—What time do you need to be there? she asks.
—11:00, he says.
She rises and picks up the coffee pot.
—More?
—No thanks.
She pours coffee for herself, and he reaches for a piece of toast.
—Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? she asks, returning to her seat.
—I’d rather go alone, he says. He coats his toast with orange marmalade.
She opens her calendar and finds the day: January 11, 1994.
—I had the same dream last night, Carl says.
She looks up.
He immediately regrets having told her about it.
—It bothers me, she says. I don’t like the fact that you’re going by yourself.
—It’ll be all right, he says. I’m not nervous.
He lays his hand on hers. She looks at him. Her eyes seem larger.
—Are you sure? she asks.
—Yes, he says. I’m positive.
When Sonja has gone, Carl carries the newspaper upstairs. He lays his bathrobe over the armrest on the blue chair and crawls under the still half-warm duvet. He begins to read. He skims the news, glances at the TV program, and picks up the culture section. There’s an article about Rembrandt that captures his attention. Chiaroscuro. He chews on the word a bit.
After reading the article, he rises from the bed and goes into Sonja’s den. He pulls the encyclopedia volume that covers Q to Sve from the shelf, and returns to the bedroom. He reads the entry about Rembrandt. It lists a number of his masterpieces; the year in which they were painted is written in parentheses, along with their current location: Stockholm, Dresden, Haag, or Amsterdam. Carl regrets never having made the time to visit any of the museums named. As a young man he’d often gone to Rotterdam, and from there it would have only been an hour and a half by train to Amsterdam. Today it’d no doubt be even faster.
Carl looks at the painting that is reproduced in the encyclopedia. Its title is written in small letters under the black and white print: Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph. The painting shows an old, long-bearded man wearing a little headdress; he sits halfway up in bed extending his hand. Two small boys stand at the side of the bed; one is blond, the other dark. The old man gently touches the blond child’s head. The children’s parents stand behind them.
It occurs to him that even though the motif is sad, the scene is depicted with a tenderness reminiscent of happiness. Maybe it is because Jacob has lived so well and so long, so long that he can barely get up from the bed, so long that he has had grandchildren. Maybe also because the pillow that awaits Jacob’s head looks so pristinely white. Carl’s eyes rest on the pillow, then travel across the gray nuances in the painting’s middle section to the mother’s face and neck. From here they move toward the center, toward Joseph. His expression is gentle, sad, his eyes are looking down, possibly in the direction of the children; he stands near the bed, so close that it looks as though Jacob rests his forehead against his cheek.
Carl puts the book down and sticks his hand under his pajamas to probe his belly. He massages it carefully in large, circular strokes. Then he rises and goes to the bathroom. He undresses, puts out a towel, and gets in the shower. The water runs down his body, swirls into the drain, soapy and gray.
Then he hears the telephone ring.
Carl lets it ring. He turns up the cold water and turns down the warm water and can feel his skin tighten and tremble. He turns off the shower and steps out. He grabs his towel and dries his face carefully, then his belly. He can trace his own form in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. With his hand he clears a space for his face, but the mirror quickly steams up again.