What Happens at Night Read online

  When the man woke up, he was alone in the bed. Assuming that his wife had once again bolted, he sat up quickly only to see her sitting in a chair beside her side of the bed, reading. She was dressed and looked unusually alert and alive.

  What time is it? asked the man.

  A little after seven, said the woman. She marked her place in the book and set it upon the table. Can we go now?

  Go? Where?

  To the orphanage!

  I’m sure it’s too early.

  No. They will let us in now, she said, as if she knew.

  Can I have something to eat? I’m starving. He stood up. Let me take a shower, and then we’ll go downstairs and get something to eat. Quickly, I promise. And then we’ll go the orphanage. Is that okay?

  Yes, she said, it’s fine. She smiled at him.

  He walked across the room. The carpet felt unnervingly texturous beneath his bare feet. He leaned down over the chair and kissed his wife’s forehead.

  She reached up and touched his cheek, and then his lips. She looked at him, her fingers once again touching his cheek.

  I love you, he said. Very much.

  She said nothing but smiled at him once again.

  The dining room of the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel was at the opposite end of the lobby from the bar and was as large and cold as the bar was cozy and warm. Designed in the style of a ballroom, the vaulted ceiling was gilded and sprouted many crystal chandeliers, as if the huge one in the center of the ceiling had, like some invasive species of plant, sent out ineradicable shoots in all directions. The gleaming parquet floor was crowded with very large tables, all laid with white linen cloths and set with ten places of gleaming silver, porcelain, and crystal. Three of the walls were divided by marble columns into frescoed triptychs illustrating scenes from what appeared to be a belligerent mythology. The fourth wall was punctuated by French doors opening out onto a broad terrace on which stood many snow-covered iron tables. The chairs had apparently been taken away for the season—or seasons, more likely. It was very bright in this room, the light coming mostly from the chandeliers, not from the world outside the French doors, which despite the great white drifts of snow reflected no light from the sky, which was completely dark.

  The man and the woman paused inside the doorway, immobilized by the room’s size, glare, and silence. It was the kind of room that one feels reluctant to enter, as if in one of our former lives some great violence had been done to us in a room exactly like this. None of the tables were occupied or gave any indication of ever having been occupied, so complete was the stillness and silence that enveloped the room.

  Can this be the restaurant? the man asked. It seems more a banquet hall. Perhaps breakfast is served in the bar.

  The concierge did point this way, said the woman.

  I suppose we should sit down and see what happens.

  Or doesn’t happen, said the woman.

  But before they could execute this plan, one of the frescoes on the far wall was bifurcated as half of the panel was swung outward into the room, revealing a large woman wearing a parka over her waitress uniform. She made a lot of noise as she crossed the room toward them, and this journey took some time, as she was forced to tack back and forth between the many tables, no path being cleared among them. As she came closer it became apparent that the noise was a result of the fur-covered mukluks she wore on her feet; some sort of metal contraption was affixed to the bottom of each boot to prevent slippage upon ice. She paused about three quarters of the way across the room and indicated one of the tables she stood amidst. Breakfast? she asked. Two?

  Yes, said the man. Two for breakfast. He took his wife’s arm and led her toward the table the waitress had selected for them.

  Good morning, he said to her, as they sat at two neighboring seats.

  She righted the cups that were overturned on the saucers at both their places and said, Coffee?

  Yes, please, said the man.

  Do you have any herbal tea? asked the woman.

  Mint, chamomile, linden, anise.

  Chamomile, please, said the woman.

  Juice?

  What kind? asked the man.

  Orange, grapefruit, tomato, elderberry.

  I’ll try the elderberry, please.

  Orange, said the woman.

  The waitress disappeared back into the fresco and very soon returned with their beverages. She had removed both her parka and the cleats from her boots, so she seemed very different, almost unfamiliar. She had also brought them menus: thick leather-bound books that elucidated, in intricately italicized type, all the many dishes at the different meals served through the day and evening in the dining room. This vast menu was composed in the native language with its undecipherable alphabet so that no clues to the character of the dishes could even be guessed at by scrutinizing the many pages.

  The waitress waited patiently while the man perused the menu, turning its pages, hoping to come across something that seemed familiarly breakfasty. His wife, apparently daunted by the menu’s heft, had not even attempted to lift it.

  Defeated, the man closed the menu and said, Eggs? Oeufs? What’s egg in German? he asked his wife.

  We aren’t in Germany, said the woman.

  Sie möchten Eiern? said the waitress, in German. You would like eggs?

  Ja, said the man. Yes.

  Scrambled, poached, fried, boiled, shirred? She apparently spoke excellent English.

  What’s shirred? the man asked his wife.

  I don’t know, she said. Like poached, I think.

  En croûte, said the waitress. Baked in a casserole. With breadcrumbs and butter.

  Sounds delicious, said the man, I’ll have that.

  Potato?

  Yes, please, said the man. Bacon?

  The waitress nodded. And for your lady?

  Toast please, said the woman. Dry.

  Jam or honey?

  No, thank you. Dry.

  The waitress collected their menus and once again disappeared through the door in the wall.

  Well, said the man. That wasn’t so difficult.

  Why should ordering breakfast in a hotel be difficult?

  Because everything else has been difficult, said the man. He tasted his elderberry juice. It’s delicious, he said. Very tart. A bit like pomegranate. Would you like to try it? He offered the glass to his wife.

  She shook her head no and poured tea into her cup.

  It’s funny, said the man, after a moment.

  What?

  The way things are difficult—or aren’t. I mean when we arrived here, it seemed so impossible.

  What do you mean, impossible?

  Just everything. Starting in the market the other night. And then last night, at the station. And yet we’re sitting here drinking elderberry juice, about to eat shirred eggs. At least I am. It amazes me, how things have a way of working themselves out, if you just persist.

  The woman did not answer. She appeared to be studying the fresco nearest to them, which depicted a covey of young naked maidens chasing a somewhat obscenely tusked wild boar through a fairy-tale forest.

  I’d like to remember that, he said. I think it would be good if we could both remember that.

  Remember what? She did not like when he tried to interfere with, or direct, her thoughts.

  That things don’t always end badly.

  Yes, said the woman. Things do work themselves out. She lifted the cup of tea to her lips but quickly replaced it in the saucer. It’s too hot, she said. She looked down at the cup as if its inhospitable temperature were a personal affront.

  He had gone too far, he realized. He always did. She would open up to him, and he would respond, only to shut her back up again. It was unfair of her, he thought.

  They sat for a while in silence, until the waitress emerged from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray on her shoulder, on which sat two plates beneath silver domes. She placed one in front of each of them and then removed the domes,
revealing on his plate a ramekin filled with eggs surrounded by fried potatoes and two slabs of very thick bacon, and on hers two slices of slightly scorched toast. A sprig of parsley had been added to her plate, perhaps to compensate for its meagerness, but it had the opposite effect, making the dry toast look even more desolate.

  The man forked over his eggs, revealing a mattress of breadcrumbs beneath them. A fragrant steam rose up against his face. He looked over at his wife. She was staring despondently down at her plate of toast.

  Is that not what you wanted? he asked.

  She shook her head a little and smiled, sadly, at him. No, she said. It’s exactly what I want.

  They had been told to arrive at the orphanage for their initial visit anytime between ten o’clock and noon. The concierge was able to arrange a taxi to pick them up and it was waiting for them outside the hotel when they emerged from the ballroom after finishing their breakfast. The woman had wanted to go up to their room to use the bathroom and put some makeup on her pale face, but she was afraid the taxi might not wait for them, and although the man said of course it would, she insisted they get into it and leave immediately.

  The hotel was at the very center of the old town, and the streets around it were extremely narrow, made even narrower by the towering piles of snow, so the taxi drove slowly. The town seemed eerily underpopulated; many of the stores were vacant, their glass windows empty or occupied by a desolate naked mannequin staring out at the cold world.

  The streets grew wider nearer the outskirts, and what little charm the old city had was replaced by a modern ugliness of concrete and glazed brick, but it wasn’t long before they had left the town behind and were on a country road, bounded by snow-covered fields on one side and a forest on the other. They drove for quite a while through this unchanging landscape until a building appeared before them on the side with the fields, surrounded by a wall of very tall fir trees. It was set quite far back from the road, and the car turned off onto a narrow driveway and drove toward the building, passing through a gap between two trees that were spaced a bit farther apart than the others, but whose branches nevertheless entwined, forming a portal. Crows—or ravens; some dark large cawing bird—erupted from the trees as the car passed beneath them and flapped off, complainingly, over the empty fields.

  The building they approached had the appearance of a manor house. It was three stories tall and made of stucco painted pale green. There was no sign or any other indication that the building was an orphanage and not a private home except for the sterility of its unadorned façade, whose starkness was vaguely institutional. Smoke rose from two chimneys that protruded from the slate-shingled roof.

  The taxi drew up before the unassuming front door, which was raised above the level of the drive by a few stone steps, which had been carefully swept of the snow and sprinkled with dirt. The man, who was attempting to hew to his new philosophy of assuming the best in all situations, was heartened by these signs of hospitality and preparedness. They both got out of the car and the woman walked quickly to the edge of the gravel drive and leaned over, placing her hands on her knees. As her husband watched, she released a geyser of vomit onto the bank of snow. After a moment she straightened up, though she remained facing away from him, looking toward the wall of trees that surrounded the building. She raised one of her hands in the air with her fingers extended, as if she were taking an oath. It was a gesture the man knew well: it meant she wanted to be left alone. So, instead of going to her, he walked around the car to the driver’s window, which unrolled as he approached. The concierge had informed him of what the trip should cost, and the man gave this amount to the driver, plus a little extra. He asked the driver if he would wait a moment, in case there was some problem gaining access to the building, and the driver nodded agreeably but drove away as soon as his window was shut. The man ran a few steps after the car, waving his arms and calling out, but the taxi took no notice of him and sped away through the arch in the trees.

  What are you doing? asked the woman. She had turned away from the trees and was panting slightly: the effort of vomiting had exhausted her. Did you forget something?

  No, said the man. I asked him to wait.

  What for?

  In case we can’t get in. Or in case this isn’t it.

  Of course it’s it, said the woman.

  It doesn’t look like an orphanage, said the man.

  Have you ever seen an orphanage before?

  No, the man admitted. Well, in movies.

  Probably starring Shirley Temple, said the woman.

  Are you all right? asked the man. You were sick.

  Yes, I was sick, she said. You’re very observant. She raised her hand and wiped the back of her leather glove across her lips.

  The combination of the taxi driver’s betrayal and his wife’s recalcitrance momentarily defeated the man, and he knelt down on the hard-packed snow that covered the gravel drive. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel how exhausted he was. He wished he could lie on the ground and fall asleep.

  After a moment the woman walked over to him. She reached down and laid her hand upon his head. His thick brown hair had recently begun to turn gray, and she noticed that it seemed suddenly much grayer than it had been. Was it because she was looking down at it? Or had the trials and tribulations of their journey hastened the process?

  I’m sorry, she said. We just need to do this.

  Yes, said the man.

  Are you ready? asked the woman.

  Yes, said the man.

  Then come, she said. Let’s do it. Let’s find our child.

  She reached out her hand. She had not replaced her glove. The man stood up and removed his own glove before grasping her hand, and she led him toward the stone steps, which were sheltered by a glass marquee that had obviously been added to the house after its origin and was now covered with at least a foot of snow. When they stood on the small landing outside the door she asked him again if he was ready. He told her that he was. She rang the bell beside the door, which was the old-fashioned kind that must be pulled and released. They heard nothing through the thick door and walls.

  They waited what seemed like a long time, and the woman had reached out and was just about to pull on the bell again, when the door was flung open. A very tall black woman stood before them. She was wearing a dress similar to a caftan, but it hung closer than a caftan to her tall thin body. It was made from a boldly patterned fabric of giant mutant flowers in startling shades of orange, green, and purple and was the brightest and warmest thing that both the man and the woman had seen since arriving in this place.

  Webegodden, she said. You are welcome here. She smiled brilliantly at them—her teeth were fascinatingly white, as white as the fields of snow that surrounded the house—and stood aside, holding the door open. They passed through, the woman first, the man after her. When they were both inside the foyer the woman quickly shut and bolted the door behind them. The foyer they stood in was small but had a very high ceiling; a staircase circled up above them to the third floor, where a pale snow-covered skylight dully shone. On either side of the foyer were large paneled doors; above each door was a transom of colored glass. The woman who greeted them opened one of these doors by pushing it into a pocket in the wall, revealing a large room full of Biedermeier furniture.

  Please, she said, indicating with her pink-palmed hand the room she had revealed. The man and the woman entered the room, which was large and bright, and it was, for both of them, like entering a sanctuary. The walls were painted pale pink and all the furniture was upholstered in yellow silk; the lamps were lit and a thriving fire burned exuberantly in the fireplace. On the mantel above it a large golden clock encased within a glass dome reassuringly marked the passage of time with whirring gears and a ticking heartbeat. A round table stood in the middle of the room; it was highly polished and inlaid with a garland of fruitwood. On it a small forest of narcissi rose out of a low gold bowl filled with gravel and leaked their peppery
scent into the air. Two small golden carp swam in an apparent endless pursuit of each other in a round glass bowl. In one corner of the room, an ornate wire cage was suspended on a chain from the ceiling; in the cage a large scarlet, blue, and yellow parrot regarded them silently, sucking the inside out of a large purple grape it held in its claw.

  Please, sit, the woman said, and indicated the largest of the sofas, which was placed before, but not too close to, the fireplace. The man and the woman sat and the woman stood before the fire, smiling at them once again.

  You are very welcome here, she said.

  Thank you, the man said.

  It isn’t what I expected, said the woman.

  No? What did you expect?

  I don’t know, said the woman, looking around the room. But flowers—how beautiful everything is!

  The woman smiled again and said, So, you have come to see Brother Emmanuel?

  Brother Emmanuel? asked the woman.

  Brother Emmanuel! the man exclaimed.

  Yes, the woman said. Haven’t you come to see Brother Emmanuel?

  No—no, said the man. Oh!

  We’re here to see Tarja Uosukainen, said the woman. Isn’t this the orphanage? She stood up from the sofa and looked wildly around the room as if this person, this Tarja Uosukainen, might suddenly appear from behind the drapes or beneath one of the other sofas. But no one appeared, and the woman fell back onto the sofa.

  Their hostess remained standing in front of the fireplace. Her beaming smile had faded but she still wore a pleasant expression on her serene face. She regarded both the man and the woman calmly.

  I think a mistake has been made, the man said, and laid his hand on his wife’s arm. Brother Emmanuel is a faith healer. The woman at the hotel told me about him last night. The man felt for a moment that he wanted to put his hand on his wife’s mouth, cover it, silence her, but stopped himself in time.

  He is not a faith healer, said their hostess. He is an angekok.

  The woman rose quickly from the sofa, so quickly that she lost her balance and fell forward. Their hostess caught her and gently reseated her upon the sofa, and then she dropped to her knees before the woman. She took both of the woman’s hands in her own and, looking intently and directly into her face, said, Please, don’t despair. Take a deep breath. Now, please. A deep breath.