“I should have called before. I’ve often thought about her. But you know how it is . . .”
We said good-bye. When I looked up, I saw that Anthony had just come through the door.
“We’re waiting,” he said, his impatience palpable.
Chapter 35
She went on as before. I gradually stepped back and let Simone and Anthony take the reins. Simone was better at Spanish, so she spoke to the patient while Anthony focused on the computers along with the technicians. I watched from the sidelines, increasingly convinced that the young doctor was right.
She kept them working, responding just enough that they wouldn’t give up. She seemed to have no difficulty now imagining herself walking from room to room, although she tended to respond faster to instructions that tested her motor complex. Simone and Anthony talked about a definite improvement, comparing notes during breaks, their faces at once serious and confident.
They felt they were getting even closer to her when they managed to get her to respond alternately in the motor complex and the parahippocampal gyrus, pointing out that until then, she had only seemed able to concentrate on one area at a time. I had slipped out for a moment when this happened, but Anthony tracked me down and asked me to come immediately. It was good to see him so excited, and I hurried with him to the elevator.
Simone was standing next to the microphone.
“Imagine you are playing tennis . . . Good. Now imagine you are walking from one room to another . . . Excellent . . . Imagine once more that you are playing tennis . . .”
Anthony stared trancelike at the screen as the corresponding areas lit up, but Simone was careful not to change her tone until she announced that they were done for the time being, at which she praised the patient for her performance.
“You did very well. We’ll carry on tomorrow.”
They were in good spirits when we sat down in my office to go over the day’s results. Simone said that I had been right, whereas she and Anthony had started having doubts, that the patient showed every sign of coming around and now we could start trying to talk to her.
I nodded, but perhaps with less conviction than she was expecting.
“You don’t think she’s capable of that?”
“Yes,” I said. “She should be.”
They left and I sat at my computer with the dictionary and started collecting my thoughts. I tried to find the appropriate words, place them in context, avoiding false friends and blatant mistakes. Normally, I would have consulted Nurse Maria, but I couldn’t do that now. By the time I had finished, it was nearly eight o’clock.
I assumed that one of the nurses had put Schubert on the CD player for her. After closing the door behind me I stood for a moment, listening to the music and watching her as she lay on the bed, the overhead light shining on her face. It was bright, so I switched it off and put on the bedside lamp instead before turning down the music.
I was sure she recognized my footsteps, but I introduced myself anyway as I sat down next to her, taking the sheet of paper out of my pocket. I wasn’t in any hurry, and so I read over what I had written, realizing I knew it by heart. Even so, I waited awhile longer, perhaps because I was nervous. That surprised me after all my preparations, but at last I cleared my throat and began to read.
I felt as if I were listening to someone else. My voice sounded different, stiff and hesitant. I tried to change my tone but couldn’t. I thought of stopping, but of course it was too late for that.
I thanked her for having followed our instructions and told her I had always known she could.
“Not only are you able to imagine yourself playing tennis or walking between rooms,” I said, “but it’s also clear to me that you decide at will whether to do as we ask or not.”
I told her that of course I didn’t know the reason for this, but that I assumed she was being cautious, possibly even that she was afraid. I assured her she needn’t be. That she was safe here with us. Once again, I told her who Simone and Anthony were, explained her situation, described her room, the MRI scanner in the basement, our research. I had done so before, but I felt I needed to repeat it for her so she could understand the context.
The following morning, she would be asked to reply to a series of questions with a “yes” or a “no.” I explained the procedure once again and told her she wouldn’t find it too much of a strain. I had intended this to be a pep talk, and yet my tone sounded more authoritative than encouraging. I realized that and cleared my throat, repeated my words, trying this time to come across as warm and caring, but the damage had been done.
I had intended to stay with her for a while longer but couldn’t wait to get away. I tried not to let it show, turning the music up before I said good night and taking her hand in mine.
Out in the corridor, I could feel the anger I had been trying to suppress the past few days flare up again. I snatched my backpack off the desk chair and raged against Monsieur Chaumont in my head all the way to the Cold Harbor train station.
Chapter 36
The producer sent me recordings of the interviews with Margaret and Vincent. They were short clips, unedited fragments, and with them came a message with her request that I should come to Allington. I had delayed arranging an interview in New York, ignoring her e-mails and calls. The e-mails were short, obviously written in a hurry, probably from her cell phone, as they contained no capital letters, and included numerous typos and almost no punctuation. And yet her message was clear enough: they wanted to broadcast the program as soon as possible, as this was in Margaret’s best interests—as well as those of the BBC, she said candidly. The coverage of my mother would only increase, and I must understand that they didn’t want others to get there before them.
Her arguments had no effect on me, for I didn’t understand what they thought they would get from talking to me. I couldn’t shed any light on my mother’s musical talent, her service to the muse, or anything else they might possibly be interested in. And I had certainly no interest in talking about my family life or my upbringing.
Eventually, I inserted the disc into the computer. The first images were of the outside of the house, then of Margaret sitting at the piano. She played an extract from Rachmaninoff’s second sonata, the work she had performed for us at her birthday party. Her gestures were the same, her movements and facial expressions identical to the ones I remembered, both in the slow passages when she closed her eyes and let her head tilt backward and in the faster, more frantic ones when she pounced on the keyboard, like a bird of prey on its quarry. The extracts weren’t long, and when she stopped, she sat motionless, gazing toward the chair where Vincent always sat when he listened to her play. He wasn’t in the picture, but I was certain she was looking at him, I could tell from her expression, which bore a trace of unease. Did I do all right? her eyes seemed to ask. Was that good enough?
She isn’t used to the clamor of a television crew, I told myself, and yet somehow I felt uneasy.
However, in the snippets of interview that followed, she was much more like her official self. That distant look, those rambling, almost evasive replies. The questions centered on her childhood and her earliest encounters with music, the influence of her parents and teachers, creativity’s demands.
“I don’t remember a time when I didn’t play. I can’t picture myself without a piano . . .” “It would be like trying to imagine myself without a head . . .” “My mother used to say that she never felt me kick when she was carrying me, only my fingers practicing my scales . . .” “My parents loved music, and art . . .” “Our home was perfect . . .” “In my memory it is always filled with sunlight . . .”
Her creative needs? “Music is my oxygen . . .”
That was her way: you couldn’t pin her down. Her words like smoke rising into the air, drifting for a moment before disappearing. As if they were never there.
She was asked about other pianists.
“My dear, I stopped listening to other pianists a long t
ime ago. It only confuses things. It’s difficult enough listening to the music in my own head.”
Vincent was true to himself when the interviewer asked him about the music world. Margaret had always remained aloof from it, he claimed, avoiding rivalries and cliques; she had dedicated herself to her art, to her vocation; she had always considered that the innate beauty of art, which she longed to bring to her listeners, was tainted by those who used it to further their careers.
When asked about Alfred Brendel or Maurizio Pollini, those pianists who were receiving the most accolades when Margaret should rightfully have been at the top of her game, Vincent’s tone changed. At least, I had never heard him express himself so candidly, save at the kitchen table in Allington.
“Alfred Brendel? Talented, yes. Undeniably, in his limited way. But it’s no coincidence that he never plays Chopin. And I think he’s quite right. For Chopin, you have to dig deep . . . And Pollini? An amazing technician. Perhaps the best. He plays every note with clinical precision . . . It’s like watching the most skilled surgeon at work: you know he will save the patient’s life, but without discovering much about the soul . . .”
I realized what had happened; Vincent had got carried away, spurred on by the director’s obvious delight at his antics. I watched him on the edge of his seat, saw the glint in his eyes, his hands waving about. He certainly didn’t dislike being the focus of attention.
I was about to press the stop button, when I heard the interviewer mention another name.
Vladimir Ashkenazy?
I instinctively leaned closer to the screen. Vincent hesitated for a moment, stroking his cheek and knitting his brow as if he were trying to find a polite answer to a difficult question.
“I can’t say I was surprised when he took up conducting full-time,” he said at last. “Let’s hope he finds himself there.”
I couldn’t watch anymore and turned it off.
I sat still, wondering how I could make the producer understand once and for all that I didn’t want anything to do with this project. Hopefully, once my father had calmed down, he would ask her and the director not to use that clip they had sent me, but it was by no means certain. He was jubilant, deserved his spotlight after decades in the darkness, in silence and obscurity. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t spoil the image of my parents that was being presented.
Just as I had resolved to remain at the computer and let the producer know about my decision, Anthony knocked on the door. He and Simone had been preparing the next stage of our research, and I assumed he wanted to run something by me. After my performance the evening before, I was worried I might have made such a mess of things that we would be forced to take a break, which is why that morning I had suggested we rest the patient for two days and use the opportunity to go over the data we had already collected. Fortunately, I was able to cite the good results our colleagues in Cambridge had obtained using the same approach, but even so, I thought Simone gave me a funny look.
“Given yesterday’s positive results, shouldn’t we see whether she’s up to it first?” she said. “Isn’t she expecting us to carry on today?”
“No,” I said. “I already told her we’re taking a break.”
“When?”
“Last night,” I said, and looked away so she wouldn’t be able to tell I was lying.
Although she clearly objected to my initiative, she held her tongue.
As it turned out, I could see instantly that Anthony hadn’t come to talk about the patient. He was hesitant, almost shy. Still, he began by telling me that they had been going over the data and that everything was in order.
“Good,” I said.
“Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to take a break,” he said.
I nodded and waited.
“I got an e-mail the other day from the BBC,” he said, “from the people you told me about. Because of the program,” he added when I didn’t reply immediately.
“I see.”
“They want to interview me. About your mother. They want to talk about how we discovered her on our forum.”
We. There was nothing hesitant about the way he said that, pushing himself and his fellow members forward, beating his chest.
“Naturally, I’m honored,” he added. “Only they want me to go to Manhattan to do the filming.”
“When do they want you?” I asked.
“As soon as possible,” he said. “I was thinking I could do that in the morning, since we’re giving her a rest. I’ll almost certainly be back in the afternoon.”
For some reason, I put off sending that e-mail to the producer after Anthony had left. Instead, I reached for the DVD she had sent me and inserted it once more into the computer.
Chapter 37
Although Camila looked nothing like her sister—she was short and rather plump—I recognized her the moment I saw her.
We had arranged to meet at a small café on Perry Street near where Malena had lived. I came early to find that she had already arrived and was sitting by the window. The place was almost empty, and she looked up when I opened the door. I walked straight over to her and we shook hands before I sat down. I was glad she didn’t go as far as to embrace me.
Language was an obstacle and yet we managed to make ourselves understood for the most part, either in English or Spanish. She had arrived a few days earlier, and although I didn’t say anything, I was surprised that she had only gotten in touch that morning. She was staying in Malena’s old apartment, and told me that she had been busy going through her sister’s stuff. I told her there were some of her things at my place, some clothes and a few knickknacks, and I asked her if she wanted to look through them. I was relieved when she shook her head.
Perhaps I had been expecting to see something of Malena in her, a sparkle in her eye, or a nuance in her voice, a familiar gesture, like the way she tucked her hair behind her ears. But I didn’t; try as I might I couldn’t find any similarities between them. She was extremely organized, had made a list of all the things she wanted to discuss with me, and, like an efficient bureaucrat, she got straight down to business. She handed me Malena’s rental agreement and asked whether I could take a look at it; of course she wanted to terminate it—did that happen automatically when a tenant passed away?
Possibly she finally realized how uneasy I was feeling when instead of looking at the document, I put it aside. She leaned back in her chair and contemplated me, silently reaching for her coffee cup. Her gaze made me feel uncomfortable, and I looked outside. If I craned my neck slightly to one side, I could see the building where Malena had lived, the white curtains in her living room, the tree on the sidewalk reaching up to the window.
“She didn’t tell me she was leaving,” I heard myself say. “She simply disappeared.”
I looked at her. She didn’t reply immediately; instead, she, too, looked out the window.
“She always did what she wanted,” she said at last. “She hated good-byes. Whenever she came to Buenos Aires I never knew how long she would stay. She was the life and soul of the party and then suddenly she was gone.”
It was strange how good it felt to hear her talk about her sister. And at last I discovered a family likeness; their hands were identical, although Camila’s were smaller. I wanted to seize them and tell her so, but I restrained myself. I was surprised at my sudden need for physical contact.
“Our father was very unhappy when she decided to go to New York to study dance,” she said. “He forbade her, but of course she didn’t listen. She just left. With nothing. Mom scraped enough money together for her fare, but said nothing to my father about it. He was furious with her. Malena was the apple of my father’s eye.”
She said these last words without a trace of envy in her voice.
I think she realized how much I enjoyed hearing her talk about her sister. I guessed it brought her some consolation, too, because her face seemed to relax, and every now and then a smile would play on her lips. I was all the more taken ab
ack when she suddenly fell silent and, straightening up and leaning forward, motioned with her eyes toward the rental agreement on the table between us.
“I really need to get this sorted out as soon as possible,” she said.
I gave a start and picked up the document. Possibly because I was hoping she would go on talking if I complied with her request, I forced myself to read, although I had difficulty concentrating.
The agreement was similar to the one I had signed recently, five sheets of paper written in small type.
She studied my face as I read, sitting forward in her chair, as if she might glean from my expression what was written there. I found it disconcerting, and kept losing my place as I remembered what Malena had told me about her the few times her name had come up. They spoke regularly on Skype, and I had always assumed they were close, although Malena had never said that. But now I wondered whether perhaps I hadn’t been mistaken, whether she simply tolerated her sister out of a sense of duty. All of a sudden, that seemed most likely. All of a sudden, I was convinced that Malena couldn’t possibly have had anything in common with this woman who stared at me while I was reading, as if she didn’t trust me, and had only gotten in touch with me because she had no other choice.
Finally, I skimmed through the contract, lingering over a few of the clauses before handing it back to her.
“Just tell the owner she has passed away,” I said. “The contract will automatically be terminated.”
“Does it say that?”
“Not explicitly,” I said, “but the owner and Malena are the only parties to the contract, so it is clearly invalid.”
“But it doesn’t say that?”
I saw no reason to reply to what seemed to me a rhetorical question.
“I know someone who had to go on paying rent for his mother after she died,” she added.
“Where was that?”
“In Buenos Aires.”
She seemed to have a strange obsession with bureaucracy, and my reply was perhaps a little more brusque than I had intended.
One Station Away Page 18
