One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  Although Vincent thought he had succeeded, the results spoke for themselves. The critic did review the concert, but his remarks were bland and unlikely to change the world’s opinion of Margaret’s talent. And besides, although he found no fault with her playing, and even said a few polite words about her interpretation of Mendelssohn’s “Nocturne” from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the review was uninspiring, brief, and appeared in the pages “where they place items of no consequence,” as Margaret put it.

  Vincent knew it would only make matters worse if he tried to protest, so he changed the subject and started telling her about a man he had met at her second recital, an admirer who had also been to the first recital and was scarcely able to contain his enthusiasm. They were in the bedroom by then, and the woman who had looked after me while they were out had gone home. The door was closed, but I swear I heard every word they said. And yet I have to confess that I sometimes wonder whether I didn’t let my imagination run away with me, or whether I misheard bits of their conversation, because at that point she had lowered her voice, as though making it clear she had reached the heart of the matter.

  “Things might have been different if I hadn’t met you. I might have been . . .”

  My father was rarely lost for words, and I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. It was she who went on speaking after a silence.

  “You were in such a hurry to have a child. Couldn’t it have waited?”

  In general, I have always wished my father would have left unsaid most of what came into his head, but this time I waited breathlessly for him to reply. I don’t know whether Margaret’s words came as a shock to me, but somehow I doubt it. Looking back once more to that evening, it seems more likely that they confirmed what I had long suspected but refused to recognize. That is why I desperately needed him to say something that would make her take them back: “How can you say such a thing, Margaret?” or “We both know you don’t mean that.” But he kept quiet, possibly because he was also weary, possibly because he feared she would repeat her words, perhaps even more vehemently, rather than back down. I have often played their conversation out in my head, with a variety of different endings. But that is mere conjecture; everything that needed to be said had been said, and neither had anything to add.

  When I came downstairs the next morning, they were both sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper as though nothing had happened. Meaningless as it sounds, I have a clear memory of Vincent chomping on his toast the moment I entered. He was usually the first to say good morning, as she always sat with her back to the door, but this time she seemed to sense my presence, because she turned and smiled.

  “Are you up already?”

  Of course I had been awake for hours, having barely slept a wink, but had avoided coming downstairs.

  “Sit down with us and have some breakfast.”

  It was completely out of character; she never spoke to me like that, and I couldn’t help thinking that this charade was a continuation of their discussion of the night before, as if she were saying to Vincent: “See, even though you ruined my career, I’ve never taken it out on the boy.”

  Vincent droned on while I dredged up those scenes from the past. He lavished Margaret with praise, gave detailed descriptions of her interpretation of each work. Finally, he took us upstairs to show us the recording studio in my bedroom, and gave us each a copy of the first CD, which he said they would soon be distributing: Liszt’s Mephisto Waltzes.

  Kleuber couldn’t contain himself, and asked Vincent whether he wouldn’t play the CD for us, the beginning at least. Vincent needed no prompting, and we installed ourselves once more in the sitting room. I had the feeling the Llewellyn Hunts weren’t too happy about Kleuber’s proposal; Christopher in particular seemed suddenly uneasy. For my part, all I wanted was to flee, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least I would be spared any memories connected to the music, because I couldn’t recall ever having heard Margaret play the waltzes.

  It was still raining outside. I sat in the chair by the fireplace and listened as the soft drizzle merged with the music. Perhaps it was the story of Faust at the wedding feast that made me suddenly think about Florence, about Malena standing in the moonlight that seeped in through the window, her reaction when I put my arms around her and we gazed at the moon in the river and I asked her to marry me. I remember thinking how long it took before she replied.

  Christopher Llewellyn Hunt seized the opportunity after the first waltz to rise to his feet.

  “Wonderful news,” he said. “My heartfelt congratulations. Alas, we must be leaving. A reception at the college. Duty calls.”

  He spoke hurriedly yet courteously, and I followed them to the door, as discreetly as possible. When I fumbled in my pocket for the car keys, I noticed Margaret looking at me. She said nothing, but I could tell from the way she smiled that she knew what the score was.

  I duly took my leave, congratulating my parents, assuring them I would listen to the new CD at the first opportunity, and promising I would be back soon. I told them I was flying early the next morning, and on my way to Cambridge I called the airline to change my flight.

  I lay down as soon as I arrived at the guesthouse in Cambridge but couldn’t fall asleep. At three in the morning I got dressed, took my things out to the car, and set off for Heathrow. On the way I swore I would never come back to Allington.

  Chapter 10

  I came across the invoice for the rental car yesterday morning while tidying my desk. It was underneath a mound of papers along with the plane ticket and the Mephisto Waltzes, which Vincent made sure I took with me before I left. Simone says she can’t understand how I can work in this mess, but that’s nothing new. Although in most other ways I’m considered meticulous and well organized, I have always found it difficult to keep my desk clear.

  I was wondering whether I would ever actually play the CD when Anthony came in with some papers for me to sign. A great music enthusiast, he instantly noticed the Waltzes and asked me what it was. I was at a loss as to what to say, for I had never had any reason to discuss my parents with him. It occurred to me to change the subject, to simply say it was a gift before putting it in a drawer, but I found I couldn’t.

  “Your mother?” he said.

  I nodded.

  He seemed excited.

  “I wasn’t aware you came from a musical family. We’ve never spoken about music.”

  “I inherited neither the talent nor the interest,” I said.

  He appeared to take my comment at face value, but continued to look at the CD on my desk.

  “I’d love to listen to it sometime.”

  I handed him the CD.

  “Here. You can have it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have another copy,” I lied.

  He was extremely grateful, almost reverential, as he took the CD from me and started to read the cover. Anthony’s manner has never given me cause to complain, and yet somehow at that moment I sensed a change in his attitude toward me. I can’t explain it exactly, but I perceived certain deference, a trace of obsequiousness, which took me by surprise.

  After he left, I wondered whether his opinion would change after listening to the Waltzes. Simone had told me that he is an active participant in online music forums, mostly classical but some jazz as well, and has strong views, which he airs freely, especially when he thinks his favorites, in particular Mahler, are being unduly criticized. Otherwise what he writes is knowledgeable and impartial, she says, although he occasionally comes across as pedantic and arrogant. I suspect she is being a little unfair, and yet I can’t deny I rather regretted having spoken to him about Margaret and given him the CD of the Waltzes. On the other hand, I hadn’t had much of a choice.

  When Malena awoke after our first night together at my place, she came across an old LP in my bookshelves that I had forgotten about. It was the only recording of Margaret I possessed, Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, f
rom 1972. This was on a Saturday in early August, about a month after The Tempest. I had opened the balcony doors and was making coffee in my galley kitchen. At nine in the morning it was already hot, and Malena had slipped on a checked shirt of mine that reached down to her thighs. She had casually gathered her hair in a bun, and I was gazing at that, and at her slender neck, fully exposed, the baggy shirt draped over her slim shoulders, and her cheek, turned toward me as she read the cover. And then suddenly she looked at me and said:

  “Is this lady a relative of yours?”

  I gave a start. She turned the cover toward me so I could see it better, but there was no need.

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s my mother.”

  Margaret’s surname was Bergs, and she never spelled her first name the Icelandic way, Margrét, so there was no reason why Malena should connect her with me. Margaret C. Bergs—the C stood for Conyngham, of course, which is my surname, but Malena had no way of knowing that. And there was no mention on the cover of Margaret being from Iceland; she had never considered that worth flaunting.

  “What made you ask?” I said.

  She looked straight at me. I did my best to appear unfazed, but later she confessed I had failed.

  “I told you I’m a witch.”

  I mustered a smile. The day after The Tempest when I had called her to invite her out to dinner, she had suggested we first go to a performance at Juilliard where she said she taught modern dance. I was still reeling from my audacity of the night before, when, to my astonishment and that of Simone, I had asked Malena for her telephone number. I had quickened my pace when we came out of the theater, catching up with her just as she was about to disappear amid the crowd into the darkness of Central Park. I was so astonished at my own behavior that I felt as if I were standing outside myself as I walked up to her and made my request. And yet she made it easy for me, reaching into her bag for a pen and paper and noting down the number, while Simone and the man in the green trousers stared at us.

  “There you are,” she said simply, handing me the piece of paper.

  We arranged to meet outside the hall. I arrived early and waited on the sidewalk in the warm, humid evening. I had found it hard to concentrate on my work that day, and had taken an early train because I didn’t want to risk being late. On the way, I thought about what I should say to her. Our telephone conversation had been brief; I had had enough difficulty plucking up the courage to call, and she was in a hurry. I felt I needed to begin by explaining that I wasn’t in the habit of accosting women I didn’t know, and that my conduct at The Tempest was incomprehensible even to me. I didn’t want it to come out wrong, so I wrote down on a piece of paper what I wanted to say, read it over and over, changed it until I was satisfied with the result. I told myself it was important from the outset to clear up any possible misunderstandings.

  I hadn’t been waiting long on the sidewalk when I started to have second thoughts. The words which an hour before had seemed so meaningful on paper, sounded different in my head. How could I tell her my behavior had been silly? By doing so wouldn’t I imply that I was fickle, unable to stick to anything? Wouldn’t she conclude that the feelings that had made me approach her at The Tempest were insubstantial and might simply have disappeared, like dust in the wind?

  Those were my thoughts as she walked up the street. If she could read them on my face she didn’t let it show. She waved, smiling when she saw me, and my worries instantly disappeared. I no longer felt any need to explain and could see the words I had written on the piece of paper for what they were. And yet she hadn’t even spoken, and almost half a block still separated us.

  She seemed to know everyone and was clearly popular. She introduced me simply as “my friend Magnus,” as if there were no need for any further explanation. It occurred to me that she didn’t know my surname, but she didn’t seem to care. I didn’t know hers, either.

  At the beginning of the dance performance, she leaned over and told me she was worried about one of the dancers, a fair-haired young girl who I guessed was about twenty. That was all she said, and I thought it only natural that a responsible teacher should be concerned for her student’s welfare and imagine all kinds of possible mishaps. But when the girl limped off the stage a little later, I couldn’t help asking Malena how she had known.

  “I’m a witch,” she replied, and carried on watching the performance.

  She put the Mendelssohn on the record player and listened to the first few bars.

  “There’s a family likeness,” she said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Between you and your mother. A strong family resemblance.”

  I didn’t respond, but poured two cups of coffee and asked her if we shouldn’t sit outside on the balcony. I felt uneasy, and sensing this she put down the record cover. She changed the subject the moment we stepped outside, but I was still pensive.

  “My parents,” I said. “One day I’ll tell you about them.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I’m just not ready.”

  I feared she might interpret my words to mean that I didn’t think we were close enough for me to open myself to her, and I was about to say something to contradict that, but she spoke first:

  “I don’t need you to tell me more, Magnus.”

  She sat on my lap, placed one forefinger at each corner of my mouth, and gently pushed them upward.

  We both smiled.

  “Because you’re a witch,” I said.

  “Exactly, because I’m a witch.”

  We went into the bedroom and made love while Margaret carried on playing Mendelssohn in the living room.

  Chapter 11

  My work has suffered over the past few months. Of course I’ve been aware that progress has been slow, and yet only now as I start writing my yearly report to Hofsinger and the medical council do I realize how disappointing my performance has been. Simone’s and Anthony’s conscientiousness reflects well on me because I oversee their work, and I emphasize all they have done in my report. But it is hardly enough.

  Hofsinger turned a blind eye during the first month or so, but he has begun to insinuate that he thinks my grieving process, as it’s apparently called, has gone on long enough. Of course, he doesn’t put it like that, but I can read between the lines. He is right.

  I had the impression when I woke up this morning that Malena was lying next to me. It is like that sometimes for the first few seconds after I emerge from sleep, less now than before. I usually come to my senses before too long, but occasionally I find myself stretching my arm toward her, grasping at thin air. I am amazed it should still be happening. Her face never appears more clearly to me than in those fleeting moments.

  My poor performance means that our colleagues in Cambridge and Liège have taken the lead. We all benefit from one another’s work, but of course there is some rivalry between us. Hofsinger wasn’t very happy when Osborne told us during last week’s telephone conference about a patient they had received from Birmingham Hospital, a veteran of the Iraq War who was considered incapable of thinking or speaking, but had been able to reply to Osborne’s questions rather quickly and without major contradictions.

  Hofsinger looked at me while Osborne talked about the soldier, stating that he was in better shape than patient number twenty-two. I wrote down anything I thought significant and avoided his gaze. The greater Osborne’s enthusiasm, the bigger the frown on Hofsinger’s face. Osborne hadn’t mentioned this patient during a telephone conference we had had a fortnight earlier. And yet to judge from his account, their research on him must have started before that.

  Hofsinger inquired about the soldier’s history. Osborne gave him the details and described his condition when he returned from Iraq and was taken to Birmingham Hospital.

  “And when did you say he came to you?”

  “About a month ago,” Osborne said, leafing through some papers to make sure. “Yes, that’s right, the seventeenth.”

  Hofsinger ra
ised his eyebrows, looked at Simone, then at me, to make sure we realized what we were contending with. But Osborne is an honorable man, and has never gone behind our backs; indeed, I could hear from his voice that he had no idea what lay behind Hofsinger’s questions.

  As I had expected, Simone followed me to my office after the telephone conference to complain about Hofsinger.

  “He’s not happy,” I said.

  “You can say that again. What has Osborne done wrong?”

  “He’s disappointed with our performance,” I said.

  Silence.

  “My performance. My work has suffered since . . .”

  Simone tried to protest, mentioning the projects she and Anthony had been working on for the past few months.

  “We both know I’ve scarcely had a hand in them,” I said.

  “You two were so close,” she said then.

  I gave a start and turned away from her, pretending to look for a book in the cabinet by the window so she couldn’t see my face. Her words startled us both, and she clearly regretted them, but she couldn’t take them back. She had always been careful talking about Malena, and almost never mentioned her of her own accord.

  “Forgive me,” she said as I took a random book from the shelf and walked back to my desk. “It just came out.”

  It wasn’t long before our names became as one. Malena and Magnus, our friends would say, Magnus and Malena, as if we were no longer two separate beings. Her colleagues, mostly connected to the dance or ballet world, used to call us M&M. They found it funny, and we didn’t mind, as the nickname sort of confirmed how we felt.

  We were never apart after that evening at Juilliard. When we left the auditorium and decided to get something to eat at a restaurant on a side street close by, it felt as if we had been in the same situation and made the same decision countless times before. I felt as if I were opening a book in the middle and picking up the thread from there, without any need to flick back through the pages in order to remember the characters or the plot, because everything was clear as day.