What Happens at Night
Page 15
No. The evening.
Why am I here? she asked. What happened?
You don’t remember?
No, she said. I remember coming here, and asking to see you, and waiting—
And nothing else?
No, she said. I remember the fire, the fire in the fireplace.
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. I’m not surprised. Fire is elemental. We always remember fire.
But what happened?
You became upset, said Brother Emmanuel. We thought you might harm yourself, so we gave you a sedative. You’ve slept all afternoon. How do you feel?
Cold, she said. I was upset?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. Very. You don’t remember?
The woman tried to think, tried to remember, but the fire in the fireplace was all she could recall: the heat and sound and energy of it, like something alive, something that belonged outdoors, trapped inside the room.
My husband, she said. I was supposed to meet him at the orphanage this afternoon. Has he come here?
No, said Brother Emmanuel.
What must he think? Where can he be?
Darlene left word for him at the hotel. He knows you are here.
Then why didn’t he come?
I don’t know, said Brother Emmanuel. Perhaps there are no taxis. The snow is overpowering today.
The snow, the woman said. How can you stand it? Why do you stay here?
In the summer it is beautiful, said Brother Emmanuel. The days are green and golden, and very long.
Yes, said the woman. But still—why don’t you go away in the winter?
I like the weather here. In the summer and in the winter. For me it is all beautiful.
Are you from here? asked the woman. Or did you come here?
I came here, said Brother Emmanuel. But what does it matter? There is no need for you to understand me. But we must discuss something.
What?
Brother Emmanuel looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. Along with his face they were the only part of him that was exposed, and there was something odd about the way he looked at them, as if they were not his hands but merely a pair of hands he held on his lap.
When he did not speak the woman repeated her question: What?
There has been a misunderstanding, said Brother Emmanuel. You have experienced a delusion.
A delusion?
Yes. If I understand correctly. Did you tell Darlene that you thought I had cured you?
For a moment the woman said nothing. She, too, looked at the hands folded in his lap. They appeared, for a moment, to be lit from within, but perhaps it was just their opalescent paleness.
She thought: Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors, and see all the people . . .
They’re like a church, she said. Your hands.
You are wrong to think that I may have cured you, he said. It is impossible. We have not even begun.
You cannot know, she said.
It has not happened, said Brother Emmanuel. People often think that something has happened when nothing has happened. Their desire for it is so great. The body fools itself.
But what is that—for the body to fool itself? Isn’t that something happening? How can you say that is nothing? How can you know that is not itself a cure?
You must listen to me, said Brother Emmanuel. You must hear me. I know it is difficult, but you must understand. Otherwise nothing can happen.
But something has already happened! You cannot tell me it hasn’t. I feel it! Here, inside me! I know it!
It is only your wanting something to happen that has happened. What I do is not science, but neither is it magic. You must not devalue me. I cannot help you if you have this delusion. And you must not upset yourself again. Please, try to stay calm.
The woman looked back up at the ceiling. She lay quietly for a moment. She thought, If I say nothing, and he says nothing, if we are both silent, nothing can happen. Nothing will change. I will forever be lying in the bed and Brother Emmanuel will forever be sitting in the chair. And the snow will forever be blowing against the window, at least until summer, when the days become very long. And green and golden.
So I am going to die, she said.
We are all going to die. There is no cure for that.
I know that. I don’t want a cure for that. I want a cure for my body. I had a cure for my body, but before it could even begin to work you took it away from me.
What you felt was not a cure.
How do you know? How can you possibly know?
I’m sorry, said Brother Emmanuel. I misspoke. I do not believe that what you felt—or feel—was a cure. At least I do not think it was a cure I had anything to do with.
But why would you say that—even if you don’t think I’m cured by you or anyone else, why would you tell me that? Why wouldn’t you let me believe it?
Because you came here for my help. And I cannot help you if there is a misconception, a misunderstanding between us. It is not something I do alone. We must do it together. So you see, I had to tell you.
The woman looked at Brother Emmanuel for a moment and then turned her face away, toward the wall. She said nothing.
I’m sorry, said Brother Emmanuel. I’m not saying it is hopeless. I’m only saying that to continue, we must be in accordance with each other.
The woman reached out and touched the wallpapered wall. In the darkness she could not make out the pattern, but she could feel it, repeating itself over and over again all around the room.
Brother Emmanuel rose from his chair and stepped near the bed. He reached out and gently put his hand on hers and pulled it away from the wall. He placed his own palm against the woman’s. He held their palms together for a moment, and then placed her hand tenderly upon the counterpane.
May I stay here tonight? the woman asked.
Of course you may. You may stay here as long as you would like.
No, said the woman. I’ll leave in the morning. I promise you. But if I could just stay tonight, I’d be grateful. The cold, and the snow outside—I don’t think I could bear it.
Stay in bed, said Brother Emmanuel. Are you warm enough? Would you like another duvet? A hot water bottle?
I’m fine, said the woman. It’s lovely and warm in this bed. Is it a feather bed?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel.
It’s like sleeping on air. Like floating. Like being dead.
Brother Emmanuel stepped away from the bed. You must be hungry, he said. I will have Darlene bring you some soup.
Brother Emmanuel left the door to the room open, so that the glow from the hallway continued to dimly light the room. The woman lay in bed, waiting for Darlene to bring her some soup. She thought: This is the part of my life when I lie in a strange bed in the middle of nowhere and wait for a woman to bring me soup. It is a part of my life. It may be one of the few remaining parts.
When the man returned to the hotel the clerk at the front desk handed him a small envelope along with his key. The envelope was the size of business card, and inside it was a small piece of paper, folded in half. He unfolded it and read:
Your wife is recovering from an incident of emotional and physical anguish. Because she must rest she will stay the night. If you wish you may come and see her tomorrow morning.
Emmanuel de Mézarnou
Is everything happening fine for you? asked the clerk.
No, said the man. Everything is happening badly.
I’m so sorry. But it is often the way things happen, don’t you agree?
Yes, said the man. I agree. Is there a phone I could use down here?
There is a public phone in the bar. Lárus protects it.
Thank you, said the man. He crossed the lobby and entered the bar. He found Lárus maintaining his stoic vigil. The businessman sat at the far end of the bar with an alarmingly red cocktail placed before him.
Good evening, the man said.
Why, good evening, said the businessman.
Telephone?
Yes. The concierge told me there was a telephone here I might use.
Of course, said Lárus. He bent down and when he rose he was holding a large black Bakelite telephone, the kind the man remembered being in the front hall of the house he grew up in. It sat upon a perpetually gleaming Hitchcock console table. A Windsor chair stood beside the table, guaranteeing that telephone conversations were brief. Other families had white or green or brown telephones hanging on the wall in the kitchen and on tables and desks throughout the house—there were even sleek pink princess telephones in the bedrooms of some girls—but his mother insisted that a family needed but one telephone, and it must be black, and rotary dialed, and reside in the front hall, which was, for some reason the man never understood, unheated. His mother, like so many wealthy New Englanders, was extremely—frighteningly—frugal. What was the point in heating hallways? Hallways were for passing through, not for living. That was why rooms had doors!
The phone Lárus held trailed a very long cord. Lárus placed it on the bar in front of the man and said, You are my guest.
The man had never used a phone provided like this in a bar and all he could think of was scenes in old movies where people in nightclubs had phones on long cords brought to their table. For a brief moment he felt glamorous and consequential. He was aware that both Lárus and the businessman were watching him, but then he realized that he did not know Brother Emmanuel’s number, and he stood for a moment, dumbly holding the receiver, as if it might come to him. But of course it did not. He looked again at the message, but of course the number had not been added to it in the interval since he had last looked. He replaced the receiver and stood there, exposed as the fool he was.
Do you know the phone number for Brother Emmanuel? he asked Lárus.
I have no brother, said Lárus. He is dead.
No, I mean Brother Emmanuel, the healer. He lives in a house not far from here. And I’m sorry about your brother.
He killed himself, said Lárus. How sad it was! He was far better than I.
I’ve got the number.
The man turned to see the businessman reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing a slim leather-bound book. He flipped through its pages. You’d better let me dial, he said. It’s a little tricky.
Thank you. The man held the receiver out, but the businessman did not get up.
Bring it here, he said. For God’s sake!
The man picked up the phone and walked around to the far side of bar where the businessman sat. He set the phone before him and handed him the receiver. The businessman dialed what seemed to be a very long number on the rotary dial and then handed the receiver back to the man. While the phone rang, the man picked up the phone and walked back to the other end of the bar. He did not want to be beside the businessman while he spoke. After five rings the call was answered. A woman’s voice chimed what was no doubt a greeting in the native language.
Good evening, said the man. This is—and here he said his name, and hearing it said like that, he panicked for a moment because he was suddenly not sure it was his name.
Yes, the voice said. This is Darlene.
I received your message. May I speak to my wife? Or to Brother Emmanuel?
Your wife is sleeping. But of course you may speak with Brother Emmanuel. One moment, please.
It seemed a long time—but he really had no idea how long—before he heard Brother Emmanuel’s voice. Good evening, it said.
Good evening, said the man. I received your message. I’m concerned about my wife. May I come and get her now?
It is not right to move her tonight. Come in the morning.
What’s wrong with her? What happened?
She became upset, upset emotionally, but the barrier between her emotional and physical self is so porous that she collapsed. We are taking good care of her. She is sleeping now, and that is good. She should not wake until the morning.
Why? asked the man. What have you done to her? Have you drugged her?
Don’t be alarmed. We gave her a natural remedy to soothe her by allowing her sleep. Sleep is a great healer, perhaps the greatest. We repair our bodies every night while we sleep.
Is she all right? Was whatever happened bad for her?
I think it was good, said Brother Emmanuel. An advancement. A clarification.
An advancement?
You would not understand. Come in the morning, and you may see her.
Brother Emmanuel hung up, and after a moment, so did the man. He pushed the telephone across the bar toward Lárus. Thank you, he said.
Lárus nodded and replaced the telephone somewhere beneath the bar.
Two more, Lárus! said the businessman. You need a drink, I think. Come sit here. He indicated the adjacent barstool.
The man felt too defeated and exhausted to disobey. He sat beside the businessman and they both watched Lárus make their cocktails. It was a Negroni, the man realized. He liked Negronis, but he associated them with summer, with the beach at Misquamicut, Rhode Island, where his mother’s family had what they called a “cottage.”
Lárus approached with two Negronis and placed one in front of each of them. The businessman picked his up and held it out toward the man. May our cocks always be harder than our lives, he said, and touched his glass against the man’s.
The man took a sip of his drink and felt it enter his body, like a magic elixir. He realized he had eaten nothing but the garbage soup all day. I want some food, he said. Do you want some food?
I always want food, said the businessman. He patted the belly that extended rotundly above his belt. He took the man’s hand and held it against his belly, as if he were pregnant and wanted the man to feel his baby kicking.
The man quickly withdrew his hand, but not before he felt the comforting pillowed warmth beneath it. We’d like to order some food, he called to Lárus. Lots of food!
Lárus approached them and the man said, Bring us two of everything. And ham in the sandwiches! The man felt proud that he had not consulted the menu or the businessman regarding their order of food.
Lárus disappeared behind the upholstered door, which swung back and forth a few times after his exit, and when it was still the businessman said, So your wife’s mixed herself up with the holy man.
I don’t think he claims to be holy, said the man. He can just heal people. He says.
That sounds holy to me. Sounds fucking miraculous.
I don’t want to talk about it, said the man. It is what it is. Or perhaps it isn’t what it is. It’s something, and something is good. Something is better than nothing. I mean for her: something is better than nothing for her.
And for you? Is something better than nothing for you?
I don’t know, said the man. It depends what the something is.
So you also have nothing?
I didn’t mean that, said the man. But yes, maybe. Who knows? Do you know what you have?
Yes, said the businessman. I have shit. Shit. Nothing but shit.
Lárus returned and placed a plate of hard-boiled eggs on the bar between them.
We ordered two, said the man. Two orders of everything.
It is two, said Lárus. Count them. I don’t cheat. He disappeared, abruptly, behind the upholstered door.
The man realized that there were many egg halves on the plate: more than he would ever want to eat. He counted them: eleven. An odd number. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong. Had Lárus, perhaps, eaten one? There could be no other explanation.
Have you really got nothing but shit? the man asked.
Yes. I never lie. Why do you think I’m here, in this fucking freezing godforsaken place?
I thought you were here on some sort of business. You don’t live here, do you?
No, said the man, I don’t live here. I’d rather die than live here. I’d rather die a horrible painful death than live here.
Lárus emerged fr
om behind the door with a large tray upon which were several plates. He placed these before the two men and disappeared back behind the door.
Look at this, said the businessman. A feast. A feast of crap. He took two of the fish croquettes and made a sort of fish croquette sandwich with them, a sandwich with no filling, and hungrily bit into it. It took him a moment to chew and swallow all that he had bitten off, and when he had, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. Lárus! he called.
After a moment Lárus emerged from the land behind the upholstered door. Yes?
Two more drinks! said the businessman. He held up his empty glass. Come on, boy—do your job!
The man had not finished his drink, so he picked it up and drank all that was left. He placed it carefully back on the bar because he had a sudden fear that he might break it, that even so much as placing it back upon the surface of the bar might shatter it. But it did not shatter, or break, and the man felt relieved, and proud of himself, and thus emboldened he heard himself cry: Schnapps! I want schnapps! Not this sissy pink drink!
The businessman seemed surprised by this outburst. Yes, schnapps, he said to Lárus. But we’ll have Negronis as well. Won’t we? He turned to the man.
Yes, said the man. We will have schnapps and Negronis. And don’t forget, two of everything on the menu!
Your food is there, said Lárus, nodding to the welter of plates and bowls he had placed on the bar before them.
Ah, said the man. Yes. Thank you, Lárus! Lots to eat and lots to drink!
We shall drink and be merry, said the businessman. We shall drink and eat and fuck.
Lárus placed a small glass of schnapps before each of them. The man picked his up and swallowed it in one gulp. He pounded his empty glass down upon the bar. Another! he cried.
Well, said the businessman. Look who’s off and running.
I am, said the man. I am off and running!
Yes, but no more schnapps until you’ve had your Negroni. And you’d better eat something.
I want to get drunk, said the man.
You’re well on your way. But the evening is young. Pace yourself.
For what? Pace myself for what? What is there to pace myself for? I have always paced myself and look where it has gotten me.
Here with me, said the businessman. Eating and drinking and fucking.