I felt strange afterward. I am not naturally impulsive and yet I had instantly typed in my credit card number and my address, and opted for express delivery despite the extra cost. But now, as I leaned back in my chair and looked at the confirmation of sale on the screen, I started to question myself.
Had I needed the comments on the forum and the magazine reviews to be convinced of my mother’s genius? Was I just any other member of the herd, incapable of making up my own mind, so immature that I had been allowing distant events to cloud my judgment? Or did I simply have no ear for music? Had I only been entranced by her interpretation of Schubert because I had been told to? And did I believe that in buying these CDs I was somehow atoning for my dismal behavior?
I shook my head to rid myself of these thoughts, stood up, and tried to reassure myself. Hadn’t the Gramophone reviewer proclaimed that my mother had undergone a transformation, and that her Mephisto Waltzes bore no comparison to her interpretation of Chopin’s piano sonata no. 3, the last work she recorded before disappearing from view? Did he not say that she had matured as an artist, her sensitivity deepened, her approach to pitch, rhythm, and sorority reached a level not previously heard in her performance? Was it any surprise then, that I, a mere layman, hadn’t glimpsed her talent before now?
I carried on in this way for a while, blaming and justifying myself by turns, never getting to the bottom of things needless to say, leaving myself hanging in the air. And that’s where I was when Simone cleared her throat in the doorway. I gave a start, and must have had a bewildered expression when I looked up because she said:
“Is something wrong?”
I could see on the computer that it was almost twelve, and I felt guilty for neglecting her. But instead of making up an excuse, I decide to tell her the truth (or part of it at any rate) in the hope of disarming her.
“My mother,” I said, handing her the Schubert. “She’s become an overnight success.”
She looked at the front and back of the CD then at me.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” I said. “It feels like everything has been turned upside down.”
Some weeks after Malena died, I confided in Simone that I hadn’t told my parents about her death, and I wasn’t sure whether I would or not. It was a mistake, of course, because remarks like that demand further explanation. I had immediately tried to change the subject and answered her questions evasively, but I couldn’t help telling her more about my parents and my upbringing than I would have liked. More than I had ever told Malena.
Simone’s curiosity was understandably piqued, and any thoughts she might have had about scolding me for being almost an hour late for our meeting evaporated. I told her about Margaret’s birthday party, the recordings my father had made in my old bedroom, the Mephisto Waltzes, Schubert, Liszt. I showed her the reviews in Gramophone and MusicWeb, but not the Usenet or Yahoo! pages, because I didn’t want her to know about Anthony’s part in this. I didn’t see how it would benefit anyone.
“It says here she was forced to retire for a while due to illness.”
Simone was reading an interview with Vincent that I hadn’t noticed; it followed the review on MusicWeb, and was titled: “Out of the Silence.”
In the interview, among other things, Vincent went on to explain that this forced retirement had been due to “serious digestive problems” for which doctors, despite exhaustive tests, had been unable to find any explanation.
“I think her health problems have always been somewhat psychosomatic,” I said.
I was startled by how callous my remark sounded, and I could see that Simone was, too. At the same time, it raised a question about how little I knew about my parents’ lives during those years when Margaret was at home recording one masterwork after another, and it reminded me how seldom we were in touch.
“‘We thought Margaret would never play again to her own satisfaction,’” I read myself now from the interview with my father, “‘for she has always been her own harshest critic. Her illness was a terrible ordeal, made worse by the fact that her doctors were left scratching their heads. I started the recordings here in the living room as a way of passing the time. Not for any other motive. And so that she could listen to herself playing. I thought that might do her some good. But she never did, because she had no need. Every note was etched on her memory and no recording could compete with that . . . Naturally, she was forced to stop sometimes, although she would often play through the pain. I could hear her groans when I played the recordings back. That was heartrending, of course . . .’”
Simone and I were huddled together over the desk reading the interview on the screen.
“He’s eloquent,” Simone said.
“Yes, he always had that,” I said, and then added, to my own surprise: “The shrink I was seeing asked if Margaret might have some form of autism or Asperger’s . . .”
“Does she?”
“I had never thought about it . . . He also suggested I take some tests myself . . .”
She smiled.
“What’s funny?”
“He’s probably never met an Icelandic Englishman before.”
It was good to be able to laugh.
“Am I that bad?”
“Yes, of course you are.”
Before she left I told her I had bought five copies of all of Margaret’s CDs.
“As gifts,” I explained.
“Good for you.”
“Perhaps I haven’t been such a good son to them.”
Chapter 23
I have put off recalling certain events that might clarify my relationship with Simone. Not that I am trying to avoid it—not intentionally, at any rate. I started reflecting on those incidents again as part of my attempt to understand some of the things Malena said during those final months, because I still seem to be uncovering clues which, for whatever reason, I couldn’t grasp at the time.
Malena and I had known each other for maybe a month when Simone first cropped up in conversation. I don’t remember what the subject was, and it doesn’t matter. I might have been discussing my research, or perhaps we were reminiscing about the evening we met at the Delacorte Theater. What I do remember is that we were sitting out on my balcony watching night descend over the city, the birds disappearing among the leaves on the trees in the back garden, heads under their wings. We had finished eating, and were sitting over our wineglasses; she was leaning back in her chair, her feet on my lap. A half-moon was visible between the towers of the Eldorado on Central Park West, and we made a quick bet on which direction it was moving: she said south, I said north.
We watched it silently drift behind a cloud as I stroked the soles of her feet. It was then that she said, out of the blue:
“She’s in love with you.”
“Pardon?”
“Simone. You know she’s in love with you.”
“Nonsense,” I said.
She smiled.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“There’s never been anything between us,” I said.
“You have to be kind to her,” she said.
Fortunately, the moon brought the conversation to an end as it emerged from behind the cloud, now touching the southern tower.
“You see,” she said. “You lost.”
I was careful to mention Simone as little as possible after that, and Malena saw no reason to bring up her theory again. I’m sure I realized there was some truth in what she said, but I decided not to think about it. They got along well on the few occasions they met, and Malena was friendly and considerate toward her, for example, at hospital get-togethers where she would make sure Simone sat at our table, and always managed to get her to laugh or talk about her interests.
After our trip to Iceland, she brought up Simone’s name more frequently. She did it cleverly so the context always seemed natural and I never suspected anything. Only later—when Malena was dead—did it suddenly all become clear.
Still, it would be wrong of me to us
e Malena’s words as an excuse, even if they were a desperate attempt on her part to prevent me from being alone after she was gone. She was looking ahead, although she probably knew there was little chance that Simone and I would get together, even with her blessing.
We were staying in Liège. It was about six weeks since Malena had died. I should never have gone on that trip, but somehow I had convinced myself it would do me good. On the way to JFK, I almost asked the taxi driver to turn around, but I pulled myself together, and again when I lost my nerve at the security gate. I had suddenly remembered the day I accompanied Malena to the airport and watched her walk through that very gate, waiting for her to look back over her shoulder. I was able to get a grip on myself as I felt my legs go weak, but I forgot to take my laptop out of my briefcase and left my cell phone in my pocket, for which I received an earful from the security staff.
That was on Monday evening. Simone had flown out ahead of me because she wanted to spend the weekend with her family, and was already at the hotel when I arrived. There was a message from her waiting for me at reception and I called her after taking a shower and hanging my clothes in the closet. She had just gotten back after going out for a restorative run. The plan was to meet Moreau and his colleagues the following day, so Simone said we should take a tour of the city, that it was time we got to know it better. I had hardly slept on the plane and was tired, but I went along with the idea since I had nothing else to do and I didn’t like being alone.
We visited a few museums, but mostly strolled through the streets and parks, down by the river Meuse, which we crossed and recrossed, finally sitting outside a café in Place du Marché where we had a drink. The weather was fine, though perhaps too cold to sit outside, but we did anyway and our drinks warmed us. We chatted about nothing in particular, and it felt good to be there with her, and I soon ordered another drink.
When we got up to leave it was time for dinner, so we went to a small restaurant which Simone found on her phone, and were given a table by the window. It was getting dark outside and the waiter lit a candle. We ordered a starter and a main course and a bottle of red wine which the waiter recommended. I felt better and tried to make fun of myself, probably somewhat bitterly, as Simone leapt to my defense, though that hadn’t been my intention. She said she was worried about me, and I insisted she needn’t be, though possibly my words lacked conviction. I told her there was nothing I disliked more than being pitied, at which she replied that I couldn’t control other people’s feelings, or words to that effect. I sensed what she was getting at and took her hands in mine for a few moments. She smiled, and we finished our meal and walked back to the hotel through the still night. It was chilly, and when I saw her hunch her shoulders to ward off the cold I put my arm around her. She is a beautiful woman, smart, warm, and caring. When we reached the hotel we went straight up to her room.
We undressed each other, and I kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts as we stood in the middle of the floor; she put her arms around me and whispered words in my ear which excited me, but which I have difficulty imagining her uttering when I think about them now. We dragged each other onto the bed and she lay on her back with me on top, and we both knew what was coming when I failed. It happened without warning, as though all at once I was being shaken from a deep sleep. I crumpled and she understood instantly what was going on. I sat on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands.
“Forgive me,” I whispered.
She said nothing but lay motionless. After a while, I picked my clothes up off the floor and got dressed. I turned around in the doorway and tried to think of something to say but couldn’t and closed the door silently behind me.
I remember finding the lights out in the corridor painfully bright.
Chapter 24
Simone discovered shadows on the images. I wasn’t all that surprised; she has a sharper eye than most and is prepared to spend hours poring over the computer, contemplating every square millimeter until she discovers the minutest discrepancy. On this occasion, of course, there was her added desire to take Anthony and me to task, although I don’t want to make too much of that.
She approached me discreetly with her findings and spared me any criticism or unnecessary commentary.
“Perhaps it’s worth taking a closer look” was all she said.
The shadows, which could be a sign of trauma in the thalamus and the neocortex, were visible only from one of many angles in a handful of images. I couldn’t find them myself, despite her precise instructions, and had to ask her to show them to me. I summoned Anthony so he could go over the images with us; he instantly became defensive and even brought up Simone’s episode with the speech therapist, but dropped it when he saw that she was right. However, he couldn’t resist pointing out that since it was impossible to draw any conclusions about these shadows we should stick to our guns and attempt to communicate with the patient as planned. The technicians had already started hooking up the software to the MRI scanner and had convinced Anthony that the program they had been troubleshooting over the past few weeks would be ready in a day or two. He said they were still refining it but the modifications looked promising: the images appeared on the screen faster and were much clearer than before. This was good news and I suggested we use the time to make sure the shadows Simone had found were harmless. I assumed they were, I said, but we had to make sure. Neither was pleased: Anthony thought I was paying too much heed to Simone, and Simone thought my claims were rash, but I was thinking about the tremor in her eyelid and the music that had changed the look on her face, illuminating her from inside.
“And then we have to find another name for her,” I said. “I don’t think Adela suits her. And we can’t call her ‘patient two hundred and twelve.’ That’s just awful.”
I spoke fast and was more excitable than usual, and they both looked at me rather strangely. That didn’t bother me, and I attempted to cheer them up by making a joke. It failed but I found it amusing. As I left the lab I told them I had absolute confidence that they would reach a consensus.
Perhaps it was the weather that had this effect on me, the sunshine when I woke up that morning, now flooding the lawn surrounding the hospital and the fields down by the sea. I walked over to the window and flung it open and my thoughts were as bright as the day.
I seized the opportunity to think about Malena. It’s rare for me to be able to do so without sadness, but now I let the memories emerge as I stood by the window gazing at the village of Cold Harbor in the distance.
With hindsight, I must have suspected something wasn’t right when she called to say she was taking the train up to Connecticut to see me. Of course I was busy, barely able to answer the phone and make a mental note of what time her train arrived, and yet I still don’t understand how I could have been so unprepared for the news.
She had stayed on longer than planned in Buenos Aires. When she took off, I checked her flight on the computer, saw when she landed, and called her. She didn’t pick up, but shortly afterward I received a text message from her saying she had arrived at her mother’s house.
I talked to her only twice while she was in rehabilitation. Both were brief conversations, the first because she was sitting down to a meal with her family, and the second because she was on her way to yoga. She spoke rapidly both times and said she missed me, but I should have sensed she wanted to get off the phone. On the other hand, she sent me regular text messages, which were brief and frankly rather forgettable. When she had been away for about a month, I sent her a text telling her I wanted to visit her, that I had found a cheap flight leaving Thursday evening and returning late Sunday, we could spend the weekend together. But she responded coolly, saying she had promised to accompany her mother out of town that weekend to visit her relatives and didn’t want to break her word. I suggested I come the following weekend, and then she said she was thinking of moving up her departure and would probably be back in New York no later than Sunday. Naturally, I welcomed the new
s and was surprised when she changed her plans. Her mother had taken ill, she told me, and she didn’t want to leave her until she got better.
Of course I could sense that something wasn’t quite right. But I blamed the injuries, told myself it was only natural she felt a little depressed and disoriented, that it was actually surprising how well she was holding up. Not only had she been forced to pull out of two dance performances, but on top of that she was unable to fulfill her teaching obligations. She was used to dancing alongside her students and had more than once talked about how she couldn’t stand at a distance and explain what she meant: she had to show them.
Yes, it must be the injuries, I told myself, and then it was only natural that her family in Buenos Aires would want her to stay on so that they could spend time with her when she wasn’t in physical therapy or practicing yoga. I had to be patient to make sure I avoided pressuring her in any way.
Occasionally I would ask myself how well I really knew her, but then I had only to imagine her in my arms, her eyes, her mouth, and I felt better.
I was shocked when she called me on Wednesday morning to tell me she was back in New York. It was nearly eleven and I was on my way to a departmental meeting.
“Are you at the airport?” I asked.
“No, I’m at home.”
“When did you arrive?”
She paused.
“This morning.”
“Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I didn’t want to bother you. You’d have had to get up at five to come and fetch me.”
“So what?”
“It was really unnecessary.”
I could hear from her voice that my questions were futile.
“How are you?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
One Station Away Page 13
