“And the rehab?”
“It went well.”
“You should have let me know. I have a meeting. But I could take the train home when I’m done.”
“No,” she said, “don’t do that. I need to go to school. I’ll be there all day. I’m so behind with everything.”
“But you feel all right?”
“Yes, I feel good.”
“I can’t wait to see you this evening.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll buy some groceries.”
“Okay.”
“We can cook dinner together.”
I was longing to see her, to hold her in my arms, and it came through in my voice. I stopped talking and for a moment we listened to the silence through the telephone, and then she said, so softly I almost couldn’t hear:
“I love you.”
She hung up before I had a chance to respond in kind. But I held the phone to my ear, as if the echo of her words might vanish if I put it back in my pocket.
We cooked dinner and ate outside on the balcony. It was as if she had never been away.
That was on Wednesday. On Thursday evening she went to a dance performance in the East Village and slept at her apartment because the show ended late. I thought nothing of it, and we said good night over the phone before going to sleep.
It was Friday when she called me at the hospital to tell me she was taking the four o’clock train to see me. I remember standing at the window, looking down toward the sea, and deciding there and then to reserve a table with the pharmacist’s daughter, who had just opened a restaurant after a long stay abroad.
Chapter 25
Simone and I have never spoken about that evening in Liège. The next morning, we met in the lobby and walked to the hospital together. Having decided to leave early, she was wheeling a small suitcase behind her and was going straight to the airport after the meeting. It was chilly outside but not raining and patches of blue sky showed through the clouds. I had slept very little and she looked tired, too; neither of us said much. When we were halfway there, I managed to repeat a stuttering apology, at a red light. She looked away and I had the sense to say nothing more.
I have sometimes wondered whether, given the situation, it wouldn’t have been more honest of me to continue. Obviously, I am not trying to disguise the fact that this would undoubtedly have had other, possibly more complicated consequences, but at least I wouldn’t have humiliated her.
I was delighted when shortly afterward she started seeing a fellow who worked for a pharmaceutical company. He was a few years her junior and seemed pleasant enough. I told her so, perhaps a little too insistently given that I scarcely knew him. In any event, he was polite and his handshake inspired trust. Sadly, the relationship didn’t last long. Anthony maintained she had driven him away, but he knew nothing about it, of course.
I think we’ve both managed to forget that evening or at least come to terms with it in a way that doesn’t affect our relationship. And yet when I look at her sometimes, I can’t help remembering. It’s always painful, and I feel terribly guilty.
Anthony and Simone knocked at my door late in the day to give me a report on their joint assessment of our patient. They stood side by side, and it seemed there had been some major reconciliation between them. Anthony praised Simone for having noticed the much-discussed shadows, and Simone in turn said that a detailed study had shown that Anthony was right: the shadows themselves couldn’t account for the woman’s present state. They must be the result of an old injury or a viral infection, not even a serious one.
I nodded as they spoke, occasionally posing a question to show my interest, although nothing they said surprised me. I looked alternately at one, then the other, and when Simone sat gently on the edge of my desk and brushed the hair from her cheek, I suddenly started thinking about that evening in Liège. I could see her standing naked with her arms around me and whispering the words I won’t forget. Those memories had usually depressed me or made me ashamed, but this time they had no effect. I managed to concentrate on what she and Anthony had to say, and was quick to respond once they finished their report.
I felt good in those days, brimming with optimism. I would get up early and arrive at the hospital before my colleagues, eager to get to work. In fact, there was a reason for that, which I kept secret. I don’t know why, as there was no need for me to feel guilty about visiting our patient, either in the morning or in the evening when the others had gone home. And yet I decided not to mention it to Simone or Anthony, much less to Hofsinger. The busy ward nurses paid little attention to me, and besides, they were used to doctors coming and going as we pleased.
I spoke to our patient, told her where she was, described her surroundings. I talked about our research and tried to reassure her as best I could. Sometimes I would tell her what the weather was like, especially when it was nice. The stereo was still in place, and I would play my mother’s recording of Schubert, as well as a CD of popular Mexican songs which I had bought.
I felt sure her expression changed whenever I came close. Sometimes when I took her hand I could feel it grow warm, and then I also thought I noticed that inner light which occasionally lit her face. I saw it, too, the first time I put on the Mexican CD. It was late in the day, I was the only one left in our group, having seen Anthony and Simone walk out to the parking lot, first her, then him half an hour later.
I sat with her for longer than I had intended that evening, and when I finally realized the time, I had missed the last train home. I made up a bed in my office, fetched a sheet and blanket from the linen cupboard, but it took me a while to fall asleep. I had a restless night, and when I awoke just before three, I was convinced someone was calling me. Still in that state of confused semi-sleep, I was sure it was Malena’s voice, only it was coming from Mrs. Bentsen’s room. My conviction remained as I rose to my feet, even though it was as unlikely that I would be able to hear someone all the way from the west wing as it was that it should be Malena calling me.
Gradually, my head cleared, but instead of lying down again, I got dressed. All was quiet and my footsteps resounded through the corridor, despite my attempts to make as little noise as possible. I could still hear the faint echo of Malena’s voice, and I had an unpleasant feeling of disorientation, as so often happens when one wakes from a strange dream.
The lights were switched off in her room. The buttons and monitors on the machines glowed, and outside the streetlamps next to the steps in the parking lot gave off a faint light. The ventilator hummed. I assumed she was asleep and sat in a chair near the window rather than beside the bed.
I felt better in there with her than on the sofa in my office. The chair was low and comfortable, and when I leaned back and stretched out my legs, my eyelids started to grow heavy. I listened to the soft, rhythmical pulse of the ventilator, and before I knew it, I could hear the sea.
Chapter 26
I met Malena at the Cold Harbor station. She was late, but the weather was warm and, even though it was almost six o’clock, still good to be outside. Some of the trees had started to change color, but otherwise there was no real sign of fall. I stood in the sun while I waited, glancing every now and then down the tracks where they bend next to the old timber yards, but mostly I turned my face toward the sun and enjoyed feeling the warmth on my cheeks.
We spoke about the weather on our way down to the village, and she told me she had seen a woman on the train who reminded her of Madame Roullard.
“It was absolutely extraordinary,” she said.
“Was she French?”
She told me she didn’t know.
“Perhaps she was a poet,” I said.
She smiled.
We held hands. It was good to feel her hand in mine, and yet every so often her fingers seemed to twitch. The first time I felt it, I glanced at her instinctively, but she didn’t respond so I said nothing and started thinking about something else. There are two ways from the train station to t
he village of Cold Harbor: one close to the old country road, not much used but paved; the other, to the north, a trodden dirt track dating back to when cattle roamed freely. I described both, and she said she wanted to go along the track even if it took longer. I wasn’t surprised, as I had told her it was prettier and quieter; that you could see the ocean in the distance and on the way there was a pond with marshes next to it full of birdlife.
The breeze down by the sea had an autumn feel. We lingered on the beach and I taught her how to skim stones. She was clever at finding the right ones, but gave up after two failed attempts. We met no one apart from an elderly man walking his dog; we said hello and he said hello back, and Malena bent down and patted the dog.
We didn’t talk much on the way, and yet far from being ominous our silence enabled me to concentrate on her hand in mine, until I let go of it and put my arm around her. Then she slipped her arm around my waist and we continued walking toward the village as the rays of the afternoon sun were rippled by the waves, and I told myself how happy I was to have her back. A few days earlier, it had for a moment entered my head that she might be settling back in her home country.
I started telling her about the village where time seems to have stood still. We were outside the old café next to the pharmacy, and I remember two children, siblings I supposed, biking past us down the street. I said that apparently the street hadn’t changed since the fifties, I pointed to the “H” that had been missing from the sign above the door to the pharmacy since I first came there, and showed her the Old Spice poster in the window, and the pharmacist’s recommendation hanging on the door: Live a healthy life, avoid medication.
Then I pointed to the restaurant across the street and was about to tell her about the pharmacist’s daughter when suddenly she took hold of my arm, not in an anxious way and yet I instantly stopped talking and looked at her. And then she said the words which have echoed in my head ever since:
“Magnus, I’m not well.”
Maybe it was her choice of words that confused me for a second, or her expression, which showed concern for me, not for her.
She repeated the same words and added: “But there’s no need for you to worry.”
“What’s the matter?” I managed to say at last.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Silence.
“Not right now. But I had to tell you. I’ve been meaning to for a while.”
I stood motionless, my heart pounding as my whole body drained of strength.
“Right now I just want you to show me the village, for us to have a meal and drink a little red wine before we take the train home. That’s all I want. There’s no need for you to worry.”
I longed to tell her that she couldn’t leave it like that, she couldn’t shatter everything with one sentence and expect us to behave as if nothing had happened. But my tongue was stuck, and then the children came biking back up the street, smiling at us, and she waved to them before we crossed the street.
We sat by the window in the restaurant. It was seven o’clock. The waiter filled our glasses with water and handed us the menus. It was still light outside. Malena started to talk about the dance performance they were preparing to stage later that month, but I couldn’t concentrate, and her words went through one ear and out the other. I was thinking about the evening in Florence when she tripped, the walk up Snæfellsjökull, the accident on Flatey. I had been blind.
I said that to her.
“How could I have been so blind?” I said.
She had been describing the dance performance as if she could see it before her, and I had interrupted her. She fell silent. The waiter came over and recommended the monkfish served on a bed of fresh vegetables. We ordered.
The shadows were getting longer on the street. We looked out at the dusk, and she reached for my fingers across the table.
“I don’t want to become your patient,” she said. “I don’t want that.”
We ate. I tried to listen to what she was saying about the performance, about her sister in Buenos Aires and her mother who danced tango on Tuesday evenings at a senior citizens’ club. I managed to say something every now and then to make it seem that I was interested, and I could see her relax. In the meantime, my brain was dredging up one situation after another, putting together words and events, surmising, concluding.
“Blind,” I said to myself again, “totally blind.”
She hardly ate anything, pushing the food around on her plate. She asked the waiter whether the soup contained cream and to make sure her fish wasn’t salted. She had never worried about such things before.
I said nothing until the waiter brought us blueberries for dessert. It was getting a little chilly and he closed the window.
“Why did you come up here to tell me this?”
She hesitated, then seemed to decide that my question didn’t violate her order not to speak about her illness.
“That way we can leave this conversation here. Take the train and leave it behind.”
I could see she was getting tired, and refrained from asking more questions. The journey and her announcement had taken their toll on her, although she did her best not to let it show. The spoon trembled slightly in her hand and when she put it down her fingers continued shaking. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She tried to smile.
The waiter called a cab for us. On the way to the station we held hands in silence and looked out into the darkness. Behind us the moon shone on the bay.
We were standing on the platform waiting for the train when I said: “Salt and dairy products are harmless. But it might be good for you to eat foods which are high in carbohydrates and calories.”
I tried to sound encouraging, as if to say that we were going to fight this together. But I was already fearing the worst, and my words sounded hollow.
She looked away, and I took her in my arms and held her tight as if I were preventing her from being taken away.
“It’s going to be all right,” I said. “It’s going to be all right.”
Soon afterward the train arrived and we sat, exposed, under the harsh lights of the half-empty car.
Chapter 27
The CDs arrived in two batches; first the Mephisto Waltzes in a padded envelope, and two days later the Liszt and Schubert in a small box. Five copies of each. Both packages contained a flyer briefly describing Margaret’s career, with selected quotes from reviews of her performances, and an invitation to customers to place orders for seven more CDs, which would be released in the following weeks. Those who purchased all seven CDs would receive a twenty-five percent discount and a signed photograph of Margaret.
It was only when I took the CDs out of the box that I realized three of them had been damaged in the post. The cases were cracked and the CDs themselves were scratched, two of them so badly they were unplayable. I’ve become quite good at shrugging off problems and frustrations, so it was strange that I should take this accident so much to heart.
I examined the packaging and concluded that it was too flimsy. The box contained no padding so the CDs were exposed, rattling around inside. What a cruel fate, I thought, if this shoddy packaging became a subject for discussion, possibly even bringing the whole enterprise into disrepute. It often took no more than that, I told myself, for all those online tributes to turn against one. Lofty reflections on the beauty of music would give way to complaints about amateurism. And then there’d be the devil to pay.
I thought I owed it to Vincent to let him know. I was due to attend a departmental meeting in ten minutes and called him at once.
He picked up after a few rings.
“Magnus! Are you in New York?”
“No, I’m at the hospital.”
“In Connecticut?”
“Yes.”
As always, he told Margaret that it was me who was calling.
“It’s Magnus Colin!” I heard him shout. “He’s at the hospital in Connecticut.”
I didn’t hear what she replied, but he raised his voice and repeated the announcement, or part of it, anyway: “Magnus, Magnus Colin!”
“We have a visitor,” he told me then. “You met him at Margaret’s party. Hans Kleuber. He’s helping us out. We’re terribly busy, Magnus. I hope you’ve been following events.”
I told him I had.
“Beyond our wildest dreams,” he said. “And now we’re getting ready to release another seven CDs. Seven, Magnus.”
I told him I’d read about it.
“Where?”
I mentioned the flyers.
“Did you order some CDs from us?”
“Yes,” I said. “Five of each.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “I have to tell this to Margaret.”
Rather than calling out, he set down the receiver. I could hear his footsteps as he walked away and shortly afterward the muffled sound of his voice. I assumed they were in the living room.
I looked at the clock. The meeting was about to begin. I was getting anxious when finally he came back.
“Five, you said?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Five!” he cried out. “Five of each!”
I had to go straight to the point.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” I said. “About the shipments. Three of the CDs were damaged.”
“You want them replaced? No problem.”
“That’s not the point,” I said. “The packaging was poor. I think it could be a problem.”
“We’ve had no complaints,” he said.
“Two of the CDs were so badly scratched they are unplayable.”
He asked about the packaging. I gave him a detailed description of both the box and the envelope, telling him that the former contained no padding and the CDs weren’t properly protected.
“The son has taken over the company. His father ran it better. I did business with him for years. Then he passed away and Jimmy took over. He has some kind of business diploma but is incapable of thinking big. I’ve told him so.”
One Station Away Page 14
