to be a baseball player. He retrieved the monkey from the floor and gave him back to Simon—he was trying to think of the baby as Simon and not the child or the baby, but referring to him in this familiar way seemed almost presumptuous, like using tu instead of vous when speaking French.
The game of throwing the monkey continued while the man dressed and packed up the luggage. He looked around the room to see if anything remained, for he had a bad habit of leaving things behind in hotel rooms. There was nothing beneath the bed, but behind one of the drapes, sitting on the windowsill, he found the jar of yoghurt he had bought for his wife. Its proximity to the window had kept it chilled. He thought about taking it with him, but decided to leave it there, well hidden behind the drape.
In the lobby he saw Livia Pinheiro-Rima sitting on one of the club chairs, wrapped in her bearskin coat. A silver pot of tea or coffee, two cups and saucers, two plates, and a silver platter of pastries sat on the table before her.
She stood up and waved, as if she were not the only person sitting in the lobby. Come and sit down, she called. Give my grandson to me and sit down and have some coffee and franzbrötchen! You’ve got plenty of time before the train. Come and sit!
The man joined Livia Pinheiro-Rima and watched while she poured coffee into one of the cups. She added milk and sugar without asking him if he wanted them, and even stirred it briskly with a little golden demitasse spoon before placing it on the table before the man.
Give me the little angel, she said, and reached out her hands. You’ve got him in that contraption backwards, you know.
I do?
Yes. He should be facing forwards so he can see where he’s going.
That seems very odd, said the man. Don’t I want him facing me?
No. He’ll have plenty of time to look at you. Let him see the world.
Well, there’s plenty of time for that too, said the man. God willing. My main object now is to get him safely home. Are you sure?
Of course I’m sure. Hand him over.
The man extracted the baby from the papoose and handed him to Livia Pinheiro-Rima, who cradled him against the thick glossy fur of her coat.
The man helped himself to one of the pastries on the plate and drank his coffee. He had stopped taking milk or sugar in his coffee many years ago, when he graduated from college and felt it necessary to adopt some new customs and habits that seemed more adult, and had forgotten how appealing it was served in this fashion. When he had finished his coffee and the pastry he took two more of the strudels off the plate and put one in each of his coat pockets. They were delicious.
Then he stood. We should go, he announced. I don’t want to miss the train. Will you hold him while I settle my account? I asked them to call for a taxi last night, but I don’t suppose it’s here. And I don’t know how I’ll get the luggage out to the street.
Oh, don’t start fretting now, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. You’ve a very long journey in front of you. Everything will be fine and if it isn’t fine it will be bearable.
In the taxi the child sat on Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s lap and reached up to touch her face, which she bent over and dangled above him. The man was beginning to worry that the child preferred Livia Pinheiro-Rima to him and was eager to separate them before she could establish a maternal bond. Secretly he hoped it was the bearskin coat and not Livia Pinheiro-Rima herself that the child liked.
He doesn’t do that with me, he said.
What? Livia Pinheiro-Rima looked away from the child and over at him.
He doesn’t respond to me like that. He doesn’t really seem to notice me. And he flinches a bit when I try to touch his face.
Then don’t try to touch his face. Give the little lad a chance. Can you imagine how lost and disrupted he must feel? Perhaps I remind Simon of one of the nurses. And perhaps you remind him of the doctor, who gave him shots and stuck thermometers in his bum.
So you think he’ll like me eventually? asked the man.
I think he will love you, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. If you relax. Don’t