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.
Ssssshhhhhhh, darling, he said. Please stop crying. Just stop. Everything is okay now.
He looked over to see that Livia Pinheiro-Rima had returned to her facing seat. She leaned forward and reached into her little sequined bag that lay on the table and pulled out her cigarette case. Might a cigarette calm her? she asked.
The man shook his head no.
How about you?
No, thank you, he said.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima shrugged and lit a cigarette for herself. She exhaled and then leaned