The woman said nothing. She sighed and turned back toward the wall.
The man got out of the bed. He once again fitted the duvet snugly around his wife. He knelt down beside the bed and rested his arms upon it with his hands clenched, as if he were praying.
Please come with me, he said. I beg you.
He reached out and touched her, tried to turn her gently away from the wall, but her body was tense and impossible to move.
Come with me to get the baby. I beg you. And then you can come back here, and stay here, or do whatever you like.
Go have a baby with another woman. That’s what you should do. You always wanted your own baby. That’s the only reason you fucked me.
Please don’t say these things. We have . . . we have always been kind to each other. Can’t we at least keep that?
She turned back toward him. Exactly! she exclaimed. Kindness! How I hate it! I never wanted kindness. Especially not from you.
What did you want from me?
What a question! How can you ask it?
The man said nothing.
Love! said the woman. I wanted love! She began to cry.
Of course I loved you. Love you. Kindness is a part of love.
It’s got nothing to do with love, the woman said. Kindness—what a horrible word!—is what we give to those we don’t love. Can’t love. We’re kind to those we don’t love for that very reason. That’s where kindness comes in—when there isn’t love.
The man stood up, unbalanced. He reached out and steadied himself by holding on to the chair, which creaked a little from the pressure he placed upon it. For a moment he thought it might collapse, but it did not. It was an old chair, well made and strong. He pushed it over and kicked it, so that it skidded across the floor until it reached the circular rag rug in the center of the room.
The woman looked at the chair. It lay there on its side, as if it had fainted or collapsed.
I’m sorry, she said. I don’t wish to blame you. You always did what you could. I know that.
But it wasn’t enough, the man said.
It’s not the amount. It’s the thing itself. It wasn’t what I wanted, or needed.
Why didn’t you tell me? How was I to know?
She reached out her hand, and when he did not take it, she turned it over, palm up, and shook it. He reached out his own hand and held hers. She pulled it gently so he was forced to sit down beside her on the bed. She turned toward him, curling around him, and let their joined hands fall into his lap. Her head was slightly behind him, so he could not see her face when she began to speak.
Everything feels different when you’re dying. Words mean different things, or nothing at all. It’s why I shouldn’t talk to you. I wish I could make you understand. It’s got nothing to do with how I feel about you. Or felt about you. So please don’t ask me these questions.
She stopped talking. After a moment she squeezed his hand. Do you understand? she asked. Even a little?
Yes, he said.
Thank you. Thank you for understanding.
A little, he said.
Yes, she said. A little. Go and get the baby. I know you want it and I think it is yours. Please go now. I’m tired.
It’s not it, said the man. It’s him. He’s Simon. He waited, but the woman said nothing. He stood up. I will come back tomorrow.
Please don’t, she said. Please. I beg you.
I will leave now only if I can come back tomorrow.
She sighed. She turned away from him and faced the wall, faced the roosters and bugles and sheaves of wheat.
It was early evening when he returned to the hotel but it felt like the middle of the night. It had been dark for hours. He stood on the sidewalk and watched the taxi slowly drive away.
The night was very still and quiet. The cruel wind that usually blew through the streets had momentarily subsided. In fact, nothing moved; there were no cars or people anywhere in sight. The street looked like an opera set just as the curtain is going up and no one has entered. Perhaps he thought of opera because he could hear, faintly, the barcarole from The Tales of Hoffmann being played on the piano inside the lobby.
It was so cold standing there that he felt the skin on his face might crack, so he turned away from the street and pushed himself through the revolving door. Once he was inside the lobby he took off his gloves and held both his hands against his face, covering his eyes, like someone crying.
In fact he was crying, but that was not why he had covered his eyes. He stood like that, clasping his face, listening to the music. He and his wife had seen a production of Hoffmann at the Met on one of their very first dates. After the second intermission, the curtain rose on the scene set in Venice, and in the golden gloom a gondola floated miraculously from the wings to the center of the stage and the man had felt so exhilarated by the sublimity of the moment he had reached out involuntarily for the woman’s hand and held it, thrillingly, during the entire act. It was the first time he could remember touching her.
When the barcarole ended, he took his hands away from his face. He looked across the lobby, which seemed to be filled with a fine smoky mist, which may have been caused by the pressure his hands had placed upon his eyes, for as he looked it disappeared. Livia Pinheiro-Rima was seated at the piano, wearing a black toga-like gown that revealed her white bony shoulders. Something glittered on her head—a little sequined fascinator. She looked around the room—only a few people sat in the lobby: two men, each sitting alone, and a party of two men and a woman seated together—and saw the man standing by the door. She looked at him curiously, as if she did not recognize him, and then she leaned down and opened a little spangled bag and extracted a matchbox and a cigarette. She flicked the cigarette into the air and caught it neatly in her mouth, and then struck a match, lit the cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled a plume of smoke toward the dark distant ceiling.
She put the cigarette down and struck a few chords and then picked it up and took another drag, which she similarly exhaled.
It’s very lonely, you know, performing solo like this. It’s like a tree that falls in a forest when there’s no one there. I know there are a few of you here, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you that you don’t form a critical mass. I’m supposed to be singing Brecht tonight but really, haven’t we all had enough Brecht? I mean there’s nothing like him, no one else touches him, but nevertheless, it’s a bit exhausting after a while, isn’t it? All that flaying and flensing of the soul. But if anyone here does want to hear Brecht, stand up and set yourself on fire. Good. This next song I’m going to sing, since we’re renouncing Brecht, is from Noël Coward’s musical Ace of Clubs. I understudied the role of Pinkie Leroy, officially played by Pat Kirkwood, who was a real darling but having a terrible time. She had just returned from a treacherous year in Hollywood, starring in a wartime picture with Van Johnson. The film studio wanted to slim her down and gave her some pills that affected her thyroid and pituitary and lots of other glands as well, and she ended up spending several months in a sanatorium somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Well, when Pat finally got back to London, more dead than alive, Noël took pity on the poor thing and wrote the role of Pinkie for her, but her glands were still vacillating and so I went on for her almost every night. Enough: “Why Does Love Get in the Way?”
When Livia Pinheiro-Rima had finished singing the song she stood up and said that she’d be taking a short break. She walked over to where the man was still standing just inside the revolving door.
What’s the matter? she said.
I’m fine, said the man. I’m just tired.
Well, come with me to the bar and we’ll have a drink. You obviously need one. Come. She took his arm and led him across the lobby, through the beaded curtain, and into the bar. A person of indeterminate gender sat at the far end of the bar in the seat usually occupied by Livia Pinheiro-Rima, so she pushed the man onto a stool near the door and sat down beside him.
Of course he’s never here when you
need him, she said. Lárus! she called, and a moment later the padded door swung open and Lárus appeared.
We’ll each have a double, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
Good evening, said Lárus.
Good evening, said the man.
Good evening, Lárus said again, this time directly to Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
Oh, you great big fool, don’t play that game with me! Good evening. Hyvää iltaa. Buona sera, bonsoir. Happy now? Two doubles, if you please.
Lárus placed a small paper napkin on the bar top in front of each of them and then reached down below the bar for glasses, which he placed carefully upon the napkins. Then he turned and took the schnapps bottle and carefully poured an equal amount into each glass. He twisted the silver antlered stopper back into the bottle, returned it to its spot, and then assumed his usual place, leaning against the wall in front of them.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima picked up her glass and said, To your health and happiness. The man raised his glass and touched it to hers. He said, To yours. They each took a sip of the schnapps and then put down their glasses.
Have you had a day anything like the kind of day you look as if you had? Livia Pinheiro-Rima asked the man.
Yes, he said. I have.
Well, I’m sorry to hear it.
Oh, and by the way, the man said. Lárus told me that the railroad bridge you told me had collapsed hasn’t collapsed.
Well, we all can’t agree about everything.
He said there isn’t even a bridge there. And that in any case bridges never collapse here.
It sounds as if you and Lárus had quite the conversation. I didn’t know he was capable of anything like that.
I like Lárus, the man said. We have an understanding.
An understanding of what?
Of life, I suppose. So am I really stranded here? Or did you just make that up?
Whether you are stranded here is not a question I would presume to answer.
Did you lie about the bridge?
I don’t like that word: lie.
Yes, but a bridge is either up or down.
I assume you’re speaking of London Bridge. And it proves my point perfectly: London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. It isn’t up or down. It’s falling. But I find all this talk of bridges boring. Tell me about your difficult day. Where did you go? Who did you see?
Isn’t that Elizabeth Bishop?
Yes. How did you know?
I read poetry, said the man. Or did. In college.
Well, Lota de Macedo Soares was my second cousin.
Are you Brazilian?
My mother was Brazilian. My father was English. But we digress. You were about to tell me about your day. How is your wife? Where is your wife? Where is your baby? For a man with a family you seem remarkably alone.
I am alone, said the man. My wife is at Brother Emmanuel’s. The baby is at the orphanage. I may never see either of them again.
I’m sure you exaggerate. Why do you say that?
My wife forbids me to see her again. And they won’t give me the baby unless my wife is with me.
Listen, I thought the baby had a name. Didn’t we establish that?
Yes. Simon. But it’s not going to be my baby so it isn’t Simon.
Of course it’s Simon. He’s your baby and he’s Simon. They can’t keep him from you just because your wife is indisposed. That’s absurd. It’s criminal. People here make a great show of following rules and regulations but they could really not care less. You’ve just got to speak to them very plainly and show them that you mean business.
The nurse I spoke with made of point of saying they wouldn’t release the baby if my wife wasn’t there.
Of course she did. But that doesn’t mean she won’t give him to you without your wife. If your wife won’t go with you, I will. I know how to handle these people. We’ll tell them I’m your mother. Little Simon’s grandmother. And they’ll hand him right over, mark my words.
I suppose it’s worth trying.
Of course it is! Unless you don’t really want the baby. Is that why you’re prevaricating?
I’m not prevaricating! I want the baby. Simon. I’ve done everything I could possibly do to get him.
Then you shall have him. Of course that’s a horrible way to put it—no one ever has a child. Most of the misery in the world comes from people thinking that they do, that they own their children when all they’re doing is taking care of them until they can take ownership of themselves. And some children do it very early on—I’ve known six-year-olds that are completely self-possessed and autonomous. But I’m sure Simon needs some looking after. So we will go and get him tomorrow.
Thank you, said the man.
There’s no need to thank me. It’s an adventure. I love adventures and they don’t come along very often. I can’t remember the last time I had an adventure . . . oh, wait: I can, but I shan’t tell you about it because it ended somewhat disastrously through no fault of my own, but nevertheless it wasn’t a particularly happy adventure. And I’m sure our adventure tomorrow will be very happy.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea, the man said.
You’ll never manage to get poor little Simon out of there by yourself.
Perhaps you’re right, said the man.
Of course I’m right! There can be no doubt about it. Now you must go to bed. You look exhausted. Have you had your supper?
No, said the man.
Well, you must eat something. Lárus, bring our friend here some of your delicious scrambled eggs. And fry some of those little potatoes along with them. I must return to the piano. Some of us must sing for our suppers.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima drank the schnapps that was left in her glass and slid off her stool. She reached out and touched the man’s cheek, cupped it with her hand for a moment, and looked into his eyes. Then she bent down and kissed him, tenderly, on his lips.
Don’t worry, she told him. Everything will be fine.
Someone had taped a piece of cardboard over the hole in the door, which of course didn’t protect him at all—anyone could easily rip it off and reach inside and open the door, as he had done. He supposed he should ask for another room with a properly locking door, but he realized he did not care very much about this.
He unlocked the door and entered the room. He decided not to turn any of the lights on, for he did not want to see the room. He did not mind being in the room, but he did not want to see it. He entered the dark bathroom and felt his way to the toilet. Then he went to the sink and felt for the taps. Even though he had a pretty good idea of where his toothbrush and toothpaste were, he decided to forgo brushing his teeth. He splashed cold water on his face—the cold water here was, unsurprisingly, very cold—and then he felt for the towel on the rack and patted his face dry.
He returned to the bedroom and stood for a moment in the darkness, trying to think if there was anything he should do, or anything he had forgotten. There was such a lot to remember. He wanted to remember something he should do so he could do it and subsequently feel that he was in control of his life, or at least that he was not forgetting to do all the things he should do, but he could think of nothing. Of course he had not brushed his teeth and that was something he should do but it was fine not to do that as long as he was aware of not doing it.
He took off his clothes but left on his long silk underwear and lay down on the bed, on top of the coverlet. He reached inside his underpants and held his penis in his hand. He did not stroke it but simply held it, gently squeezing it now and then. Holding his penis like this made him feel safe, and self-contained, like an electrical extension cord that is coiled up and then plugged back into itself.
The woman could not sleep. A deep restlessness had come over her. It was as if her body were pumped full of some ricocheting current. It hurt not to move her arms and legs. And something was shaking in the air. Or the air itself was shaking. She sat up and saw that a woman was sitting on the chair the man had kicked over. The
shaking air made it difficult to see her, but the woman knew it was not Darlene. This woman sat on the chair sideways and had turned and rested her arms along its back. She was positioned to look at the woman but her gaze had no direction. And then the woman recognized her—she was the woman who had appeared in her hotel room the night they arrived.
Hello, she said.
The woman in the chair said nothing. She leaned toward the woman in the bed as if she wanted the woman to see her more clearly, and then she pushed herself off the chair and rose backward through the window. The drapes had been opened.
The woman fell back upon the bed. The wind that had pulled the woman out the window had somehow pushed her as well. She tried to lie still but the coursing energy had returned to her body. She quickly got out of bed and went to the window. The moon had appeared and was casting a phosphorescent light over the fields of snow. She realized that she was sweating, so she opened the window wide and leaned out as far as she was able into the chilling air. Suddenly something within the woman folded open, succumbing to a constant pressure, and, feeling freed, she turned away from the window and crossed the room. She opened the door and walked down the hallway, down the stairs and through the room with the alabaster lamp and the tête-à-tête, down through the dark house and into the vestibule, where she paused for a moment, trying to pull the warmth and color of the house into her, and then she opened the door and stepped out onto the dirt-covered steps. The row of sentinel fir trees shook themselves in the wind and beckoned, but she stepped down onto the drive and walked around the side of the house, moving through the snow like a ship, out into the vast field she had seen from her window. As she walked she could feel the restlessness leave her body, and she grew tired and finally had to lie down in the snow. It was only then that she felt the cold, painfully biting at her, and she tried to stand up, but she could not, the snow held her to it, and once she gave up her struggle she felt herself growing warm, deliciously warm, and she realized that someone had kindly swaddled her in Nanny’s Russian black bear coat.
What Happens at Night Page 18
