Albert played a chord. Much to his relief, and contrary to his expectations, the instrument was in tune.
“Pretty tone, that,” said the Colonel. “Potty about you, was Drucilla. Absolutely potty. Greatest thing since Marmite in her eyes. That’s what you were. Saw you in concert both times you were here.”
“I’m sorry she died,” said Albert.
“Died? Yes, well. Yes . . . poor old girl. Miss her like blazes, between you and me. Not quite up to . . . well, life without the old thing, don’t you know. How did you know . . . ?”
Albert explained.
“Ah, old Sweetman. Of course.” He sat beside Albert on the bench, which Albert hadn’t expected. He realized that, in future, he would have to reframe his initial request: “May I play your piano and you go away.”
“Lost his wife, too, did old Sweet. Two years ago.” The Colonel lowered his eyes to the keys, which he brushed with the tips of his fingers. “Hero to me, of sorts. I mean, if he can make it—and thrive, if appearances are anything to go by—well, so can I. Eh?”
On the last monosyllable he looked at Albert who, coincidentally, was looking at him, trying to channel Angela: “Look like you care,” he challenged himself, and put a great deal of effort into adjusting his face to what he hoped would be interpreted as a caring expression. Actual caring, he hoped, might follow listening. How long after looking like he was listening actual listening would come, time would tell.
The Colonel’s eyes suddenly welled with tears, and he collapsed upon Albert’s shoulder and sobbed. A full-throated sob. Albert was stunned. His hands were still resting on the keys, and he was staring straight ahead—at the photo of himself, at whom he thought: “Well, what do you do now?”
What he did was remove the fingers of his left hand from the keys and, placing his arm around the Colonel’s back, patted him on the shoulder. This, it turned out, was what you do when you want a sobbing Colonel to burst into tears outright, which is what happened.
Once the dam had burst, there was no holding it back until the reservoir had run dry. Meantime, Albert felt hot tears on his shoulder, and the Colonel’s body quaking against his own, and something strange happened. Albert began shaking, too. And he was shaking because he was crying. And he was crying because his heart was broken. And his heart was broken, because Melissa Bjork was dead. And suddenly he remembered why the Colonel was crying.
And he cared.
And because he cared, he cried all the more.
And when they were done crying, they sat up straight, wiped their eyes and their noses with whatever fabric was at hand, sniffed back the last few straggling tears, stood up and shook hands.
“Good of you to come, old man,” the Colonel said. “Anytime you want to . . .” He piano-ed the air with his fingers.
In silence, they walked to the door and, moments later, Albert was on the sidewalk, looking left and right for the train that had just run him over. It was then he realized it was a train that, deep down, he’d been expecting for a long time, and he’d been tied to the tracks.
He bent his steps toward Sweetman’s, and having unwittingly reached it, passed it by, his eyes, crusted with the salt of dried tears, focused upon the sidewalk, a blur of concrete rectangles separated by cracks that, somehow, had the mysterious capacity to break one’s mother’s back. Even though Mother was dead, he was careful to avoid them, imagining how the resulting “crack” would sound in the confines of a coffin six feet underground. Probably muted.
When he was next aware of himself, he was sitting on a bench in a park. He had no idea how long he’d been there. It was still light out, so it wasn’t evening yet. He’d been thinking. “Lost in thought.” He’d heard that before; now it made sense.
Probably a lot of things made sense if you understood what they meant.
He’d been thinking about Melissa Bjork. He’d been thinking about Colonel Rivens. About his mother. About the girl on the beach. About Tewksbury—but that was another story.
He’d thought about himself—something he’d spent the better part of forty years not doing—and the endless, bottomless, ever-flowing river of music that flowed through his brain, like water through plumbing. If he were to understand himself, he’d have to understand where that music came from. People seemed to think it came from him. But he knew it didn’t. It came from somewhere else. Like water. Where did water come from? Not the faucet; that was just the delivery mechanism.
That’s what he was. A delivery mechanism. There is a river of music flowing through the universe, he decided, and—for what reason, God only knew—he could tap into it at any time. In fact, it was there all the time. A gift. All he had to do was surrender to it. Fall into it. Swim in it. Let it flow from his fingers onto the keyboard, onto the page. Sometimes it was hard to keep up.
But recently the music had changed. Where once it flowed freely without restraint of any kind, lately it was forced through the filter of his experiences of the last four years.
Unpleasant experiences.
So the river was now, however slightly, tinged with essence of Albert. It was trying to tell his story, but it knew him no better than he knew it. He and his gift stared at one another across a chasm of misunderstanding and shrugged.
A mathematical equation formed in his mind: Albert – Music = ?
What would be left of him if music were taken away? Just a hole that only Melissa Bjork could fill.
“They been lookin’ for you.”
Albert knew the speaker before he looked up and saw Wendell approaching laboriously up a small incline. His was a distinctive voice, and his accent unmistakable. He plopped himself down beside Albert and stared at his fingers for a while.
The words implied he, Albert, had been lost. Perhaps he had, without knowing it, and the time had arrived to begin the journey to being found, wherever that might be.
“You found me.”
Wendell nodded, but didn’t say anything. His breathing was labored and he seemed in need of a rest. At last he spoke. “That girl we found. . . “
There was no intonation in the statement from which Albert could infer whether it was a question, a statement, or a preamble to an observation. He didn’t know what to say, so he said:
“Yes.”
“She woke up. Just for a minute. Said somethin’, then went back to sleep. Coma.” He turned to Albert and explained. “Deep, deep, sleep.”
This, Albert felt, was the place to begin his journey: He should, on purpose, think about what Wendell had said; then think about what to say about it; then say it. Fortunately, Wendell was perfectly willing to let him take his time.
What would Jeremy Ash say? Or Angela? He could almost hear their voices: “What did she say?”
So that’s what he said. “What did she say?”
“Venice,” he said. “That’s what they think.”
“Venice,” Albert repeated. “That’s in Italy.”
Wendell thought that was probably right. He nodded. “Or Venice Beach. That’s in California.”
A question came to mind all by itself. “Why did she say that?”
It was Wendell’s turn to shrug. “Maybe she didn’t. That’s what they thought she said.” He picked at his fingernails. “Could have been something else with a ‘v’. Some Chinese word. She looks Chinese. Or Japanese. Or Korean. I can’t tell the difference.”
Something with a “v.” There were probably a lot of words that began with “v.” Vivaldi. That had two “v”s. So did vivacity. Vivisection. Lots of “v”s.
“That’s all she said?”
“That’s all.”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Albert and Wendell sat side-by-side, thinking about whatever came to mind. They might have sat there forever had Wendell not spoken. “Want to go back home?”
Albert got up and, in tandem, followed Wendell back to the top of the little mound of sidewalk at the bottom of which was Sweetman’s. He was mildly surprised, but not shocked, to find a clust
er of newspaper and television people waiting outside.
“What’s all this?” Wendell wondered.
“Reporters,” said Albert. Were they here for him? Why? He didn’t have any concerts planned. Why else would they want to talk to him? Perhaps they were talking to Jeremy Ash or Angela . . . or Mr. Sweetman. They’d all be interesting.
“Is there a back door?”
“Sure, bro,” said Wendell, and directed Albert to the rear entry. From there, he went upstairs to his room, and Wendell went to tell the proprietor he’d “found the piano player.”
A few minutes later, there was tap on his door. “Albert?” Angela opened the door as she spoke, and poked her head around the corner to find him sitting in a chair by the window, overlooking the little garden at the back of the house. “Are you okay?”
Albert was never quite sure how to answer that question, because he didn’t know the answer. Okay compared to what? But he gave the answer that generally resulted in the least follow-up. “Yes.”
She came toward him, preceded only a moment by her smell, which Albert had come to enjoy. It never occurred to him that the fragrance might be perfume, or soap, or furniture polish or anything else. He’d just assumed it was her smell, and it was a pleasant one. Some people were blond, some brunette. Some smelled nice, some didn’t. Way of the world.
Jeremy Ash smelled of medicine and bandages. And laughter. Mrs. Gibson smelled like whatever she’d been cooking. Did he smell like music? What did music smell like? He hoped, at any rate, it was a pleasant smell, because it’s what Angela would smell as she sat on the arm of his chair.
She ran her hand through his hair, casually, as if that’s what she always did—which it wasn’t—and that it was perfectly natural. What happened then didn’t bear thinking about, so he tried to think about what she was saying, rather than what she was doing—which, from his perspective, had a lot in common with open heart surgery. “Went for a little walkabout?”
Despite his best efforts, his body was listening much more closely to her fingers than her words. He was about to ask her to speak up. But she continued. “You had me worried.”
“What about?”
“About you.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
Albert considered this and was about to say, “Neither did I,” but realized that wouldn’t be entirely true, would it? He’d gone to the park, whether he meant to or not, and just stopped walking when he got there. “That girl woke up and said something,” he said.
Angela responded fluidly to the deflection.
“Yes. ‘Venice’, they think. Something like that. Wendell told you?” She kept slowly dragging her fingers through his hair. She’d never done that before. She’d never leaned against him like she was leaning now. She wasn’t heavy, or if she was, that’s not what he noticed. What he did notice was that she was very warm and soft in places.
“Yes.” He leaned away a little.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, sitting up straight and taking her fingers from his hair at the same time. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
If that was her intention, he thought, she’d gone about it the wrong way. As soon as she was no longer connected to him, he felt like he’d fallen through a whirlwind into a void. He preferred the whirlwind.
How could she sit there and not run her fingers through his hair? That would be like not petting a particularly lost and sorrowful puppy. Inhuman. She stood up and walked to the open window from which she looked down upon the garden. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
She was now standing between him and the window, and the light from the window was shining through her skirt, or dress, or kimono, or nightgown or whatever it was, and, well, yes, it was beautiful. He wondered what Melissa Bjork would look like, standing there with the light shining through her—thing.
“What do those reporters want?” he said.
She turned toward him, and he struggled to keep his eyes on her eyes rather than what they wanted to look at. “You, of course. Good thinking, slipping in the back door like that. I don’t think they gave you credit for that kind of deviousness.”
“It was Wendell’s idea.”
“Ah.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do they want to talk to me?”
She giggled, turned to him and, placing a palm on each arm of his chair, leaned over him. “Think, Albert. Why would they want to talk to one of the most famous musicians in the world—one who’s been involved in a chain of mysteries lately—and who, incidentally, just happened to discover the body of an unknown girl on a local beach?”
“That wasn’t me. It was you, and Jeremy Ash.”
Much to his relief, she stood up and began pacing back and forth behind his chair. “Nonentities, as far as the press is concerned. Appendages. You are the story. Like it or not.”
He didn’t feel like a story. He felt, once again, like the “X” that marked the spot where the accident happened, and it was not a good feeling.
“Jeremy’s keeping them out in the cold, of course,” she continued. “‘Reporters Stampede Legless Boy!’ Not a good headline. He ‘plays upon them as upon a stringed instrument’, as Jeeves says. They’ll give up and go before much longer. It’s starting to rain.”
She ruffled his hair. “Dinner’s ready. Come on down.” She turned toward the door.
“What do you think she meant?”
“Who?”
“The girl on the beach,” Albert said. “Why did she say 'Venice'. What did that mean?”
She came back and settled herself on the floor at his feet. This time, without even thinking about it, it was he who ran his fingers through her hair. When she spoke, he realized what he was doing and immediately pulled his hand back.
She looked up at him, her eyes thick with honey or novacaine or something. “You don’t have to stop.” She took his hand and put it on her head, where it sat in silence for several seconds, and he looked at it as if it was a foreign object, and wondered what it would do. When it did nothing of its own accord, he took it back.
“Anyway,” she said, folding her legs under herself and standing up without using her hands, at which Albert marveled, “you might want to tidy up a bit, then come on down to join us.”
A moment later, she was gone.
What had just happened? he wondered, but quickly realized that finding answers to that question would probably turn him inside out, and he’d been turned inside-out enough lately.
What had she meant by “tidy up?” Should he bathe? Shower? Shave? Comb his hair? Clean his fingernails? Find a tuxedo? All the above? It was a relative term, entirely unrelated to him.
He ran his fingers though his hair, bent over to look in the mirror and, seeing there pretty much the same person he’d always seen—perfectly recognizable—went down to dinner.
Once the conversational niceties were over and everyone was on the same page regarding his whereabouts since lunch, Jeremy Ash brought him abreast of the latest news about the Girl on the Beach. “The police don’t have a clue who she is,” he began enthusiastically. “They had her picture on the news, . . . and yours, of course.”
“On the telly, all afternoon,” chirped Mr. Sweetman.
“. . . and the morning paper,” Jeremy Ash resumed.
“They’re offering a reward,” said Wendell from the far end of the table. “$5,000.”
“That’s about $2,500 in real money,” said Jeremy Ash.
Mr. Sweetman inhaled to fuel his objection but, being a gentleman, was silenced when Angela joined the conversation. “Not a word from anyone. No relatives. No friends, schoolmates. No one—and the pictures have run all over the country.”
Albert was eating his soup and trying to quiet the music Angela’s visit to his room had conjured in his brain. It was with this cacophony that the ambient conversation had to contend for his attention.
“She’s not from New Zea
land,” he said, almost without thinking.
Speculation—which is what the conversation had devolved to—came to a stop. “What do you mean, A?” said Jeremy Ash.
Albert, still staring into his soup—still trying not to think in 9/7 time, which is what that music was—slowly realized a comment had been directed at him. He looked up, first at Angela, then at Jeremy. “What?”
“You said she’s not from New Zealand.”
“Who’s not?”
“The Girl on the Beach, A,” said the boy in frustration. “We’re talking about the Girl on the Beach. You said she’s not from New Zealand.”
“Did I?”
Everyone nodded.
“Well, she’s not.”
“But why do you think that?”
Albert tilted his head slowly from side to side, sifting the question through his cognitive apparatus. “It’s not what I think. It’s what is.”
“He’s making me crazy,” said Jeremy Ash, pushing his wheelchair back from the table.
“What do you mean, Albert?” Angela prodded gently. His thoughts were not normal thoughts, she knew—and she’d been frustrated to the point of manslaughter many times over the last year—but she was determined, knowing that Albert would never change, to adapt herself to his way of thinking. If only she could figure out what that was. “What’s the difference between think and is?”
This was a reasonable question, Albert thought. He decided to think of a metaphor, which took a while. “I don’t have to think if a note is sharp or flat,” he said at last. “It is, whether I think it or not.”
“And this applies to the Girl on the Beach how?” Angela asked patiently.
“New Zealand’s a small country. If everyone has seen a picture of her, or heard about her on the radio, and nobody’s reported her—or someone like her—missing, then she must be a stranger. She’s from somewhere else.”
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