What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  The woman took a breath but pulled her hands away. Where are we? she said.

  You are at Brother Emmanuel’s, said their hostess. You are safe here. Everyone is safe here. It is a good, safe place.

  We wanted to go to the orphanage, said the man. I suppose the taxi driver made a mistake.

  I don’t think there has been a mistake, said their hostess. She rose to her feet but placed one of her hands on the woman’s shoulder. We’ve been expecting you. Someone called us from the hotel and told us you would be here.

  Who?

  I don’t know who it was. A woman. They often telephone us when someone from the hotel is coming here. It is not unusual. Will you please wait here? Just for a moment, I promise you. She left the room and slid the large wooden door shut behind her.

  I think a mistake has been made, said the man. The taxi driver made a mistake and brought us here instead of to the orphanage.

  But why? Why would the taxi take us here? Didn’t you tell them—

  Yes, said the man. It’s the language, I suppose. The concierge misunderstood. Perhaps the words are similar—orphanage and . . . what did she say he was?

  Some kind of kook, said the woman.

  It’s just a mistake, said the man. Don’t worry. We’ll call a taxi from here and go directly to the orphanage.

  The woman nodded but said nothing. She sat with both feet planted firmly on the floor and her hands clutched in her lap. Her face was turned away from the man, toward the table in the center of the room. She watched the fish languidly revolve in the bowl. The man shifted closer to her along the settee and attempted to separate her clutched hands, but she said, Please don’t touch me, in an odd voice, deep and choked with pain or tension.

  Just wait a moment, he said. Just wait until that woman comes back. There’s nothing we can do without her.

  The woman keeled forward so her head was bowed above her lap. She put her hands on top of her head and seemed to want to pull her head closer to her body, roll herself up into something small and discardable.

  The man tried to unwind her body but then remembered that she had told him not to touch her so he let her be.

  Please, he said. Please try to collect yourself. Please, for my sake. I can’t—

  You can’t what? the woman asked him. You can’t bear this? You can’t bear me?

  No, said the man. Why do you always . . . no! Please, what do you want? Just tell me what you want.

  Before the woman could answer they both suddenly became aware of another presence in the room, even though they had not heard the panel door slide open. They turned and saw a man standing midway between the door, which was closed, and their sofa. He looked rather young and was very tall and thin. Perhaps because his head was bald (or shaved), his skull and the bones and cartilage of his face seemed unnervingly apparent, as if his skin were one size too small and were being stretched to a preternatural smoothness by the bones beneath it. His eyes were dark and intense; his nose was aquiline verging on hawk-like, and his mouth was small, his lips very pale. He wore a black floor-length tunic that was tightly fitted above the waist, emphasizing the slenderness of his upper body. It buttoned diagonally across his chest, from the right shoulder to the left hip, with gold vermeil buttons.

  Suddenly the parrot, which had been quietly sulking on one of its perches, fluttered its large wings and called out an ecstatic greeting. It leaped up and clutched itself against the bars of the cage and battered the air with its impotent wings.

  Brother Emmanuel walked quickly toward the cage and touched the bird with a finger. Requiescat in pace, Artemis, he said, and the bird made another, deeper, less avian sound, almost like a sigh, and returned to its perch.

  Brother Emmanuel then turned away from the cage and faced the two people on the sofa. He looked at them as if he was only now seeing them, and they both looked at him, and for a moment time suspended itself, and nothing moved, except for the fish circling the bowl and the tiny insistent flakes of snow falling gently outside every window. And the ticking gears in the gold clock.

  The strange moment passed, and Brother Emmanuel said, I understand there has been a mistake.

  Well, yes, said the man. Perhaps—

  We are supposed to be at the orphanage, said the woman. This isn’t the orphanage. She said this accusingly, as if Brother Emmanuel had somehow suggested it was, or was trying to duplicitously pass it off as an orphanage.

  No, said Brother Emmanuel. You are correct. This is not an orphanage. And yet you are here. Something has brought you here. I am Brother Emmanuel.

  The taxi driver, the man said. I suppose he misunderstood. Could you perhaps call a taxi for us?

  Of course, said Brother Emmanuel. If that is what you wish. But does it not occur to you that perhaps you are meant to be here? That no mistake was made?

  No, said the man. That had not occurred to me.

  And you? Brother Emmanuel looked at the woman.

  She was watching the snow fall outside the window and seemed not to hear him.

  Brother Emmanuel waited. He stood very still and looked intently at the woman. Finally, she turned away from the window and looked directly at him. A log in the fireplace collapsed and sent a shower of chittering sparks up the chimney. The sudden commotion in the fire made the man flinch, but neither Brother Emmanuel nor the woman seemed to notice it.

  Am I meant to be here? the woman asked.

  Brother Emmanuel said nothing.

  What is it you do here? Or pretend to do?

  Brother Emmanuel smiled almost imperceptibly. You’re very angry, aren’t you?

  Of course I’m angry, said the woman. We are not where we are supposed to be. We have been taken to the wrong place. Either mistakenly or maliciously, I don’t know, and I don’t care. We are in the wrong place!

  This is my home, said Brother Emmanuel. It is never the wrong place. No one comes here by accident, or is misplaced here. Remember that. One moment, and I will have my helpmate call you a taxi. It is not terribly far to the orphanage. You will be there in no time at all.

  The man and the woman said nothing to each other in the taxi on their way to the orphanage. The sky was no longer night-dark, but it remained completely covered with low, densely opaque clouds. They sat close to the doors on either side of the car and left an expanse of seat empty between them, and both watched out their separate windows at the white fields passing by.

  The taxi was driven by the same man who had brought them to Brother Emmanuel’s, but no one alluded to this prior journey they had made together. The taxi retraced its original route back into the town, through the narrow streets, past the hotel, and then crossed over a bridge that spanned a frozen river into countryside that mirrored that on the city’s opposite flank. They traveled about a mile in this direction and then the taxi pulled off the road and stopped in front of a two-story building that looked like a school. Its large windows were symmetrically arranged across its façade, which was covered in yellowish plaster that was, in several places, peeling away in large strips, revealing a wall of cinder blocks.

  The driver turned around and said, Orphanage, and pointed at the building. The man leaned forward and gave money to the driver and then got out of the taxi, but the woman remained seated inside, so he walked around to the other side of the car and opened the door.

  Let’s go, he said. We’re here.

  The woman looked up at him and said, I’m a little afraid.

  Afraid? he asked. Of what?

  I don’t know, she said.

  We’re finally here, the man said. It’s not the time to be afraid. It’s the time to be happy. Come, he said, and held out his hand.

  She turned and looked at him. What if . . . she began, but then stopped.

  What if what? the man asked.

  She shook her head. Nothing, she said. She did not take his hand but lifted herself out of the car and stood beside him. The man shut the door of the car and the taxi drove away. They both stood and wat
ched it disappear down the road, back toward the town, as if it were deserting them.

  Well, said the man. Shall we go in? He held out his hand and the woman paused for a moment, regarding it, as if she was not sure what his presentation of it meant.

  Take my hand, he said. Please.

  She reached out her hand and grasped his, and then they walked up to the front doors of the building, on which was spelled out in those cheap adhesive letters that are bought one by one in a hardware store:

  ST. BARNABAS ORPHANAGE

  There did not appear to be a bell or a buzzer so the man rapped on the frosted glass panel of the door.

  They’ll never hear that, the woman said, and knocked loudly on the wooden part of the door, which was almost immediately opened by a woman wearing a white nurse’s uniform. She also wore white shoes, and a white paper cap was bobby-pinned to her obviously dyed red hair.

  Hello, she said. She opened the door wider and stood aside and the man and the woman entered, finding themselves in a large foyer with a floor covered with linoleum tiles in a checkered pattern of red and beige. Two staircases, one on either side of the room, rose up to the second floor, where a gallery connected them.

  You speak English? the nurse asked.

  Yes, said the man. We do.

  Welcome to St. Barnabas, said the nurse. May I help you?

  We had an appointment, said the man. At ten o’clock this morning, and I’m afraid we’re late.

  We were taken to the wrong place, said the woman. It was the fault of the cabdriver. We got here as quickly as we could.

  Of course, said the nurse. There is no need to worry. Perhaps you will sit here and I will see if Doctor Ludjekins can see you now. She indicated one of two pew-like wooden benches built into the wall on either side of the front door.

  The man and the woman sat down on the bench and watched the nurse disappear through a door between the two staircases.

  After about five minutes the nurse reappeared. She held her hands clasped in front of her breast and shook them a little, in a gesture of supplication. I am so sorry, she said. But Doctor Ludjekins is not here any longer. He will be back tomorrow, and I am sure he will be happy to see you then. You come back tomorrow?

  Of course, said the man. He stood up. What time tomorrow?

  Perhaps the time of your original appointment, said the nurse. I think that would be nice.

  The woman had remained seated on the bench with her hands still tightly clasped in her lap.

  Can we see the child? she asked. Our child?

  The child? asked the nurse.

  Yes, said the woman. The child. The baby we have come here to adopt.

  Oh, said the nurse. Forgive me. I misunderstood. No, I am afraid you cannot. It is only with Doctor Ludjekins that you can see her.

  Him, said the woman.

  Him?

  Yes, him, said the woman. The child we are adopting is a boy. Not a girl.

  Of course, said the nurse. I am sorry. I don’t understand. Doctor Ludjekins, tomorrow, will help you, I am sure. I can be of no help today. I am sorry.

  No, thank you, said the man. You’ve been very helpful. We will come back tomorrow.

  Why can’t we see our baby? asked the woman. She stood up. We have come so far—

  Darling, it’s all right, said the man. Tomorrow. We’ll see him tomorrow. One more day. Would you call us a taxi? he asked the nurse.

  Of course, said the nurse. Where do you go?

  To the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel, said the man.

  Of course, said the nurse. I will call now. A taxi will come in any minute. She turned away from them and hastened back through the doors.

  For a moment neither the man nor the woman said anything. The man took a few steps across the foyer, carefully only stepping on red tiles. This made him remember his antic upon the snow-covered station platform the previous night, and he wondered why in moments of high stress he elected to move in these childish ways. He stopped his hopping journey across the foyer when he heard his wife speaking behind him. He turned back toward her but kept both feet on red tiles.

  You didn’t support me, she said. You never support me.

  What? he asked.

  When I asked to see him. You didn’t support me. I’m sure if you had supported me, we could have seen him. She would have showed him to us.

  I don’t think so, said the man. She said only the doctor could show him to us—

  I know that’s what she said. But it doesn’t mean anything. If you had supported me, if you had told her we had to see him, if you had given her some money—

  Money?

  Yes: money. You don’t understand how anything works! If you had given her some money, a few kopecks or schillings or whatever it’s called here, I’m sure she would have brought us to him.

  We’ll see him tomorrow, said the man.

  The woman sighed. She pushed open the door and left the building, allowing the door to shut behind her.

  The man stood there for a moment, regarding the closed door. He could see his wife’s shadow figure, standing just beyond the smoky glass. He realized he still had his feet ridiculously splayed on separate red tiles and slid them back together.

  When they returned to their hotel room the woman, exhausted from their travels and travails, once again stripped down to her silken underwear and got into bed.

  Don’t you want some lunch? the man asked.

  No, the woman said. I just want to sleep.

  I’m hungry, the man said. I’m going down to the restaurant. Should I bring you back something? You’ve got to eat.

  I’m not hungry. Just go. She drew the gold coverlet up over her face. The man stood there for a moment, as if there was something else he could do, or say, but he could think of nothing, so he went down to the lobby.

  The restaurant was closed. A chain hung across the open doorway from which depended a small sign that said CLOSE. The man looked into the vast, empty space. The lights were all turned off and the room was almost dark, although it was only the middle of the afternoon.

  He walked back across the lobby to the reception desk, behind which there now stood an older man with a shiny bald head and a walrus mustache wearing the same sort of vaguely militaristic uniform as the young woman who had greeted them upon their arrival and striking the same sort of impassive, unseeing attitude. The man realized it was less than twenty-four hours since they had arrived, and yet it seemed they had spent days—months, years—in this place.

  Good afternoon, the man said.

  Good afternoon, said the concierge. May I help you?

  I was hoping I might eat some lunch, said the man. But it appears the restaurant is closed.

  Indeed it is. Lunch is never served in the restaurant on weekends. Only breakfast and dinner.

  Perhaps the man had lost track of the days, but he was fairly sure it was not yet the weekend.

  So there is nowhere I can get something to eat?

  There are several excellent restaurants in the vicinity, said the concierge. Some may still be serving lunch, although it is late. Or if you don’t wish to venture out, a limited menu of cold dishes is offered at all times in the bar.

  Thank you, said the man. I will try my luck there.

  Lárus stood in his usual position behind the bar, and a young Japanese couple occupied the center of the bar, where the man had sat the night before. So he sat down at the far end, in Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s place.

  Lárus walked slowly toward him. Good afternoon, he said.

  Good afternoon, the man said.

  Would you like the schnapps, or something else?

  The man had not intended to start drinking so early, but then he remembered it was already dark outside, and for all intents and purposes the day was over, since it had never really begun. He told Lárus that yes, he would like a schnapps. Please.

  Lárus poured him a schnapps, set it before him.

  Is it possible to get something to eat? as
ked the man. I’m very hungry.

  Of course, said Lárus. He reached below the bar and placed a small red leatherette-bound volume in front of the man. The name of the hotel was stamped upon its cover in gold. Inside, a folded piece of paper was restrained with a gold tasseled cord. Four words appeared in a centered column on the first page:

  Snacks

  Закуски

  Bocadillos

  Grickalice

  The man turned the page and the menu was repeated, once again in various languages. The options, at least in English, were:

  Hard Eggs with Sauce

  Cold Fish Croquette

  Pickle Relish

  Small Meat Sandwich

  Salad of Potato and Ham

  Lárus waited patiently while the man studied the menu.

  The eggs, please, the man told him. And the meat sandwich, and the potato salad.

  Would you like ham meat or potted meat in your sandwich?

  What kind of meat is the potted meat? asked the man.

  Potted, said Lárus.

  Yes, I know. But what kind? What kind of animal?

  Oh, said Lárus. Many, perhaps.

  I’ll have ham, said the man.

  Ham meat?

  Yes. Please.

  Very well. Lárus held out his hand and the man returned the menu to him. Lárus replaced it beneath the bar and then unfurled a linen napkin in front of the man and set a place there with a pewter charger. He disappeared through a small door padded in a quilted pattern with green vinyl or leather. The man looked across the bar at the Japanese couple, who were staring at him. They were both very beautiful, with their small clean faces and dark shining hair. Could they be brother and sister? The man smiled at them, but they looked quickly away from him.

  The man picked up his glass of schnapps and sipped from it. He loved this schnapps; it was like nothing he had ever tasted. He wondered if he could buy a bottle of it and take it home with him. Home seemed a long time ago, and far away. The comfort of thinking of home seemed almost illicit, like the comfort or pleasure that comes from picking at a scab, or the thrill of pornography. But nevertheless the man pictured their faraway home, their snug apartment, full of books and paintings and old rugs and quilts. And the tiny guest room that had been transformed into a nursery the first time the woman was pregnant, and had been empty, with the door closed, ever since.