Where do you live? The businessman took a cigarette case out of his jacket pocket, opened it, and offered the splayed case to the man.
The man shook his head. I live in New York, he said.
Ah, yes—that’s it, said the man. I knew it! I’m never wrong. He took a cigarette out of the case and then clicked it shut. He tapped the cigarette on the case and then put it in his mouth. He felt in both his pockets and pulled a gold cigarette lighter out of one. I met you in New York, he said. I spent a lot of time over there a couple of years ago.
He lit his cigarette and returned the lighter to his pocket. He exhaled luxuriantly and nodded at the chair across from him. Now that the mystery’s solved, why don’t you sit down?
I’ve got to get back to my room, the man said.
Oh, just sit for a moment. Are you sure you won’t have a smoke?
Yes. Very sure.
You wouldn’t happen to have a pen on you, would you? And I don’t mean some cheap plastic piece of shit.
I don’t, said the man. Although he did. He always carried with him a Waterman fountain pen that had belonged to his grandfather. Every couple of years he took it to the fountain pen hospital in New York and had it cleaned and the bladder replaced. It was one of his most prized possessions.
It’s all coming back to me, said the businessman. I think we met at that bar that’s way up on top of that building with all the flags. What’s it called?
I don’t know, said the man. I don’t believe we met. Something made him raise his hand and touch his chest, feeling for the pen inside his coat pocket. It was there.
The businessman laughed. How terribly humbling, he said. Apparently I didn’t make much of an impression on you. Well, in any case, please sit down.
I’ve got to get back up to my room, the man said. My wife is ill.
I’m sure she’s sleeping. Sit, please, for a just a moment. There’s something I’d like to ask you.
I’m sorry. It’s late. I really should get back to my wife.
Oh, let sleeping wives lie. Like dogs, you know. Or would you rather we went up to my room? Would you feel less jumpy there?
Listen, said the man. You’ve really mistaken me for someone else. This is ridiculous. Good night.
Excuse me, but I’m not ridiculous.
I didn’t mean you. I meant this, this situation. This misunderstanding between us.
You think it’s ridiculous?
Yes. I’m sorry, but it seems that way to me. I’m tired.
It’s a shame you think that way. I was only trying to help. You looked as if you needed a friend.
I don’t need a friend. I need to get back upstairs to my wife.
Oh, I get it, said the businessman. You’re on the DL.
The what?
The down low. Don’t worry. My middle name is discretion.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, said the man. Please excuse me.
Ha! said the businessman. I remember now. You were good. Very, very fine. We enjoyed each other, didn’t we?
I’m sorry, but you’ve mistaken me for someone else.
Yes, said the businessman. I’ve mistaken you for your real self. A nice hot fuck. But I get it, baby. Go play house with wifey. We’ll catch up later.
The man entered the dark room quietly and carefully so as not to wake his wife. He intuited his way through the darkness into the bathroom, where he undressed, without turning on the light. He walked to the far side of the bed and slunk silently beneath the covers. He lay still for a moment, trying to forget everything that crowded and clung to him, wanting only to fall into the gorgeous annihilating embrace of sleep, but at the periphery of himself he felt a void, not a chill but a lack of warmth, and he reached out his hand across the sheet to touch his wife but touched nothing.
He turned on the little lamp beside the bed and saw that he was alone. The bedclothes on the side of the bed the woman had been sleeping on were neatly turned back, as if they had been carefully readied for a sleeper, rather than disgorged one. He looked about the room but she was not in it. Could she have been in the dark bathroom? He got out of bed and opened the door and felt the wall for the switch and once again found nothing, and then saw the string hanging from the neon tube coiled at the center of the ceiling, and pulled it. The suddenly bright and alarmingly pink bathroom did not contain his wife.
The elevator did not respond to the call of the button no matter how often or determinedly the man pushed it. It hung sullenly at the bottom of the caged shaft five floors below, as if it, too, were exhausted and had had enough for the day. The man began to walk down the winding staircase. Perhaps the electricity had gone off, for the hotel seemed completely dark and silent. But as he approached the ground floor he saw the glow of lights reaching up the stairway and could hear someone crying. He knew it was his wife.
She was sitting in one of the club chairs, bent forward, her face cradled in her hands, weeping. Four identical chairs surrounded the little low table at their center, and in the chair directly across from his wife sat Livia Pinheiro-Rima. She was sunk back comfortably into the chair, a bare arm elegantly displayed on each armrest, her legs crossed so that one foot hung in the air, dangling a little velvet slipper. It was a discordant picture: his wife leaning forward, weeping, and Livia Pinheiro-Rima almost reclining, dangling her shoe.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima saw him first, as her chair was facing the stairway. She motioned for him to stop where he was, at the bottom of the stairs, and rose up from her chair and came toward him. The woman took no notice of either his arrival or her companion’s departure, and continued weeping.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima gave him a tight smile as she approached and put her finger to her lips, although he had made no attempt to speak.
We’re very upset, she said. Hysterical, perhaps. Certainly terribly overwrought. We woke up and couldn’t find you. Ran out into the cold in nothing but our skivvies. Lost . . . I went out after her and brought her inside. She won’t stop weeping.
Thank you, the man said.
Can she have a brandy or a schnapps or something? It might calm her. I’ve tried to give her some but she won’t take it. I’d let her just cry it out but she seems very weak. I’m afraid she may injure herself.
She doesn’t drink, the man said. She can’t have alcohol.
Well, you must stop her crying somehow. I’d slap her if I thought she could stand it.
Oh no, said the man. I shouldn’t have left her alone.
Apparently not, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
The man walked across the lobby and knelt beside his wife. He reached out and tried to hold her, but she shrugged his arms off her without even looking at him.
Darling, he said. It’s me. Everything’s okay. I’m here. You aren’t alone. Please stop crying.
He touched her lightly on her shoulder. She was wearing a full-length fur coat over her silk underwear. He assumed it belonged to Livia Pinheiro-Rima. She did not shirk from his touch, but he wasn’t sure she could feel it through the thick glossy pelt. He gently petted the fur. It felt marvelous. The coat seemed more vital and alive than its inhabitant. He placed his other hand on her forehead and stroked her messy damp hair off her face. Her ponytail had come lose and strands of her hair were pasted to her moist skin. She jerked her head, displacing his hand, but when he returned it and repeated the gesture she did not respond. She continued sobbing.