thinks she’s cured.
Yes, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. So you’ve told me. And so has she. She told me that last night when I brought her her supper. It was quite beautiful.
Beautiful?
Yes, beautiful. The terrorful kind of beauty.
But she can’t be cured. It’s impossible.
Of course it’s possible. Why wouldn’t it be possible?
Well, medical science, for one thing, said the man.
Medical science has failed her. So it doesn’t really figure in anymore, does it?
I suppose not. For her. But for me—
But this isn’t about you.
So you think I should encourage her? Pretend I believe it?
Yes, of course. What would be the point in contradicting her?
I don’t know, said the man. We’ve always been honest with each other.
That sounds rather dreary, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
You think honesty is dreary?
No. Honesty itself is fine—but my God! Not all the time! Honesty can be very unkind. And damaging. And that’s at the best of times. You have got to do everything possible to smooth the way for your wife. Whatever that way is. And that is for her to decide, not you. That is your job now.
Then why did you taunt her?
Because I’m not you. You have your job and I have mine.
What’s your job?
Don’t you worry about my job, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
I’m not worried, said the man. I just wondered.
Wondering, worrying—call it whatever you like. You should return to your wife. Enough time has passed so it will not seem you are running after her.
We saw the child today, the man said.
What do you mean by the child?
The baby that we have come here to adopt.
Well, then, isn’t it your baby? Your son, your daughter?
It’s a boy, said the man. A son.
The child, a boy, a son—how vague you are. Don’t you have a name for him?
Maybe. We were thinking Simon. But we wanted to wait, to see him first, before we decided.
And now you have seen him. Is he Simon?
Yes, said the man. I think he is.
Is it a family name?
Simon? No.
Then why Simon?
Because it’s unadorned. So simple. You know—Simple Simon.
Met a pie man going to the fair. But I hope you know that Simon wasn’t simple in the way that means uncomplicated. He was simple in the dim-witted way.
Are you sure?
I’m very sure.
Well, you’ve ruined that name for us. The man stood up. Thank you for the tea.
You’re welcome. And don’t listen to me. Name him Simon if you like. It’s a lovely name. It is unadorned. And it’s very good to have names that alternate vowels and consonants. They have a solidness, an equilibrium that other names lack. Like Livia.
Well, said the man. We’ll keep all this in mind.
Go up to your wife. But don’t pretend I have driven you away. I know I amuse you. And comfort you, perhaps.
The man found that he was too tired to formulate a response to this claim. So he merely leaned down and kissed Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s cheek, and then left her sitting there alone with the samovar and the tea that was heaven.
The room was dark and his wife lay asleep on the bed, on top of the coverlet. She had not closed the drapes and so the dark winter light from outside made it possible to see. He stood for a while in the center of the room, watching his wife. Why did he always think she was feigning sleep? Because it was a way of displacing him, keeping him out. Once, not long after they had been married, he dreamed that he was pregnant, and could feel the baby growing inside him, oddly enough not in his belly, but higher up, near his chest, in his lungs. And the next day she had told him that she was pregnant, and he felt certain that that knowledge had passed between them while they were sleeping. So at one point sleep had connected, rather than separated, them.
That was the first, and most heartbreaking, of their several failed pregnancies, and the only one that he had mysteriously intuited.
He drew the curtains and undressed in the dark and lay down beside his wife on the bed. He lay as close as he could to her without actually touching her.
The woman awoke in utter darkness. For a moment she did not know where she was, and then she remembered. Her husband was holding her, pressed tightly against her. They were both lying on top of the coverlet. It was cold in the room except for the sliver of warmth spread between them; perhaps it was the chill that had