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.
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?