What Happens at Night

by Peter Cameron

  Don’t just stand there with your mouth agape, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Come sit down. I’ve told the serving wench to bring you some soup. I’m afraid that’s all there is, and we’re lucky there’s that. You know, don’t you, about the trains? The Vaalankurkku Bridge collapsed the other day under the weight of the snow, so no food’s been delivered. I suppose we shall all starve before the winter’s out.

  The man sat down across the table from Livia Pinheiro-Rima. What about the roads? he asked.

  Roads? There are no roads. At least not in the winter. The only way to get into or out of this godforsaken place is the train.

  So we’re all stuck here?

  Until the bridge is repaired. Unless you have a sleigh and a team of reindeer.

  How long will it take? For them to repair the bridge?

  Oh, a few days. Or a few years. One never knows about these things. But in my experience it is always best to take the long view.

  But we have to leave, said the man. My wife and I. And the baby. There must be some way to leave. What if there’s an emergency? Surely there’s a helicopter or something.

  I’m sure there is a helicopter or something, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, but as I have nowhere to go I don’t concern myself with the question of leaving. My questions all have to do with staying. Excuse me but I am going to continue to eat my soup while it is hot.

  Yes, yes, said the man. Please—go ahead.

  Livia Pinheiro-Rima dragged the large silver spoon through the soup. Please, she said. Look away. No one likes to be watched while they are eating soup.

  The man looked past her, out through the steamy window. A dog with only three legs hopped down the middle of the street, bucking in and out of the deep snow.

  The dog disappeared and the serving wench approached with a bowl of steaming soup, which she carefully placed before the man. She laid a spoon swaddled in a white linen napkin beside the bowl. For a moment the man allowed the fragrant steam to rise up and warm his face. It was a dull khaki color and had an odd pungent odor he tried to find aromatic.

  What kind of soup is it? he asked.

  It’s a kind of soup that doesn’t have a name, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. It’s soup made from whatever is at hand—drippings and dregs and peelings. Actually, it does have a name. It’s called garbage soup.

  Garbage? The man put his spoon down.

  Oh, don’t be so American! Garbage isn’t considered dirty here. We throw hardly anything away—it’s impossible to get rid of anything with the land frozen solid most of the year. So garbage is thought of differently here. It’s what remains, what waits to be reused. Literally. Isn’t it delicious?

  It’s good, said the man. But it has a strange flavor.

  And how could it not?

  The man put down his spoon. Despite his attempt to convince himself otherwise, it was not a very nice soup at all.

  You don’t like your soup, do you? asked Livia Pinheiro-Rima.

  No, said the man. The only good thing about it is that it’s warm.

  So eat it up. You’ve got a long chilly walk back to the hotel.

  Is it true about the bridge? I can’t believe we’re stuck here.

  As far as I know it is true, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.

  Everything has gone wrong, the man said.

  Everything?

  Yes, said the man. Everything. Or everything that matters. Matters to me.

  Well, that’s not everything. It’s not even close to everything.

  The man said nothing.

  What’s gone wrong? Tell me. I mean beyond the ordinary things I already know.

  My wife has lost her mind.

  How so?

  She thinks she’s been cured.

  Oh—that. Why are you so opposed to the idea? Don’t you want her cured?

  Of course I do. How can you ask that?

  Because I don’t understand. If your wife thinks that she has been cured, and you want her to be cured, then what’s gone wrong?

  But she hasn’t been cured. She cannot be cured.

  You seem very certain.

  I am.

  And what, other than ignorance, makes you so sure?

  Ignorance of what?

  Oh, it’s not that you don’t know something. It’s that you know nothing.

  And you do? You think that quack has cured my wife of stage-four uterine cancer?

  We’re all quacks, you know. Hardly what we pretend to be.

  Okay, but do you really think this particular quack has cured my wife?

  It’s possible. I’ve witnessed occurrences more miraculous than that. But what’s the point of all this? You wife is either cured or not cured. It all remains to be seen. So what’s the point of debating it now?

  You’re observing from a great distance. It’s different for me.

  Of course it’s different for you. But you asked me what I thought so I told you. Usually when one person asks another person a question it’s because they want to know what that person thinks. They are seeking a vantage point different from their own.

  I’m sorry, said the man. I do value your opinion. It’s just—I don’t know. I’m feeling very discouraged. And tired. And defeated.

  All the more reason for you to eat your soup. It’s a very healthful soup, because it combines so many different ingredients.

  I don’t like the soup, said the man. I don’t want the soup. He tried to push it away from him but the plastic placemat it rested upon prevented him from doing this, and he only succeeded in causing the soup to throw a bit of itself up over the rim of the bowl.

  It’s all become too much for you, I expect, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. The baby, and your wife, and the soup.

  You’re right. It has. Last night I wished she were dead.

  Who? You wife or the baby?

  My wife. The baby’s a boy.

  If everyone I wanted to be dead was dead, it would be a very lonely planet, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Wanting people dead is one thing. Killing them is something else entirely. And now, if you really aren’t going to finish your soup, pass it over here. It’s considered sinful to not eat every drop of this soup.

  Why?

  Because leftover garbage soup is garbage. There’s nothing to do with it except throw it away. And so it must be eaten.

  Can’t it be reheated?

  No. Don’t be ridiculous. Would you like to eat day-old reheated garbage soup?

  No, said the man. But then I didn’t care for it when it was fresh.

  It’s a very American thing, isn’t it—this thinking one should only eat what one likes?

  And it’s a very European thing, isn’t it—this constant disparagement of Americans?

  Touché, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. And now that I, at least, am warm and fortified, shall we venture out into the snow? I assume you’re headed back to the hotel?

  Yes, said the man. And then to the orphanage. I’m meeting my wife there at three o’clock.

  To pick up your baby?

  No. We don’t get to do that until tomorrow. And then we have to stay here for another day, in the hotel. And then we can leave.

  If the bridge is fixed, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. But I suppose you will cross that bridge when you come to it.

  This time no one answered when the man knocked upon the front doors of the orphanage and so he opened them and stepped into the foyer. He could hear some kind of motor running and a baby’s heartrending shrieks. He hoped it was not his—their—baby.

  He sat on one of the pews beside the front door. Where was his wife? Had she gone up already, to see their baby? Or was she even later to arrive than he? He decided he would wait there for five minutes and then decide how best to proceed. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A duct just above the front doors blew hot air down upon him, and he found the baked fragrant warmth of it comforting.

  A nurse was shaking him. It was a different nurse: her blond hair as artificially colored as the other nurse’s had b
een red, and the man wondered at this. Was there perhaps a need, in this dark, cold place, to illuminate one’s life by dyeing one’s hair?

  You sleep so good, the blond nurse said. Like a piece of wood.

  I’m sorry, said the man. He had fallen so deeply asleep so quickly!

  You come to see your little lamb? the nurse asked.

  Lamb?

  Yes, said the nurse. Your baby lamb. Your little lamb cake.

  Yes, said the man. I am here to see my baby lamb cake. Is my wife here? I was supposed to meet her here, at three o’clock.

  Ah, she a true mama! Come back again! Now mama and papa!

  Can I wait for her before we go to see the baby?

  You can wait, yes. But only until sixteen hours. No one sees a baby after sixteen hours. It is forbidden.

  She left the man sitting alone in the vestibule, and the man knew that if he continued to sit there, in the warm draft, he would fall asleep again, so he stood up and opened the doors and stood on the front steps, hoping that this might hasten the arrival of his wife. But after five minutes of waiting outside in the freezing cold he went back inside the vestibule, thinking, She will get here when she gets here; where I wait has nothing to do with it.

  At seven minutes before four o’clock he pressed the button and heard a deep reverberating faraway buzz. After a moment the nurse reappeared. Your wife has come?

  She has not, said the man. I don’t know what’s wrong. But may I go now to see the baby?

  Alone? asked the nurse.

  Yes. Just to see him.

  The nurse looked at her watch, which was pinned to the white cloth covering her bosom. It will only be for minutes, she said.

  I know, said the man. I would just like to see him. To hold him.

  Then we go, said the nurse. Follow me.

  He followed her through the doors, down the hallway, and up the stairs to the second floor. The bucket of water and the mop had been removed but the dead tropical plant remained leaning forlornly against the ceramic tile wall.

  He followed the nurse down the hallway and they entered the room with the ten cribs. It was dark inside and the nurse did not turn on the brutalizing overhead lights.

  They sleep now, she announced. The little lambs.

  The man followed her to his son’s crib. He was once again sitting up. With one hand he held the stuffed alligator against the plastic mattress and with the other hand he was tearing the white fabric teeth out of its mouth.

  Oh, you bad boy, the nurse said. She reached down and jerked the alligator away from the boy and then bopped him on his head with it, a bit harder than the man would have liked. But the child did not seem to be bothered by it. He lifted up his hands, grabbing for the alligator, which the nurse held cruelly just beyond his reach. Then she tossed it into the neighboring crib, which the man could see contained two very small sleeping infants.

  The boy began to cry and continue to grab for the stuffed toy, although it had disappeared. The nurse reached down again and swiftly unbuckled his harness from its leather leash. She picked him up and held him high above the crib and tossed him a few inches into the air and caught him as he fell. The shock of all this stopped, or at least interrupted, his crying. She held him for a moment and then said, Here is your devil lamb.

  The man took the baby from her and held him gently against his chest, the baby’s heart beating against his own. He felt himself shaking a little—he did not know why—and held the baby tighter so he would not drop him. How terrible that would be, if he dropped the baby! They would probably take the baby away from him. Of course they would. You don’t give babies to a man who drops them.

  The baby must have felt he was being clutched too tightly for he began to cry, and then to shriek. It was a horrible sound, and the man held the baby out toward the nurse, hoping she would take him and comfort him, but she stepped away and said, Move him. Bum bum bum. She made an up-and-down gesture with her arms.

  The man tried to jounce the baby in his arm, but he could not get the motion right and he felt as if he were shaking the baby, who wailed louder. But then the proper motion came to him, and he loosened his grip and jounced the baby gently in his arms. Bum, bum, bum, he said, following the nurse’s instructions. After a moment the baby abruptly stopped crying and reached up one of his little hands toward the man’s face. The man lowered his face so that the baby could touch his cheek, his nose, and he could suddenly smell his son, a potent odor of damp wool, spring leaves, and shit. He raised the baby upward and kissed him.

  It is sixteen hours, said the nurse. I am sorry but you must go.

  The man looked at her. One more minute? he asked. Please?

  She looked at her watch again and frowned. Two minutes, she said. And then you must go.

  Yes, said the man. Thank you. He held the baby close against his face and kissed the baby’s warm blond hair. He remained like that, his lips pressed softly against the baby’s warm head, trying in some fantastic way to connect them; he wanted his breath to permeate the baby’s skin and skull and inhabit his brain like a warm breeze enters a room.

  Eventually the nurse held out her arms and said, Give him.

  The man handed her the baby, and she replaced him in the crib. Do not be sad, she said. Tomorrow you come and take him with you. You and your wife. Where is your wife?

  I don’t know, said the man.

  But tomorrow she comes?

  Yes, said the man. Tomorrow she comes.

  Good, said the nurse. Because you cannot take the baby alone.

  I can’t? asked the man.

  No. A baby must have mama and papa. We must see mama; we must see papa.

  She was here yesterday, said the man.

  Yesterday, today, it does not matter. Tomorrow is the time that matters. Of course she comes. How could she not come to receive her child, her baby lamb?

  The woman awoke in what first seemed to be complete silence and darkness, but after a moment she heard the soft pinging of the snow against an unseen window, and slowly the room she was in became less dark.

  She was lying on her back in a bed in a small room.

  She tried to sit up but found that she couldn’t move. I’ve been put in a straightjacket, she thought, but then realized that the bedclothes had just been tucked with immobilizing tightness around her. She wriggled her arms out from beneath them and then pulled them away.

  She sat up. The room seemed less dark now, the few objects revealed like timid animals who had hid themselves at her awakening and were now timidly emerging from their lairs. She got out of the bed and stood in the room, looking around for a lamp or a light switch, but saw neither. It was very cold and her feet were bare on the linoleum floor. She was wearing a long shift-like nightgown that tied with a ribbon around the neck, but the strings were not tied, so the gown slipped off one of her shoulders. She pulled it up and tied a tight, almost-choking bow just below her throat. She stepped toward the window and felt for the split in the curtains and pulled one panel aside. It was completely dark outside and all she could see were kamikaze bits of snow hurling themselves against the glass.

  She was not sure where she was—she seemed somehow untethered from herself and her past, and the strange dark room did not offer an anchor. Was she dead? Except for the chill, it felt quite serene. She stood in the center of the room for a period of time she could not measure, and then she heard a noise somewhere outside the door to the room, and footsteps approaching it. She heard the door open behind her and found herself suddenly standing in a rectangle of dim light that appeared on the linoleum floor. She could feel the person who had opened the door standing a few feet behind her, in the doorway, and was aware of the shadow falling onto her back, and beneath her, onto the floor, a dark unfelt embrace.

  Was it God?

  She turned around to see a man standing in the doorway. Because the light was behind him, at first she could only make out his tall thin silhouette. But then, as if he knew she could not see him, he turne
d slightly, and the light from the hallway fell so that it revealed his face.

  She realized then that it was Brother Emmanuel, but she had not recognized him because he had removed his ecclesiastical costume and was dressed very simply in trousers and a turtleneck sweater.

  Please, get back into your bed, Brother Emmanuel said. It’s cold. He gestured toward the bed and stepped forward, as if he might help her get back into it, but then stepped back again, afraid, it seemed, of getting too close to her, or the bed.

  Only because she was so cold, the woman sat on the bed and carefully drew her legs up from the floor and slid them beneath the bedclothes. Then she lay back and pulled the blankets up around her neck and waited, gazing up at the ceiling, like a child at bedtime. Would Nanny visit her again with supper on a tray?

  She heard a noise and turned to see that Brother Emmanuel was dragging a small wooden chair away from the wall. He placed it in the center of the room, a distance from her bed, and sat down on it. She did not understand why he had not drawn the chair closer to her bed. She waited, thinking that he might sense the inappropriateness of his distance from her and move closer, but he did not, so she surprised herself by saying, Will you come closer?

  Closer? he asked.

  Yes, she said. You’re so far away. I can barely see you. This was true: the only light in the room was the light that fell in from the hallway through the open door, and Brother Emmanuel sat on the far side of that light, in shadow.

  He waited a moment, and then moved the chair nearer to the bed, placing it exactly in the center of the pool of light.

  She looked at Brother Emmanuel carefully for a moment, emboldened by the fact that he was now visible while she was obscured by darkness. She remembered she had come to see him that morning—unless it was longer ago than that; she had no sense of how much time had passed.

  What time is it? she asked.

  About five o’clock, Brother Emmanuel said.

  In the morning?