days in a row is a lot to ask for, even under normal circumstances, which ours, admittedly, are not. Accordingly, the next morning begins with a predawn phone call, which is rarely a good thing unless, perhaps, you are expecting word from the Nobel Prize selection committee or such, which, again (see above re not normal circumstances , and apologies in advance for the forthcoming word repetition), admittedly, I am not . I confess that I hear my phone ring, but I am emerging from one of those deep sleeps that feel heavy, like the fog of general anesthesia, a sensation that I am unfortunately all too familiar with as a result of the multiple operations on my knees.
It takes me a few moments even to remember where I am, but then the scent of Bella moving over me, her lump of a husband wrapped tightly, inertly, a practically calcified man inside a duvet, helps me locate. She fumbles in the dark for my phone—someone is apparently calling me! —but not before knocking over a glass of water and causing our accumulated nightstand debris, our miniature marital still life of Bella’s many books that she rarely has time to read yet carts around the world with her, as well as our glasses, watches, and pill bottles, to spill to the floor.
Not that the additional mess is of consequence, given the state of our hotel room. Until Jorek came into my life, I’d been sleeping half the days, explaining to Bella—reasonably, I think—that it made no sense to adjust to U.K. time, since I’d be headed home in a week. I’d put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and drawn the curtains, and turned the maid away whenever she tried to enter our suite. Room-service trays have piled up, the minibar is mostly drained, and all of the towels (really, every last one of them, including the washcloths) lie in a wet heap. I regret this, and the laundry situation as well; even though I’ve promised Bella I’ll take care of it, I’ve forgotten to organize her dry cleaning, and she is now out of fresh shirts. (Because I have nowhere to go, or at least I hadn’t before Jorek materialized, my own laundry situation is less dire.)
My phone is very porous, and I can hear the lilt of Jorek seeping through the tiny speaker as he asks for Mr. Lars. Bella points out that it’s not even 7:00 a.m., that I am asleep and, for that matter, so was she. Poor Jorek; I know he is intimidated by Bella, so, whatever this is, it must be pretty important for him to call this early. He asks again to speak to me, and Bella tries to shake me awake, but my instincts—always sharp except when it comes to my enduring fealty to my wife—tell me to continue to feign sleep; besides, my body feels heavy, as if I am doing all of this listening and thinking from under water. Bella takes my arm and pulls it from beneath the warmth of the duvet and feels for my pulse, a gesture that’s sweet enough to cause me to continue to play dead just to see her reaction, and, I confess, to solicit more of her touch, even if only in the form of her hand on my wrist. If she feels no beat, will she call the British equivalent of 911, or just pull a sheet over my head, order a room-service breakfast, and get ready for work? I do not learn the answer, because she detects the flicker of a life force in me. She asks Jorek if she can take a message, and promises she’ll have me call him back.
“Tell Mr. Lars that I decided three skylights, not two.”
Now Bella sits up in bed and turns on the nightstand light. She begins to use what I think of as her “office voice,” which will be familiar to you if you’ve ever seen her on TV, which you likely have. It’s a blend of morning news anchor—fake friendly, fake warm—with the not-so-subliminal suggestion that she will slash your throat with the thin tip of her Pilot pen should you make her cross.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bella says. “Let’s put this entire project on hold, Jorek. It’s better to do this once we have
It takes me a few moments even to remember where I am, but then the scent of Bella moving over me, her lump of a husband wrapped tightly, inertly, a practically calcified man inside a duvet, helps me locate. She fumbles in the dark for my phone—someone is apparently calling me! —but not before knocking over a glass of water and causing our accumulated nightstand debris, our miniature marital still life of Bella’s many books that she rarely has time to read yet carts around the world with her, as well as our glasses, watches, and pill bottles, to spill to the floor.
Not that the additional mess is of consequence, given the state of our hotel room. Until Jorek came into my life, I’d been sleeping half the days, explaining to Bella—reasonably, I think—that it made no sense to adjust to U.K. time, since I’d be headed home in a week. I’d put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and drawn the curtains, and turned the maid away whenever she tried to enter our suite. Room-service trays have piled up, the minibar is mostly drained, and all of the towels (really, every last one of them, including the washcloths) lie in a wet heap. I regret this, and the laundry situation as well; even though I’ve promised Bella I’ll take care of it, I’ve forgotten to organize her dry cleaning, and she is now out of fresh shirts. (Because I have nowhere to go, or at least I hadn’t before Jorek materialized, my own laundry situation is less dire.)
My phone is very porous, and I can hear the lilt of Jorek seeping through the tiny speaker as he asks for Mr. Lars. Bella points out that it’s not even 7:00 a.m., that I am asleep and, for that matter, so was she. Poor Jorek; I know he is intimidated by Bella, so, whatever this is, it must be pretty important for him to call this early. He asks again to speak to me, and Bella tries to shake me awake, but my instincts—always sharp except when it comes to my enduring fealty to my wife—tell me to continue to feign sleep; besides, my body feels heavy, as if I am doing all of this listening and thinking from under water. Bella takes my arm and pulls it from beneath the warmth of the duvet and feels for my pulse, a gesture that’s sweet enough to cause me to continue to play dead just to see her reaction, and, I confess, to solicit more of her touch, even if only in the form of her hand on my wrist. If she feels no beat, will she call the British equivalent of 911, or just pull a sheet over my head, order a room-service breakfast, and get ready for work? I do not learn the answer, because she detects the flicker of a life force in me. She asks Jorek if she can take a message, and promises she’ll have me call him back.
“Tell Mr. Lars that I decided three skylights, not two.”
Now Bella sits up in bed and turns on the nightstand light. She begins to use what I think of as her “office voice,” which will be familiar to you if you’ve ever seen her on TV, which you likely have. It’s a blend of morning news anchor—fake friendly, fake warm—with the not-so-subliminal suggestion that she will slash your throat with the thin tip of her Pilot pen should you make her cross.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bella says. “Let’s put this entire project on hold, Jorek. It’s better to do this once we have
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