The sound of water filling the bathtub awoke the man. He sat up in bed and looked at the bathroom door, which was closed. Was his wife inside? Could they now go and get their child and leave this place and go home? For the first time since he had left it, he thought of New York City: it might be snowing there but the snow would turn to rain as soon as the sun rose. The clouds would part and the sun would emerge and the clean wet sidewalks would shine. There would be ten hours of daylight and your face would not freeze the moment you stepped outside. And soon it would be spring and robins would be pecking the tender green lawn in Madison Square Park. And he would be walking through the park with the baby in a stroller, in the soft warm spring sunlight, pointing to and naming the birds, the budding flowers, the leafing trees . . .
The taps were turned off with an angry squeal. He got out of bed and knocked softly on the closed bathroom door.
Oh, are you awake? a voice asked. It’s me.
He tried to make the voice sound like his wife’s but he could not. It was too strong and bright, and he knew it was the voice of Livia Pinheiro-Rima.
Livia?
Yes, it’s me. It’s shocking, I know, commandeering your bathtub. You see, I’ve only got a horrible little sit tub in my room; it’s like bathing in a teacup and getting in and out of the damn thing requires the flexibility of a contortionist. So when I saw your lovely large tub—really, it’s almost the size of a swimming pool—I couldn’t resist. Do you mind awfully? If you do I’ll get out.
No, no. Of course not.
Do you need to use the toilet? If you do, come on in. We can both shut our eyes.
No, I’m fine, said the man, although he did need to use the toilet. But what are you doing here?
I thought I just explained that.
No, I mean here in my room.
Oh! Well, I came up to check on you. It’s almost noon, you know.
Is it? My God, I have got to go and see my wife.
What about the baby? Simon. Aren’t we going to collect him together?
Yes, said the man. But first I need to see my wife.
Yes, yes, I suppose you must. So go, and I’ll enjoy a nice long bath, and when you’ve returned we’ll go and adopt Simon. This bath is delicious. The basic human need for ablution is primal. We all used to be fish you know, I mean not you and me personally, but our ancestors, if you go back far enough, which isn’t very far, there we are, or were, swimming in the briny depths, and now we all long to submerge ourselves, like a pickle, like a coin in a fountain, like a stone tossed into the sea. I’m going to stop talking now and immerse myself.
Darlene opened the door and told the man to wait in the room with the fire. She would tell Brother Emmanuel he was here. The man had barely sat down when Brother Emmanuel entered the room, with an uncharacteristic haste. In fact he was panting, as if he had run from a great distance.
The man stood up. Good morning, he said.
Oh, my friend, Brother Emmanuel said. Sit down.
The man sat and Brother Emmanuel knelt before him and told him that his wife’s soul was free.
What do you mean? the man asked. Is she dead?
Yes, said Brother Emmanuel. If you think in those terms.
I do, said the man. How? he asked. What happened?
Brother Emmanuel told him how, early in the morning, they had found her missing and had followed her footsteps through the snow. They had carried her inside and tried to revive her but could not. She was dead. Her soul had left her body.
The man asked if he could be alone.
Of course you may be alone, said Brother Emmanuel. For as long as you need. But I must tell you one more thing, and then I will leave you alone. I want to say this now so you have it all at once. Your wife told me that she wanted her body to stay here. She did not want it taken away. She wanted to be cremated, and she wanted her ashes to remain here. She wanted them placed in the bowl of narcissi so they