One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  Malena’s response was measured. She appreciated me taking the trouble, but said she felt almost guilty, that it would be far easier for her to improve her English and to encourage her friends to do the same. I hadn’t said anything to her about it before I bought the books and CDs, because I was of two minds and only decided on the purchase when I found myself in our bookshop late one Saturday afternoon. I told her that, and she kissed me on the cheek and whispered something in Spanish, which, of course, I didn’t understand.

  I dutifully sat at my desk every evening before going to bed, and followed the instructions in the book for exactly fifty minutes. This method had received good reviews online, and people claimed they had learned the language in two months. If Malena went out to dinner or to a performance with her friends, I would use the opportunity to study before she came home, but mostly she was there in the apartment with me while I did the work. She would occasionally offer to help, but otherwise left me to my own devices. I had expected her to show more interest in my endeavor, but I didn’t say so. I supposed the situation made her uncomfortable; she was an unassuming person and didn’t like me to go out of my way because of her.

  That was what I supposed, and yet secretly I was beginning to suspect that she felt I was getting too close to her, in some way invading her privacy. The more I progressed, and started showing off, just for fun, by using a few simple words and expressions, and later more complex sentences and comments, the more I noticed that she increasingly responded in English. She behaved differently, too, when we met her friends; they were delighted that I was struggling to learn their language, and encouraged me, taught me new words and useful expressions, and corrected me when necessary. She seldom took part in those exchanges, and either remained silent or turned away and spoke, in English, with others in the group.

  I tried to make light of her behavior and didn’t find fault with it for fear she might pull away from me. I studied less and less when she was at home, and finally stopped altogether. Instead I would read on the train on my way to the hospital and listen to the CDs on my way home. I took advantage of the fact that one of the nurses is Mexican and practiced talking to her whenever I could. She corrected me pitilessly, and I memorized her comments or wrote them down.

  “El gorila es feliz,” I repeated after her, stressing the r in gorila and the second syllable in feliz. Estoy feliz.

  There were many bizarre sentences in that textbook.

  I was making steady progress, but was careful not to let it show when Malena and I were together. We never spoke about my Spanish studies, and I kept the books and CDs in my backpack rather than leave them lying around. Nor did I publicize it among her friends, although I had started being able to figure out what they were saying, and I always pretended to be absorbed in something else whenever she spoke to her mother or sister. That was less than before, and I suspected she called them more often now from the school, where she shared a small office with her companion from that night at the Delacorte, Alexander Kosloff, the ballet teacher in the green trousers.

  This may sound strange, but in other respects our relationship was perfect, with no shadows lurking. We enjoyed every moment we spent together, and when I was alone I only had to imagine her and my mood would lighten. We were so close that our friends would make fun of us for being like an old couple. I eventually became more outgoing, and she, who was the life and soul of any party, became more content to spend a quiet evening at home.

  We made love with the same passion as when we first met but were now also able to navigate each other’s thoughts. It never occurred to me that this might be a bad thing, until I started trying to memorize her words during these moments so that I could look them up later. Of course this was a silly idea, but curiosity got the better of me.

  She clearly read my mind, and in bed that night didn’t say a word. I had feared my memory might let me down, her words might become muddled in my head, so I listened and watched intensely, waiting for her lips to part. They did, and I glimpsed the tip of her tongue as usual, but when no words followed I became flustered.

  She must have noticed, but she didn’t let it show. Afterward, we lay next to each other, staring up at the ceiling, and I reached for her hand, fearing I might be losing her. But she responded, passing warmth and affection from her palm to mine, so I calmed down, promising myself I would set my Spanish studies aside.

  Maria, the Mexican nurse who had been helping me, shook her head when I told her I was taking a break from my studies, and said it was a mistake, just when I was hitting my stride. Malena’s friends noticed my waning interest and stopped teaching me slang words and other useful expressions, while Malena went on as before, avoiding speaking Spanish in front of me.

  She maintained her silence, too, when we were in bed, and I accepted that that wouldn’t change.

  She found her voice again on a Friday evening. I remember it had begun to rain on my way home, and when I got off the train the sky looked as gray as the streets. She was trying on a new dress in front of the mirror in the bedroom when I arrived and called out to me the moment she heard the door.

  “Does it suit me?” she asked.

  We made love with the rain falling on the windows, and before I knew it, the words came. The same ones as before, I assumed, and yet they seemed to have an added urgency, as if she had something important to say. Afterward, I noticed tears in her eyes for the first time. I was startled, but she smiled and said:

  “I just feel so good.”

  We ordered takeout from the Italian place on Columbus, and I went to fetch it while she set the table and lit some candles. I didn’t take long, but when I returned I could hear she wasn’t alone.

  Madame Roullard was standing by the kitchen table.

  “They’ve been invited to Iceland,” Malena said as I walked in. “To a literary festival.”

  Madame Roullard said something in French.

  “To a poetry festival,” Malena corrected herself. “She wants your advice.”

  “I haven’t been to Iceland since I was a child,” I said.

  Malena handed me a typewritten sheet of paper. In French.

  “She brought us a poem as a present,” she said, as if that might somehow revive my knowledge of Iceland.

  I thanked Madame Roullard, went into the living room, and fetched two illustrated volumes about Iceland which someone had given me.

  “Merci,” she said as I handed her the books, but I could tell from her expression that she considered them rather a meager offering.

  She left and we sat down to eat. Malena read the poem aloud, translating it for me, and then stuck it on the fridge where it remains to this day.

  “It’s very beautiful,” she said.

  Où même mes pensées ont peur

  De l’errance

  Sans un compagnon?

  “I’m afraid I can’t be of much use to them,” I said.

  “I’d love to go to Iceland.”

  “Really?”

  “With you.”

  “Someday,” I said, dissembling. “Maybe someday.”

  Chapter 14

  Anthony was waiting for me yesterday when I got to the hospital. My Metro-North train had been delayed, traveling at half speed and, on top of that, coming to a halt twice on the way. In addition, I had managed to leave home later than intended—on purpose, I might add. He had clearly been asking after me, because the moment I entered my office and took off my backpack, I heard a nurse call out to him: “He’s here.”

  The new patient was due to arrive that afternoon, a couple of days later than expected due to problems with paperwork. Simone complained that after Anthony’s trip to New Mexico, he was behaving as if the woman were his sole responsibility and was jealously guarding all information about her.

  “I decided to give him this opportunity,” I said, “so I can hardly start interfering now.”

  She raised her eyebrows and shook her head, but said nothing.

  “Things will
change once she gets here,” I added. “Until then, we have to let him run the show.”

  I had started the day brimming with optimism. I had slept well, and when I opened my eyes to the light, I felt no pang in my stomach, no wave of dread welling up in my breast. I had lain still, half expecting that strange feeling of contentment to disappear and for the numbness to take over. But it didn’t, and I felt in control of my thoughts, able to steer them away from memories that saddened me.

  The coffee tasted unusually good. I browsed the newspaper and opened the balcony doors, despite the cold weather. Before shaving, I turned on the radio and listened to some jazz and a soft-spoken woman reading a summary of the news. Perhaps I was afraid my peace of mind would disappear the moment I left the apartment, so I delayed getting going, even though I was eagerly awaiting the new patient’s arrival.

  I had barely had a chance to take off my jacket and scarf when Anthony entered my office. He was clearly excited.

  “I need to show you something,” he said.

  I assumed it would be about the new patient, and I hoped everything was all right, although I couldn’t tell from his expression.

  “On the computer,” he added.

  I typed in my password, and he shifted restlessly as the screen lit up. Then he leaned over, seized the mouse, and in no time had opened a webpage I had never seen before. He typed a few words, paused, then pointed at the screen and told me to read.

  It was a forum on Yahoo! for classical music enthusiasts. I immediately noticed my mother’s name and a picture of the CD I had given Anthony. I could see from the first few comments that everyone who had listened to it had loved it. Many boasted of having “discovered” her, and two of the forum members squabbled over who had first drawn attention to her. Others wanted information about her background and how to buy her CD. The one with the most posts declared he had been in touch with the record company, run by her husband, only to discover more CDs were about to be released.

  Anthony stood next to me while I read.

  “You haven’t seen this?” he said as I straightened up.

  “No,” I said.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I made a mental note of the name of the forum.

  “This doesn’t happen very often,” he said.

  I had stopped reading but was still gazing at the screen. He brought up another website.

  “Look, same here.”

  I only had to glance at the screen to see he was right.

  “Do you know which other CDs are about to be released?”

  I shook my head. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

  “Do you think it’s possible to get ahold of them in advance? I’d pay, of course.”

  His request didn’t surprise me, and I didn’t resent his audacity; he meant well enough, although it was obvious he wanted to be able to boast in front of the others about having beat them to it.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” he added.

  I told him I would look into it.

  Before leaving, he told me that everything was ready for the patient’s arrival; he was expecting her in the early afternoon.

  “I’ll let you know when she’s here.”

  I shut the door behind him, sat down at my desk, and continued to read about Margaret on the forum. I can’t say I found anything new: people didn’t seem to have a problem with repeating themselves over and over, siding with those who agreed with them, finding fault with those who didn’t, and generally trying to impress. Even so, many of them were knowledgeable and articulate, and I imagined you could get hooked on this if you had the requisite interest.

  My eye alighted on a brief comment posted by Anthony. His analysis of Vladimir Horowitz’s and Margaret’s interpretations of the Mephisto Waltzes had caught the attention of many on the forum. He spoke about the differences in accentuation before declaring that to his mind they were the two best interpretations of the work he had ever heard.

  I stopped reading and leaned back in my chair. I was surprised at how relaxed I felt; as a rule, the slightest mention of my parents was enough to make me uneasy. I had been expecting the usual despair to overwhelm me as Anthony stood beside me, and more so when he left me sitting alone in front of the computer. Yet it was like when I woke up that morning and lay in bed convinced my contentment couldn’t last: this serenity persisted.

  This state of mind inspired feelings of tolerance and even sympathy. I started to reflect on my mother’s life, all the disappointments I had witnessed as a boy, and I told myself that although her words and deeds had often hurt and I knew I could never forgive her, I could imagine how she herself felt. Especially in light of what was emerging: that she had indeed been unfairly judged. She had been trapped inside her own body, I told myself, like my patients: she wanted to make contact with the world; she felt she had something to say, something to contribute, and yet no one listened. She was ignored, sometimes even belittled, while others less deserving were idolized. And meanwhile, time went by. Perhaps people like her shouldn’t have children, perhaps she had only done it to please Vincent or to be like other women, perhaps she had always known she couldn’t serve both art and me.

  She had attempted to lure me into her world, the world of music. I couldn’t have been older than four, yet I remember clearly the two of us sitting side by side at the piano, she trying to teach me. I remember how gentle and positive she was at first, how attentive and encouraging. I made every effort, because I could feel that if I did there would be many moments like that, she and I alone at the piano on those peaceful afternoons, with nothing to disturb us.

  She tried to control herself, to hide her disappointment when she realized I had no talent, but she couldn’t. The smile vanished first from her eyes, then from her lips. Her words of encouragement became orders, her praise cries of despair. “No, no, no, not like that! For heaven’s sake!” Sometimes she would get up and disappear into the kitchen to simmer down, and when she came back she would say in a gentler tone: “Shall we try again?”

  In the end she gave up. I remember that one day when I sat down at the piano at the usual time, three o’clock, she walked straight past me without saying a word and went upstairs. She had just been practicing herself; I had heard her from my bedroom, where the babysitter was playing with me. When I called after her, Vincent appeared and sat down next to me. There would be no more piano, he said; Margaret had to rest. “What about tomorrow?” I asked. “No,” he said, “Margaret has to rest then, too.”

  I don’t think it had ever occurred to her that a child of theirs might not be musically gifted. I can just imagine Vincent trying to persuade her to have a child, conjuring up images of a close-knit family whose world revolved around music, above all her music. Perhaps she reckoned that two devotees were better than one, because people grow old and there is no knowing what can happen in a lifetime.

  I am not justifying her behavior; my sympathy doesn’t stretch that far, though I welcome this feeling of serenity. But I am trying to understand her, especially now that it has dawned on me, possibly for the first time, how underrated her talent has been. I even feel ashamed for having doubted her, for having so often found her pathetic.

  I saw before me the old black telephone in the hallway, the umbrella stand, the green rug, the pictures of Chopin and Mozart above the table. I could almost sense my parents’ presence and imagined hearing an occasional note emanating from the piano. I still felt calm, but even so I hesitated before picking up the phone and dialing the number that hadn’t changed since I was a boy.

  Chapter 15

  While I was a medical student at Yale, I was invited to take part in a study of how the brain perceives music. It was the subject of much conjecture at the time, and still is, although some progress has been made, and the work looked promising. The professor leading the research, Thomas Stainier, was barely forty but had already made a name for himself. He had been awarded a grant from the MacArthur Foundation when he was quite
young, and was expected by some to go far, possibly all the way to a Nobel. We students respected him, not least because he rode a motorcycle and played in a rock band. We would occasionally see him on his bike, more often than not with a woman riding pillion, arms clasped around his waist, wearing only a tiny black helmet for protection.

  Many students were eager to work in his lab, so I can’t deny I was proud when he approached me unexpectedly and offered me a place. We had met at a departmental meeting the weekend before, and had gone with a few other people to a bar in New Haven, where I had drunk more than normal. Not too much, but enough to loosen my tongue. Most of the people working with him had some knowledge of music; they had taken it as a subject together with biology as undergraduates, which is probably why I felt I had to say yes when he asked me whether I knew anything about music. I quickly added that I had never studied music myself, and was in fact talentless, but had been brought up in a musical family, and I told him my mother was a pianist.

  “So it’s in your blood,” he said, and sounded so emphatic that for a few days I believed him.

  When, a week later, I turned down his offer, he simply stared at me for a moment without saying anything. I expect he wasn’t used to people refusing him anything, either in his professional life or his personal life. He was above attempting to persuade me, but felt it was worth trying to probe a little—or perhaps to bring me down a peg or two.

  “Are you rebelling against your mother?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you feel you would somehow be following in her footsteps by undertaking this research?”

  “No,” I said.

  “If as you say you have no talent for music, aren’t you curious to find out what part of your brain determines that?”

  I didn’t like his questions, but I tried not to let it show.

  “Dr. Kirschner has offered me a placement,” I said. “I’m more interested in what he’s doing.”

  Stainier’s research lab was in a different wing from Kirschner’s, but even so I frequently bumped into him during my years at Yale. He would always grin and call out when he saw me: Conyngham, he would say, addressing me by my surname, and occasionally he would whistle a little tune for his own amusement.