What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima laughed. That’s fine, she said. That’s just right. She slunk off the stool and stood, holding her glass of champagne before her, like a lighted sparkler. It was still effervescing.

  He must come back when he is seventeen, she said. We must all come back. We must hold this child safely in our dreams until we meet again, in seventeen years. And what a fine and handsome youth he shall be, and what a happy childhood will he have had! We ask for God’s blessing upon this boy, ask that he be healthy and happy and wise and full of art and magic. And love. All this we wish for Simon! Godspeed! Mazel tov! Kippaikija!

  After a short while the child began to fret and cry, so the man took him out into the lobby. He laid him down on one of the low round tables and peeled the snowsuit off. Beneath it he wore a pair of red corduroy OshKosh B’gosh overalls and a pink turtleneck shirt patterned with yellow smiley faces. He wore thick black socks on his feet and no shoes. Although the man did not expect the child to be dressed quaintly in some ethnic or national costume, he was a little disappointed by the familiarity of his clothes. The nurse had explained to him that all the clothes the children at the orphanage wore were donated by a Lutheran church in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania.

  He assumed the child needed his diaper changed, but the diaper bag, which contained a dozen eco-friendly diapers and assorted organic emollients and powders and wipes, was up in his room, and the man wanted to attend to his child privately, not in the hotel lobby, as he felt both sentimental about this first intimate interaction with his son and also unsure of his diapering prowess. If it went badly he did not want witnesses.

  The child, though freed from his snowsuit, continued to cry, so the man picked him up and held him gently against his chest, one of his hands palming the child’s small head. He gently rocked himself and the child and to his amazement the child stopped crying and burped quite loudly. Instinctively, the man patted and rubbed his child’s back, and he burped again.

  The man thought this was a very good start and hoped that it boded well. Perhaps it was all instinctive and he would be a natural parent. He sat down in one of the club chairs and held his child. He began to speak quietly to him. He told him who he was and the circumstances of their both being there, in that place, together. How his wife had wanted to be there so that she could love him too. How he would love him double to compensate for his mother’s absence, as if such an absence could ever be compensated for. He held the child close to him and gently circled his hand upon his back, feeling his warmth and softness beneath the layer of OshKosh. He said all he could think of to say to the child, even though he knew the child did not understand him, but nevertheless he wanted it said; he wanted it to have been there, between them, at the very beginning.

  He moved his face close to the child’s head and smelled his scalp and softly pressed his lips against the warm skin covering his fontanel, where he thought he could feel the baby’s brain murmuring. He was glad the child had become his before that portal was irrevocably closed.

  The businessman man knocked on the door of the man’s hotel room. Through the hole in the door—the cardboard had been removed—he could see the soft pink glow of one of the bedside lamps. He knocked again, but there was still no response. He tested the doorknob and, finding it was unlocked, opened it and stepped into the room. He stood just inside the battered door and observed the man and the child sleeping on the bed, which had been pushed against the wall. The pillows had been arranged around the bed’s perimeter in a low soft wall. The man lay beside the child; one of his arms was extended and his hand rested upon the child’s stomach, as if the child were buoyant and the man was keeping him from floating away.

  After a moment the businessman crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed that was not pushed against the wall. His arrival woke neither the man nor the child, so he reached out his arm and gently shook the man’s shoulder.

  The man sat up abruptly, sliding toward the foot of the bed and knocking one of the pillows onto the floor. He stood up and looked toward the door, as if whatever had awakened him might be trying to escape. He did not see the businessman sitting on the bed until he sat back down.

  I’m sorry if I startled you, said the businessman. I didn’t mean to.

  You scared me, said the man. What are you doing in here? He looked down to see that the child was still sleeping. He reached out to touch the baby but then, thinking perhaps it was best not to disturb him, withdrew his hand.

  I assume that’s the kiddie you came here to adopt, said the businessman.

  Yes, said the man. That’s my son. Simon.

  Sleeping like a baby, said the businessman.

  He’s been very good, said the man. He is very good.

  Enjoy it while it lasts. My kiddies were sweet enough until they turned about eight. Then, practically overnight, despicable little shits.

  I’m surprised, with you as their father, it wasn’t much sooner, said the man. He reached out again, and this time he did touch his child.

  Listen to you, said the businessman. Fatherhood is making a man out of you. You picked up a set of balls along with the kiddo.

  What are you doing here? asked the man.

  Dragon Lady told me you were leaving tomorrow morning. She also told me about your wife. I’m sorry. I’m glad things worked out with the kiddie, but I’m sorry about your wife.

  The man said nothing. He had somehow put the death of his wife aside, like a parcel whose delivery had been unsuccessfully attempted and was waiting to be collected with a little pink slip at the post office.

  Are you really leaving in the morning?

  Yes, said the man. What time is it now?

  The businessman pushed back his cuffs and looked at his watch. It’s eleven forty-five, he said. I’m sorry I woke you. But I wanted to say goodbye. And also to say—

  What? asked he man.

  I’m sorry, said the businessman. I wanted to apologize. For all my violence and rudeness. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m a very fucked-up and miserable man. I know it’s no excuse, but—

  Forget it, said the man. Everything was strange and awful here. You were no worse than anything else. In fact, perhaps you were a distraction.

  Oh, don’t get all sentimental. I did rape you, after all.

  You didn’t rape me, said the man.

  Well, I wasn’t very nice to you, was I?

  You weren’t so bad.

  I did take good care of you after you were mugged. I was tender then, wasn’t I?

  Yes, said the man.

  Most of the time I was a prick, though. A mean drunken prick.

  Forget it, said the man. It doesn’t matter. It’s what happens at night.

  The businessman stood up and stared for a moment at the man and the baby on the bed. There’s something calm and soft about you that I like, he said. That you have and I don’t.

  The man said nothing.

  Well, said the businessman, I’ve said what I came to say. I’ll leave you and your son alone now. He’s a handsome little fellow. I’m sure you’ll be one of those pansy dads that children love.

  Fuck you, said the man. Go away.

  You need to get a sense of humor, said the businessman. Along with the balls and the kiddo.

  The businessman stood still for a moment. What happens at night, he said, I like that. He reached down and patted the man’s shoulder, and then he left the room.

  SEVEN

  The man’s alarm seemed to ring moments after the businessman had left the room. Only the fact that he woke up convinced him that he had been asleep. He sat up and quickly looked around to see that his child was lying peacefully on the bed. Breathing, so he was still alive. He could not believe how good the child had been so far; with the exception of his crying and fretting in the bar he had behaved perfectly. Although he didn’t seem to want to look at the man and several times when the man tried to touch the baby’s face he had flinched and turned away.

  But of cour
se he was a stranger and had taken the child out of the only environment he had ever known. Anyone would flinch in such a situation.

  The man woke the baby and fed him a bottle and then changed his diaper. Then he laid him back on the bed and gave him a small stuffed monkey. The child shook it back and forth and flung it off the bed. The man was amazed at how far his son could throw a stuffed monkey. Perhaps he would grow up to be a baseball player. He retrieved the monkey from the floor and gave him back to Simon—he was trying to think of the baby as Simon and not the child or the baby, but referring to him in this familiar way seemed almost presumptuous, like using tu instead of vous when speaking French.

  The game of throwing the monkey continued while the man dressed and packed up the luggage. He looked around the room to see if anything remained, for he had a bad habit of leaving things behind in hotel rooms. There was nothing beneath the bed, but behind one of the drapes, sitting on the windowsill, he found the jar of yoghurt he had bought for his wife. Its proximity to the window had kept it chilled. He thought about taking it with him, but decided to leave it there, well hidden behind the drape.

  In the lobby he saw Livia Pinheiro-Rima sitting on one of the club chairs, wrapped in her bearskin coat. A silver pot of tea or coffee, two cups and saucers, two plates, and a silver platter of pastries sat on the table before her.

  She stood up and waved, as if she were not the only person sitting in the lobby. Come and sit down, she called. Give my grandson to me and sit down and have some coffee and franzbrötchen! You’ve got plenty of time before the train. Come and sit!

  The man joined Livia Pinheiro-Rima and watched while she poured coffee into one of the cups. She added milk and sugar without asking him if he wanted them, and even stirred it briskly with a little golden demitasse spoon before placing it on the table before the man.

  Give me the little angel, she said, and reached out her hands. You’ve got him in that contraption backwards, you know.

  I do?

  Yes. He should be facing forwards so he can see where he’s going.

  That seems very odd, said the man. Don’t I want him facing me?

  No. He’ll have plenty of time to look at you. Let him see the world.

  Well, there’s plenty of time for that too, said the man. God willing. My main object now is to get him safely home. Are you sure?

  Of course I’m sure. Hand him over.

  The man extracted the baby from the papoose and handed him to Livia Pinheiro-Rima, who cradled him against the thick glossy fur of her coat.

  The man helped himself to one of the pastries on the plate and drank his coffee. He had stopped taking milk or sugar in his coffee many years ago, when he graduated from college and felt it necessary to adopt some new customs and habits that seemed more adult, and had forgotten how appealing it was served in this fashion. When he had finished his coffee and the pastry he took two more of the strudels off the plate and put one in each of his coat pockets. They were delicious.

  Then he stood. We should go, he announced. I don’t want to miss the train. Will you hold him while I settle my account? I asked them to call for a taxi last night, but I don’t suppose it’s here. And I don’t know how I’ll get the luggage out to the street.

  Oh, don’t start fretting now, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. You’ve a very long journey in front of you. Everything will be fine and if it isn’t fine it will be bearable.

  In the taxi the child sat on Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s lap and reached up to touch her face, which she bent over and dangled above him. The man was beginning to worry that the child preferred Livia Pinheiro-Rima to him and was eager to separate them before she could establish a maternal bond. Secretly he hoped it was the bearskin coat and not Livia Pinheiro-Rima herself that the child liked.

  He doesn’t do that with me, he said.

  What? Livia Pinheiro-Rima looked away from the child and over at him.

  He doesn’t respond to me like that. He doesn’t really seem to notice me. And he flinches a bit when I try to touch his face.

  Then don’t try to touch his face. Give the little lad a chance. Can you imagine how lost and disrupted he must feel? Perhaps I remind Simon of one of the nurses. And perhaps you remind him of the doctor, who gave him shots and stuck thermometers in his bum.

  So you think he’ll like me eventually? asked the man.

  I think he will love you, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. If you relax. Don’t smother him. Just take care of him, and let it evolve slowly. That’s my advice.

  I thought you were a terrible mother, the man said.

  I never said that, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. I was a wonderful mother. I just had recalcitrant children.

  Ha, said the man. And then: Can I ask you a favor?

  Of course.

  I left all my wife’s things at the hotel. I packed everything into her suitcase, which I left in the room. Can you get it and—well, do whatever you want. You can throw it all away or donate it or sell it or keep it. I don’t care.

  Of course, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. There’s a shelter for battered women in Kronskatjen. They can always use women’s clothes.

  Thank you, said the man.

  What are you doing about her?

  What do you mean?

  What are you doing with her body? You didn’t just leave that in the hotel too, did you?

  No, said the man. I left it with Brother Emmanuel.

  You’re just leaving her behind? With her suitcase and her clothes?

  She’s dead, said the man. There is no her to leave. And besides, she wanted to stay there. She felt good there, safe. She will be cremated.

  But what about a funeral?

  Neither of us really cared about things like that.

  Oh, but you should. You must. Even though you don’t care about it now. It isn’t about now. It’s about then. After.

  After doesn’t matter, said the man.

  Oh, but it does, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Of course it matters! I’ve got my funeral all planned. And paid for. I’ve heard too many hair-raising stories of agnostics encountering God on their deathbeds, so I’m not taking any chances. I’ve got a plot with my name on it in the graveyard at Saint Innocent of Irkutsk. And I’ve arranged for a High Mass with all the trimmings: incense, altar boys, a castrati choir, six elephants, and one hundred blind white doves.

  You’re kidding me, said the man.

  I am, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Except about the incense. Sometimes I think you’re not really listening to me. I know that’s the price one pays for talking too much—people stop listening. But I’d rather talk and not be listened to than not talk at all. At least then you’ve gotten it out there.

  What do you mean?

  I mean your words, your thoughts, your ideas. If you don’t utter them, what’s the point? They die with you. But when you utter something, it’s in the world. Who knows what happens to sounds? We think they disappear but it’s just as likely they continue vibrating and float out into the universe and perhaps someone or something will feel that vibration a hundred million years from now. Perhaps they’ll hear exactly what I’m saying to you now.

  That’s a horrible thought, said the man. Imagine the din!

  I think it would be a lovely sound. Like an orchestra, tuning up. I so enjoy that part of a concert. It’s so hopeful. Music itself can be so predictable.

  The man looked out the window. They were passing through the narrow, winding streets of the old town.

  Where are we going? he asked.

  What do you mean, where are we going? We’re going to the train station.

  Are you sure it’s this way? We didn’t come through this part of town when we arrived.

  Of course you did. You just weren’t paying attention. You were exhausted from your journey.

  Yes, said the man. We were. It seems a very long time ago. The taxi slid off the road into a ditch. We had to push it out.

  At this time of year the roads are very much in flux. It’s hard to keep tra
ck of them with all this snow. Each day the plow veers a little off course, and by spring we realize the roads have been shifted across someone’s front garden or into a ditch. We call them haamu tie, a phantom road, a ghost road. It’s very nice in the spring, when the snow finally melts. All the things that have been hidden for so long are revealed. The earth is, quite literally, given back to us. I’m sure it’s why we revere it. People who don’t live in polar regions take the earth for granted. The soil, I mean. We don’t. In fact it’s customary for everyone here to eat a spoonful of dirt on May Day.

  They had by this time passed through the old town and were traveling through a newer part of the city the man had never seen. Before long they pulled up in front of a boxlike building made of steel and glass.

  What’s this? asked the man.

  The train station, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. What do you think?

  This isn’t where we got off the train, said the man. It wasn’t anything like this.

  Of course it was. There’s only one train station. Everything looks different when you first arrive in a strange place.

  But the station we got off at was out in the countryside. It was a tiny little building that was all boarded up. It was nothing like this.

  Oh, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, you fool! You must have gotten off at the way station. The train always pauses there because of some old law. Don’t tell me you got out there!

  Of course we did, said the man. We saw a sign that said Borgarfjaroasysla.

  You didn’t! You fool! How did you manage to get into town from there? It’s miles away. It’s nearer to Kronskatjen than it is to here.

  It wasn’t easy, said the man. But finally, we found a taxi.

  A taxi? At the way station? That’s impossible. You must have dreamt it.

  The man paid the driver and they all got out of the taxi and entered the station, a glass shed with a concrete floor and two tracks divided by a single platform. Apparently it was a terminus because both tracks ended at a concrete embankment.