What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  I didn’t feel either of those things, said the man. And I believe straight men can feel lost or timid.

  They can, but they exhibit it differently. And being lost and not belonging are two very different things. Except perhaps for gay men. And women, too, of course.

  You’re crazy, the man said. He picked up his cup and saw that it was empty. He held it out toward Livia Pinheiro-Rima, who took it and filled it from the samovar. The samovar was old-fashioned; it had an ornate silver spigot with a flower-shaped handle that twisted open and closed. She returned the cup to him and watched him sip from it.

  After a moment the man said, She thinks she’s cured.

  Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. So you’ve told me. And so has she. She told me that last night when I brought her her supper. It was quite beautiful.

  Beautiful?

  Yes, beautiful. The terrorful kind of beauty.

  But she can’t be cured. It’s impossible.

  Of course it’s possible. Why wouldn’t it be possible?

  Well, medical science, for one thing, said the man.

  Medical science has failed her. So it doesn’t really figure in anymore, does it?

  I suppose not. For her. But for me—

  But this isn’t about you.

  So you think I should encourage her? Pretend I believe it?

  Yes, of course. What would be the point in contradicting her?

  I don’t know, said the man. We’ve always been honest with each other.

  That sounds rather dreary, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.

  You think honesty is dreary?

  No. Honesty itself is fine—but my God! Not all the time! Honesty can be very unkind. And damaging. And that’s at the best of times. You have got to do everything possible to smooth the way for your wife. Whatever that way is. And that is for her to decide, not you. That is your job now.

  Then why did you taunt her?

  Because I’m not you. You have your job and I have mine.

  What’s your job?

  Don’t you worry about my job, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.

  I’m not worried, said the man. I just wondered.

  Wondering, worrying—call it whatever you like. You should return to your wife. Enough time has passed so it will not seem you are running after her.

  We saw the child today, the man said.

  What do you mean by the child?

  The baby that we have come here to adopt.

  Well, then, isn’t it your baby? Your son, your daughter?

  It’s a boy, said the man. A son.

  The child, a boy, a son—how vague you are. Don’t you have a name for him?

  Maybe. We were thinking Simon. But we wanted to wait, to see him first, before we decided.

  And now you have seen him. Is he Simon?

  Yes, said the man. I think he is.

  Is it a family name?

  Simon? No.

  Then why Simon?

  Because it’s unadorned. So simple. You know—Simple Simon.

  Met a pie man going to the fair. But I hope you know that Simon wasn’t simple in the way that means uncomplicated. He was simple in the dim-witted way.

  Are you sure?

  I’m very sure.

  Well, you’ve ruined that name for us. The man stood up. Thank you for the tea.

  You’re welcome. And don’t listen to me. Name him Simon if you like. It’s a lovely name. It is unadorned. And it’s very good to have names that alternate vowels and consonants. They have a solidness, an equilibrium that other names lack. Like Livia.

  Well, said the man. We’ll keep all this in mind.

  Go up to your wife. But don’t pretend I have driven you away. I know I amuse you. And comfort you, perhaps.

  The man found that he was too tired to formulate a response to this claim. So he merely leaned down and kissed Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s cheek, and then left her sitting there alone with the samovar and the tea that was heaven.

  The room was dark and his wife lay asleep on the bed, on top of the coverlet. She had not closed the drapes and so the dark winter light from outside made it possible to see. He stood for a while in the center of the room, watching his wife. Why did he always think she was feigning sleep? Because it was a way of displacing him, keeping him out. Once, not long after they had been married, he dreamed that he was pregnant, and could feel the baby growing inside him, oddly enough not in his belly, but higher up, near his chest, in his lungs. And the next day she had told him that she was pregnant, and he felt certain that that knowledge had passed between them while they were sleeping. So at one point sleep had connected, rather than separated, them.

  That was the first, and most heartbreaking, of their several failed pregnancies, and the only one that he had mysteriously intuited.

  He drew the curtains and undressed in the dark and lay down beside his wife on the bed. He lay as close as he could to her without actually touching her.

  The woman awoke in utter darkness. For a moment she did not know where she was, and then she remembered. Her husband was holding her, pressed tightly against her. They were both lying on top of the coverlet. It was cold in the room except for the sliver of warmth spread between them; perhaps it was the chill that had drawn them together.

  She lay very still and felt her husband holding her. Obviously in sleep her body had tolerated or perhaps enjoyed his intimate proximity, but now that she was awake it chafed her. She tried to lie still and fall back into the comfort and warmth of his embrace, but something had changed, and she unclasped his hands from the girdle they had formed around her waist and shifted slightly away from him. He woke, and quickly sat up, as if there were some sort of emergency—a fire, a sick child, a call to arms. He sat there for a moment and then reached out and found the lamp switch in the darkness and turned it on. He looked back over his shoulder at her and said, I was holding you.

  What?

  Just now—while we were sleeping—I was holding you.

  She looked at him curiously and stood up. She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  He heard the pipes squeal as she opened the faucets and then the water crashing into the bathtub. She must have filled the tub completely, because the sound of the water went on for quite some time. Then it stopped. He waited a moment, until he was sure she had lowered herself into the tub, and then knocked on the bathroom door.

  Yes? she called.

  May I come in?

  Of course, she said.

  He pushed open the door and entered the steamy bathroom. She was lying in the huge tub, the water covering everything but her head, which she chin-lifted out of the water, like a child in a swimming class.

  He sat down on the closed toilet. Sitting there, behind her, he felt like a shrink. Some of his best time—his most intensely alive moments—had been spent lying on his analyst’s couch, revealing to the unseen presence behind him the secret truths about himself. This was a good setup for analysis, he thought, for surely lying naked in a tub of warm water could only foster a greater feeling of safety, and a subsequent ability to uncover and speak the truth. For a moment he wished, or wanted, his wife to start talking, putting words to all the things that were either misunderstood or unsaid. But she said nothing. The only sound was the water gently moving to accommodate her slight body.

  Neither of them said anything for a few minutes and then she slightly raised herself out of the water and turned her head around to see him. She looked at him for a moment and then turned away as her body sank back into the tub.

  You don’t need to use the toilet?

  No, he said.

  Oh, she said. Then why . . .

  Why what?

  Why did you come in?

  To be with you, he said. To talk to you.

  Oh, she said. About something in particular?

  Yes, he said. About the baby. About Simon.

  Simon? You’ve decided?

  Yes, he said.

  Oh, she said. And then, after a moment, I
don’t think he’s a Simon.

  Then who is he?

  An abandoned, unwanted baby.

  I want him. You don’t want him?

  No. To be honest. That’s why I was how I was—I realized right away I didn’t want him.

  But you did want him. And he’s ours. So why don’t you want him now?

  I’ve changed. When I thought I was going to die I wanted him for you. But something . . . amazing has happened.

  You’re still going to die, he thought. He had his eyes closed but he heard the disturbance of the water and knew that she must have moved her body or touched it.

  My whole body feels different, she said. It is at peace with itself. And if this miracle happened, why can’t another?

  What do you mean?

  I mean perhaps I can get pregnant. Perhaps we don’t have to adopt a baby. Perhaps we can have our own baby.

  Simon is our own baby.

  He may be your own baby, but he is not my own baby.

  You know that you cannot have a baby. You’ve had a hysterectomy.

  I said a miracle. I said it would be a miracle.

  Oh, so you want two miracles now? We’re getting greedy.

  But don’t you see? Every time a miracle happens, the chances for another miracle to happen increase exponentially.

  The man said nothing. He watched as she took a bar of soap from the grotto in the tiled wall, dunked it into the bathwater, and began to vigorously suds her arms and legs. This was unusual, for since her illness she always handled her body with extreme tenderness, often wincing when she touched herself.

  Do you really think you’ve been cured?

  I do.

  It just seems unlikely.

  Well, of course it’s unlikely! She turned to face him and flung a lacy trail of suds across the pink bathroom floor. But unlikely things happen, don’t they? Why are you so resistant to the idea?

  I don’t know, he said. I’m sorry.

  It’s because you don’t want a distraction. You want to focus on that baby. That’s all you think about now. Not me. You want me gone.

  That’s not true, he said. You know it’s not true. I think of you all the time. I was holding you, just before, in bed.

  You already told me that. Why do you keep mentioning it?

  Because it means something.

  What?

  It means our bodies still want each other. Belong together.

  Holding me while we’re asleep doesn’t mean anything. Dogs—those dogs that pull sleds in the snow—they hold each other. They burrow into the snow and hold each other tight.

  I don’t think that’s true, the man said. They sleep in the snow, yes, but not together. Each dog sleeps alone. I remember that from The Call of the Wild.

  He stood up and for a moment he felt horribly dizzy, as if he might faint, so he reached out and held on to the sink, steadying himself.

  The woman turned and looked at him. Are you all right?

  After a moment he said, Yes. Just dizzy. And hungry. I’m going down to the bar to get something to eat. Do you want to join me?

  No.

  Should I bring you something back?

  I’d like some yoghurt, she said. I don’t suppose you could find some?

  I’ll try, he said. There’s a market around the corner. Anything else?

  Oh, there’s lots I want.

  Anything that I might be able to get you?

  No, she said. There is nothing that I want that you could get me. Besides the yoghurt.

  Are you sure? he asked. I might surprise you.

  Well, I’d like a perfectly ripe peach and an orchid and some balsam incense and a kitten. I think I might be truly happy if I had those things. With me in the bathtub. Well, maybe not the kitten.

  So you’re sending me on a treasure hunt. Shall I also bring you a goose that lays golden eggs?

  I’d like that very much, she said. Can you imagine how lovely they would be? Golden goose eggs? So warm. I wouldn’t sell them. No. I’d put them up, inside myself, where it’s empty now. Golden eggs. I’m sure I’d have a baby then. A beautiful, golden baby.

  Lárus was not tending the bar. His absence surprised the man, who, although he knew it was impossible, believed that Lárus never left the bar.

  The present bartender was an alarmingly blond woman who wore a tuxedo that fit her with a punishing tightness. She appeared to be unhappy about this, or something else.

  A very attractive older couple—seventies, the man thought—sat at the far end of the bar. They were both elegantly and impeccably dressed—the man in a tuxedo and the woman in a long, fitted dress of midnight-blue silk covered by a little jewel-encrusted bolero jacket. She wore a small velvet hat the same color as her dress; a black veil lifted away from her face and perched atop the hat. She held an unlit cigarette in her gloved hand; the man leaned close and whispered avidly into her ear.

  The man sat down near the door and when the bartender approached him, brandishing a cocktail napkin, he proudly told her which three small plates he would like to have. And schnapps.

  The elegant couple left the bar while the man ate his motley supper. They spoke French, and seemed to be in very high spirits, and the man had the feeling they were going out to some glamorous and splendid event—a first night at the opera, a banquet in honor of a visiting dignitary. But could such an event be happening anywhere in this dreary and frozen little city? As far as the man knew there was no opera house or art museum, no cathedral, no palace, no casino, and he had a wild urge to get up and follow the couple.

  After they had left he asked the bartender if there was an opera house in the city, for he felt sure that was the glamorous couple’s destination. But the bartender seemed not to understand him, or at least the words opera house, so he asked about a theater and she said yes, and then, Amour? and the man, supposing that she was alluding to the romance of opera, nodded enthusiastically, and the bartender smiled and hastened behind the upholstered door and returned a moment later with a small piece of pink paper which featured a black-and-white photograph of a woman with enormous breasts above the following words:

  XXX Cine Paris Eros XXX

  19 Kujanpääntie

  50% réduction

  avec ce billet

  toujours ouvert

  “cum anytime”

  When the man had finished his meal he left the hotel and ventured around the corner to the little market. The large window that looked out onto the street was completely fogged over, and a long leather strip encrusted with silver bells jangled as he opened the door. Inside it was very bare and bright, and he was disappointed to find the market was the type where everything is stored on shelves behind the counter, and one must ask the shopkeeper to fetch the desired items. What an absurd arrangement, the man thought. He remembered that in the drugstore of the puritanical New England town he grew up in, the pornographic magazines were kept behind the counter, in a rack with their covers obscured, and just the names visible, so that one was forced to ask the druggist or his matronly wife for Playboy or Penthouse or Oui. In his boyhood he could not imagine anyone ever being brazen enough to do that, and so felt his first inkling of the amazing power of sex.

  Another reason he was remembering the drugstore of his youth: the shopkeeper was wearing a white jacket with a Nehru collar, identical to the one that Mr. Pasternak, his hometown pharmacist, had worn. This costume, and the brilliant fluorescent lighting that antiseptically illuminated the white linoleum floor and counter, made the market feel more like a clinic, a place where things more delicate and dangerous than the purchase of groceries occurred. The man wished he could turn around and leave the store to avoid the inevitable humiliation of trying to purchase any of the things his wife wanted in this intimate way, but he decided to embolden himself.

  Good evening, he said, as he approached the counter, which was unnervingly bare, except for a very old-fashioned cash register, as if a medical operation might possibly be performed upon it.
/>   The shopkeeper nodded in acknowledgment of the man’s greeting.

  Do you have yoghurt? the man asked. And then, deciding that an imperative would be more effective than a question, he said, I would like some yoghurt.

  Plain or fruit? Big or small?

  Big, said the man. Fruit.

  With Gummi?

  Gummi?

  Candy bear, said the shopkeeper.

  Oh, said the man. No. No Gummi.

  The shopkeeper nodded and disappeared back into the aisles of shelves behind the counter. He returned after a moment and placed a large glass bottle of deep purple yoghurt on the counter, equidistant between himself and the man, and said, You want many things?

  No, said the man. Just a few. Do you have a peach?

  In tin, said the shopkeeper. You want?

  No, said the man. The kitten and the orchid, of course, were out of the question, but the man wondered if he might venture to ask about the balsam incense. What a triumph it would be to return with that! It would be almost as precious as the golden-egg-laying goose.

  Do you have any incense? Balsam, if you have it.

  Balsam?

  Fir, said the man. Pine. Christmas tree. Tannenbaum. He raised his index fingers in the air and outlined the kind of Christmas tree a child first learns to draw.

  No, said the shopkeeper. We have no tree.

  No, no, said the man. Not a tree. The smell of the tree. Incense. Or a candle. But with a smell. He sniffed vehemently several times.

  Ah, yes. I know now. The shopkeeper once again disappeared into the shelves and returned with a small packet of tissues, which he balanced carefully atop the jar of yoghurt. Paperinenäliina, yoghurt. More?

  No, said the man. Nothing more.

  When he returned to the hotel room his wife was sleeping. He decided not to wake her. He drew back the thick drape and placed the jar of yoghurt on the windowsill, close to the frozen windowpane, and then pulled the drapes together again. He thought about getting in bed beside his wife and trying to fall asleep, but he knew he was not ready to sleep. He felt unusually awake and wondered if the drug the businessman had given him the night before had been tranquilizing him all day and had finally worn off.