. Exactly. But she now feels that this is her home. It is very clear to her, very strong, this feeling. She is at peace. It is good.

  It is not good, said the man. And you have no right to keep her here. If she thinks that this is her home it is because you have brainwashed her.

  Brother Emmanuel abruptly stood up and stepped back, away from the man. It might be said that he recoiled.

  You have insulted me, he said.

  I don’t care, said the man. He, too, stood. Where is my wife? I demand to see my wife. Now.

  Your wife has decided it would be better—easier—if you do not see each other. She feels that her life with you has ended. I beg you to respect her wishes. You must let her go.

  I will not let her go, said the man. I will not leave here until I have seen her. He grabbed the iron poker that stood along with a brush and little shovel in a tray beside the fireplace. He pointed it at Brother Emmanuel. It shook because his hand was shaking.

  If I have to, I will kill you.

  Brother Emmanuel reached out and held the end of the poker that was pointed at him. His hand was steady and the poker stopped shaking. The two men stood for a moment, thus connected, the poker unwavering between them. Then the man relaxed his shaking grasp on the poker and Brother Emmanuel gently pulled it away. He returned it to its home on the hearth. He wiped his hands together, because his end of the poker was the one that was used to maneuver the logs in the fire and was consequently dirty.

  Put away the things of this world, he said to the man. Put away your sword. Put away your fear, and your anger.

  I cannot, said the man. Could you?

  I understand, said Brother Emmanuel. I am asking too much. Your wife is asking too much. There is a limit to what you can understand, and give.

  Yes, said the man. There is a limit.

  And you cannot leave her now? You cannot give her this?

  No, said the man. What would anything mean if I left her now? And isn’t there something she must give me?

  What is it you want from her?

  I want for her to not turn away from me. If you have told her that is what she must do, I don’t blame you. I know you are trying to help her. But you must respect me as well as her.

  But she is dying, said Brother Emmanuel.

  I know that, said the man. That is why I must see her. Surely you can understand that.

  Br
other Emmanuel reached out and laid his hand upon the man’s shoulder, and although he tried not to, the man felt in the sudden warmth a stilling gentleness. He remembered Livia Pinheiro-Rima patting his back in the bar of the hotel the night they arrived. Had he always been touched like this, or had something changed about him, had a need become apparent, that had elicited all this coddling? This contact happens all the time, he realized, but we’ve all become inured to it. That is why we long for sex and are excited by violence: because that is the only touch we can still feel, the only touch that penetrates our armor.

  Come with me, said Brother Emmanuel. The man followed him out of the room. Darlene stood in the vestibule with a sense of permanence that made it seem as if she might never leave it. Brother Emmanuel climbed one of the staircases and opened a door on the second floor. The square room they entered had no windows, only two doors in each of its walls. All these doors were closed and so the room was dark. The only light came from an alabaster chandelier that hung on tasseled ropes from the ceiling, glowing dimly like a moon seen through a scrim of clouds. In the exact center of the room, directly beneath the alabaster chandelier, bathed by its lunar glow, stood an S-shaped tête-à-tête love seat upholstered in green silk. Brother Emmanuel opened one of the doors on the opposite wall, which revealed a narrow and steep staircase. He turned back to look at the man.

  She is up here, he said. Follow me.

  But the man did not move. He felt safe there. He wished Brother Emmanuel would shut the door he had opened so they could be alone in the closed box of the room. All he wanted was to fall to the floor and sleep.

  Brother Emmanuel closed the door and stepped back into the room. He looked at the man. Are you frightened? he asked.

  The man was frightened, but had not realized it until Brother Emmanuel asked his question.

  Yes, he said.

  Of course you are afraid, Brother Emmanuel said, but you must be strong now. You have strength and she does not.

  But she is strong, said the man. She has always been stronger than me, and less afraid.

  That is no longer true, said Brother Emmanuel. May I embrace you?

  Yes, said the man. Please.

  Brother Emmanuel pulled the man close and held him against his chest—one hand on the man’s back, and one hand holding the man’s head against his tunic, pressing his cheek into the gold buttons that crossed his chest.

  The man could feel Brother Emmanuel’s heart beat in his chest.

  After a moment Brother Emmanuel gently pushed the man from him and stepped away. Come with me, he said. Do not think too much. In fact, do not think at all.

  He turned and opened the door, and this time the man followed him up the dark narrow staircase to the third floor, emerging into a hallway lined with several doors, each of them open except for one. The open doors revealed small bedrooms, each one simply and identically furnished with a bed and dresser and chair. A duvet was coiled into a roll at the foot of every bed. A small circular rag rug lay in the center of every floor.

  The room with the closed door was at the far end of the hall and Brother Emmanuel walked deliberately toward it, and the man followed behind him. Brother Emmanuel opened the door without knocking and entered the room. It was completely dark. Brother Emmanuel reached down and turned on a lamp that sat on a small table beside the bed. The man entered the room and saw that his wife was lying in the bed. Her face was turned toward the wall and the sudden light and men entering the room did not appear to disturb her, for she did not move or in any other way acknowledge these alterations to her environment.

  Brother Emmanuel knelt beside the bed and placed both of his hands upon the duvet. He moved his hands several times, sliding them far apart and then drawing them back together, as if he were attempting to gather something up at the center of the woman’s body. And then he lifted his hands and let them hover for a moment over her body, the way pianists lift their hands above the keyboard and let them hang there, momentarily, as the last notes fade away. But Brother Emmanuel’s hands fell gently back upon the duvet that covered the woman’s body and rested there for a moment. Then he lifted one of his hands and reached and touched the woman’s face. He placed all five of his fingers softly upon her cheek.

  Your husband is here, he said. He has come to see you.

  For a moment the man thought his wife might be dead. She had not moved during Brother Emmanuel’s interference and did not respond when he touched her face. Surely she must be dead to allow herself to be touched in this extraordinary way. But after a moment she shifted in the bed, turned her head, and looked directly at the man. He could not read her expression. She had none.

  I will leave you, said Brother Emmanuel. He moved a chair away from the wall and positioned it beside the bed and then left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  This all happened more quickly than the man had expected. He had not thought he would be left alone with his wife, not without some period of reacquaintance.

  The man felt himself shiver. I’m cold, he said.

  The woman said nothing and her face did not alter but she slid closer to the wall and lifted the far edge of the duvet.

  Get in, she said.

  It was odd that she offered such an invitation to intimacy as a command.

  The man sat on the chair and took off his boots and then got into bed with his wife. For a moment he lay on his back beside her, not touching, but then he turned and gathered her in his arms and held her carefully against him.

  What are you doing? he whispered. Why are you here? Why won’t you come with me?

  I’m tired, said the woman.

  Yes, I know, said the man. But still—

  I have decided to stay here, said the woman. Please accept that.

  But why here? Why not with me?

  Because, said the woman. This is where I want to be now.

  Do you still think he has cured you?

  The woman made a sound like laughter, but it was mirthless and brutal. Yes, she said. In fact, I do. But he says he hasn’t. It’s just my luck, isn’t it? Finding a healer who says he hasn’t healed me. Only I could do that.

  But maybe—maybe what you sense, or feel, is a premonition.

  Yes, she said. Perhaps.

  It’s possible, he said. It’s your body after all. You could know better than him.

  The woman said nothing. She reached out and touched the wallpaper, a nonsensical design of sheaves of wheat interspersed with bugles and roosters.

  What does it mean? the man asked.

  What?

  The wallpaper, he said. He reached past her and touched it himself. The wheat, and roosters, and bugles. What does it mean?

  It means life, she said. They are all symbols of life.

  Roosters?

  Yes, she said. Of course. Cock-a-doodle-doo. They alone start the world again every morning. Or so they think.

  He held her a little bit closer to him.

  And the bugles wake us up as well, he said.

  Yes, she said.

  And the wheat?

  The staff of life.

  Of course, he said. I forgot.

  They were quiet for a moment, both regarding the wallpaper, as if there might be a flaw in the pattern: a rooster with two heads or a bugle facing left instead of right. The man liked the idea of patterns, that once something proportionately replicable was established it could go on and on repeating itself, spreading like kudzu or cancer.

  I know you want to stay here, he said. But will you come with me?

  Where?

  To get the baby, he said. I need you to get the baby.

  Why? They saw me. I was there.

  I know, he said. But they won’t give him to me unless you are there.

  Of course they will. You just have to say—something. That I have a cold. That I have caught a chill. They can hardly doubt that, in this frozen place.

  You need to be there with me, he said. They have made that very clear.

 
; The woman sighed. She pulled away from the man and shifted closer to the wall.

  The man let her go. He felt the cold space open between them.

  I don’t think you ever wanted a baby, he said.

  The woman touched the wallpaper again, but this time she pressed her palm flatly against the wall. As the man watched, the pale skin on her hand blushed, and he realized that she was bracing herself.

  Then, suddenly, the woman pushed against the wall, turned toward him, and sat up in a single contorted motion. She reached her hand out and hit him, several times, tried to beat his arms and his chest, but she had so little strength that the gesture had only symbolic effect. After a moment the man took her hand and held it, and then, when he felt her fury had abated, released it. She rubbed the hand with which she had beaten him with her other hand, as if it had been hurt, and looked at him as if the fault was his.

  How could you say that! she cried. How dare you! There is nothing I wanted more than that. Nothing! My God! Don’t you remember what I did for a child? All the injections, the pain, the relentless fucking. That’s what killed me, I think, trying to have a baby! How dare you say that!

  I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean—I only meant—forget it. Please, lie down. I’m sorry. Lie down.

  She stared at him for a moment and then lay down on the bed and pulled the duvet around her. She lay on her back, the duvet clutched with both hands beneath her throat, gazing up at the ceiling.

  Would you go? she asked. Please go. Can’t we just—

  What?

  Let go, she said.

  Let go of what?

  Of us, she said. Let go of us. I’ve let go of you. Won’t you let go of me?

  No, the man said. Why would I let go of you? I don’t understand you anymore.

  I know, said the woman. You don’t. So let me go. Please.

  I can’t let you go. He reached out to touch her but then thought that he’d better not. He pulled the duvet up and tucked it more snugly around her. It was warm in the bed. If her body had lost vigor and strength, it had not lost heat. Perhaps that was the last thing to go.

  Fine, said the woman. Don’t let me go, then, but at least leave me alone.

  I won’t, said the man. I can’t.