They’ll never hear that, the woman said, and knocked loudly on the wooden part of the door, which was almost immediately opened by a woman wearing a white nurse’s uniform. She also wore white shoes, and a white paper cap was bobby-pinned to her obviously dyed red hair.
Hello, she said. She opened the door wider and stood aside and the man and the woman entered, finding themselves in a large foyer with a floor covered with linoleum tiles in a checkered pattern of red and beige. Two staircases, one on either side of the room, rose up to the second floor, where a gallery connected them.
You speak English? the nurse asked.
Yes, said the man. We do.
Welcome to St. Barnabas, said the nurse. May I help you?
We had an appointment, said the man. At ten o’clock this morning, and I’m afraid we’re late.
We were taken to the wrong place, said the woman. It was the fault of the cabdriver. We got here as quickly as we could.
Of course, said the nurse. There is no need to worry. Perhaps you will sit here and I will see if Doctor Ludjekins can see you now. She indicated one of two pew-like wooden benches built into the wall on either side of the front door.
The man and the woman sat down on the bench and watched the nurse disappear through a door between the two staircases.
After about five minutes the nurse reappeared. She held her hands clasped in front of her breast and shook them a little, in a gesture of supplication. I am so sorry, she said. But Doctor Ludjekins is not here any longer. He will be back tomorrow, and I am sure he will be happy to see you then. You come back tomorrow?
Of course, said the man. He stood up. What time tomorrow?
Perhaps the time of your original appointment, said the nurse. I think that would be nice.
The woman had remained seated on the bench with her hands still tightly clasped in her lap.
Can we see the child? she asked. Our child?
The child? asked the nurse.
Yes, said the woman. The child. The baby we have come here to adopt.
Oh, said the nurse. Forgive me. I misunderstood. No, I am afraid you cannot. It is only with Doctor Ludjekins that you can see her.
Him, said the woman.
Him?
Yes, him, said the woman. The child we are adopting is a boy. Not a girl.
Of course, said the nurse. I am sorry. I don’t understand. Doctor Ludjekins, tomorrow, will help you, I am sure. I can be of no help today. I am sorry.
No, thank you, said the man. You’ve been very helpful. We will come back tomorrow.
Why can’t we see our baby? asked the woman. She stood up. We have come so far—
Darling, it’s all right, said the man. Tomorrow. We’ll see him tomorrow. One more day. Would you call us a taxi? he asked the nurse.
Of course, said the nurse. Where do you go?
To the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel, said the man.
Of course, said the nurse. I will call now. A taxi will come in any minute. She turned away from them and hastened back through the doors.
For a moment neither the man nor the woman said anything. The man took a few steps across the foyer, carefully only stepping on red tiles. This made him remember his antic upon the snow-covered station platform the previous night, and he wondered why in moments of high stress he elected to move in these childish ways. He stopped his hopping journey across the foyer when he heard his wife speaking behind him. He turned back toward her but kept both feet on red tiles.
You didn’t support me, she said. You never support me.
What? he asked.
When I asked to see him. You didn’t support me. I’m sure if you had supported me, we could have seen him. She would have showed him to us.
I don’t think so, said the man. She said only the doctor could show him to us—
I know that’s what she said. But it doesn’t mean anything. If you had supported me, if you had told her we had to see him, if you had given her some money—
Money?
Yes: money. You don’t understand how anything works! If you had given her some money, a few kopecks or schillings or whatever it’s called here, I’m sure she would have brought us to him.
We’ll see him tomorrow, said the man.
The woman sighed. She pushed open the door and left the building, allowing the door to shut behind her.
The man stood there for a moment, regarding the closed door. He could see his wife’s shadow figure, standing just beyond the smoky glass. He realized he still had his feet ridiculously splayed on separate red tiles and slid them back together.
When they returned to their hotel room the woman, exhausted from their travels and travails, once again stripped down to her silken underwear and got into bed.
Don’t you want some lunch? the man asked.
No, the woman said. I just want to sleep.
I’m hungry, the man said. I’m going down to the restaurant. Should I bring you back something? You’ve got to eat.
I’m not hungry. Just go. She drew the gold coverlet up over her face. The man stood there for a moment, as if there was something else he could do, or say, but he could think of nothing, so he went down to the lobby.
The restaurant was closed. A chain hung across the open doorway from which depended a small sign that said CLOSE. The man looked into the vast, empty space. The lights were all turned off and the room was almost dark, although it was only the middle of the afternoon.
He walked back across the lobby to the reception desk, behind which there now stood an older man with a shiny bald head and a walrus mustache wearing the same sort of vaguely militaristic uniform as the young woman who had greeted them upon their arrival and striking the same sort of impassive, unseeing attitude. The man realized it was less than twenty-four hours since they had arrived, and yet it seemed they had spent days—months, years—in this place.
Good afternoon, the man said.
Good afternoon, said the concierge. May I help you?
I was hoping I might eat some lunch, said the man. But it appears the restaurant is closed.
Indeed it is. Lunch is never served in the restaurant on weekends. Only breakfast and dinner.
Perhaps the man had lost track of the days, but he was fairly sure it was not yet the weekend.
So there is nowhere I can get something to eat?
There are several excellent restaurants in the vicinity, said the concierge. Some may still be serving lunch, although it is late. Or if you don’t wish to venture out, a limited menu of cold dishes is offered at all times in the bar.
Thank you, said the man. I will try my luck there.
Lárus stood in his usual position behind the bar, and a young Japanese couple occupied the center of the bar, where the man had sat the night before. So he sat down at the far end, in Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s place.
Lárus walked slowly toward him. Good afternoon, he said.
Good afternoon, the man said.
Would you like the schnapps, or something else?
The man had not intended to start drinking so early, but then he remembered it was already dark outside, and for all intents and purposes the day was over, since it had never really begun. He told Lárus that yes, he would like a schnapps. Please.
Lárus poured him a schnapps, set it before him.
Is it possible to get something to eat? asked the man. I’m very hungry.
Of course, said Lárus. He reached below the bar and placed a small red leatherette-bound volume in front of the man. The name of the hotel was stamped upon its cover in gold. Inside, a folded piece of paper was restrained with a gold tasseled cord. Four words appeared in a centered column on the first page: