One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  I spoke with Vincent every day, and gradually he seemed to cheer up a little. His voice sounded stronger, and when he called the following weekend I couldn’t help smiling. I was sitting in the café on Columbus with tea and a bagel, watching the traffic and the soft sunshine on the naked branches of the trees along the sidewalk, pleasantly light-headed after my lap around Central Park.

  “Magnus, is that you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “were you calling someone else?”

  “No, your voice sounded different, but now I can hear that it’s you. Are you at the hospital?”

  “No, it’s Saturday.”

  “But you work on Saturdays.”

  “Not always.”

  “It’s been four days,” he said. “I’m counting. Kleuber says that if this kind of thing doesn’t get traction within two or three days, it’s over.”

  “I think we’ve seen the end of it,” I said.

  “You do? You really think it’s over?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it,” I replied, surprised at how categorical I was.

  He reminded me of a patient whose test results come back negative, but who has trouble believing it and keeps questioning the doctor just to be doubly sure.

  “You can’t imagine how relieved I am, Magnus, my boy. Isn’t it astonishing how little it takes to cast a shadow over all that is good in life?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but cleared his throat forcefully before informing me that Gramophone had nominated three of Margaret’s CDs for their annual music prize: Liszt, Schubert, and Mussorgsky. This was big news, as it was the first time the magazine had ever given an English musician more than one nomination. He also told me in confidence that after the weekend, the Guardian would be publishing a retrospective of Margaret’s career, in which the paper’s lead music critic had gone so far as to describe her as one of the most important pianists in the history of the United Kingdom, and without a doubt the most versatile.

  “I haven’t even told Margaret about it. In case anything should change . . . Least said soonest mended.”

  Before we broke off the conversation, he told me he had gotten rid of his new cell phone.

  “That iPhone,” he said. “I can’t bring myself to use it again.”

  I said he needn’t give up his phone just because pianoguru had indirectly implicated iTunes; the Californian technology company wasn’t to blame.

  “To my mind they’re one and the same,” he said. “There’s even a picture of this iTunes on the phone. I find it most uncomfortable.”

  I finished my breakfast after we said good-bye. They had forecast fine weather, and I couldn’t decide whether to go to Chelsea to see a gallery opening I had been invited to—stroll around the neighborhood, possibly along the High Line that had recently been transformed into an elevated park, or down to the Hudson where I could sit on a bench and read a book, something I had been too restless to do for a long time. I ordered another cup of tea, as I wasn’t in a hurry and enjoyed watching the Saturday strollers on the sidewalk, lovers brushing noses, people window-shopping, a young couple pushing a baby carriage up the street.

  When I awoke that morning, I noticed to my surprise that I was able to stave off the anxiety that had been plaguing me recently. I even fell asleep again, or dozed off at least, the way I often did on weekends when Malena was alive. My dreams were strange, as they usually are between sleeping and waking, and I kept thinking Malena was lying beside me. I even gave a start when I thought I had brushed against her and felt her lingering touch on my arm.

  I was brimming with newfound optimism when I got up, opened the balcony doors, and heard the birds in the back garden. It was then that my thoughts returned to our patient, and I told myself that both Simone and I had failed in our duty, given in to despair, and behaved badly toward our colleagues—I more than she. Of course it was only to be expected that our patient would have doubts about staying alive; anything else would have been unnatural. For all we knew, our colleagues in Liège and Cambridge had experienced similar situations, only they had wisely decided to keep those incidents to themselves.

  That’s what I told myself as I pulled on my exercise clothes and jogged in Central Park. I also concluded that it was fortunate that Anthony had taken over from us, because he would never fall into the trap we had, much less give up. He would never grow weary of repeating the same questions over and over, perhaps with an occasional variation, believing he would finally wear the patient down. Only the day before, he had come to announce triumphantly that he had discovered she was from Peru. I congratulated him, even though I knew she was only toying with him.

  After the weekend, Simone and I would join the others again and carry on the research as if nothing had happened. We needed to regain the patient’s trust and that would take some time. Surely in the end she would want to meet her loved ones, let them know she was still alive, receive the warmth which her friends and family would undoubtedly give her.

  I went to the show in Chelsea. The artist was from Argentina, an acquaintance of Malena’s. It was the first time I had seen him or her other friends since she died. I had replied to those who had e-mailed me, but otherwise avoided them.

  The exhibition was a smorgasbord. In one corner, a toaster dangled over a bathtub brimming with bright blue water, the power cord attached to the ceiling. The work was called Beware—Sunset. In the room, there were several other household appliances displayed in an unusual context. The artist glimpsed me as I walked in and came over to embrace me. I met more of Malena’s friends and did my best to speak to them in Spanish. I was amazed to discover that I had missed them, and promised we would meet soon. We exchanged telephone numbers, and I even accepted an invitation to a birthday party the following weekend.

  Only as I was about to leave did the artist take my arm and lead me to a sculpture by the main entrance. It was a leg in a tango shoe which I had paid little attention to when I walked in. I had assumed it was made of glass, but now he told me it was ice and would melt in two days. Beneath it was a large tray; I saw the drops of water already falling into it.

  “In memory of Malena,” he said. “I hope it doesn’t offend you.”

  “It doesn’t offend me at all,” I told him, and we embraced once more before I left.

  The afternoon sun shone on the cobblestone streets as I set off for the High Line, and bathed the brick houses in crimson. I felt at peace and was looking forward to a relaxing evening. I thought I might buy some groceries and cook a meal for myself, listen to music, then watch a movie on television.

  I sat down on a bench on the High Line, fished my cell phone out of my pocket, and called Simone. She didn’t pick up, but I left a long and rather upbeat message, telling her where I was calling from and asking her to try me back at her leisure.

  Chapter 46

  Sunday couldn’t have had a better start. I didn’t sleep in as late as I had the morning before, but my feeling of calm and well-being was so overwhelming that I had to lie still for a moment to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. I made coffee, put Margaret on the CD player (Chopin’s Études), then opened the balcony doors and felt the cool air drift in from outside. Above the houses on the other side of the backyard, the sky was so blue and translucent that it seemed very far away and somehow unconnected to the light flooding the kitchen and living room.

  I hadn’t been sitting for long at the kitchen table when scenes from my childhood slowly began to resurface. I was surprised because I couldn’t recall having thought about them for years or possibly decades, and therefore had to fumble around in my memory for them. At first the images were hazy then gradually brought into focus by the soft, mournful melody. It was his Étude no. 3, op. 10, which the composer considered the most beautiful music he had ever written.

  We had just moved to Allington, and I was coming home after football. The rain had turned the pitch into mud, which didn’t stop us, but attempting a sliding tackle I had managed to twist my ankle. It hurt a great dea
l, but I put on a brave face to my friends as I hobbled off home, only bursting into tears as I approached the front door.

  Margaret was home alone. She heard me come in and appeared in the hallway where I was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. I wouldn’t say she became flustered, but she looked as if she didn’t know how to respond. Finally, she sat down beside me and stroked my cheek hesitantly. I was so unused to this behavior that out of sheer astonishment I instantly stopped sniveling. She slowly drew her hand away and we sat side by side in silence until she rose, beckoning me into the kitchen, where she poured me a glass of milk. Then I followed her into the living room where she gestured for me to sit in Vincent’s chair, before installing herself on the piano stool.

  She played that same Chopin Étude for me, which was presently echoing through my apartment: no. 3, op. 10. Although I had no ear for music, I understood that she was trying to comfort me—with the notes that expressed her thoughts when she couldn’t find the words. A half-smile played on her lips, and her expression was tender and healing.

  I don’t remember whether Vincent came home before she stood up from the piano, but I don’t think so. She slipped out of the living room, went upstairs, and I sat motionless, clutching my glass of milk, as I tried to hold on to the music echoing in my head, proving what I had always hoped was true but had never known for sure: that in spite of everything, my mother did love me.

  It had grown chilly in the apartment by the time the music finished, so I closed the balcony doors. I thought about putting on another CD but didn’t. I hadn’t eaten and was debating whether to make myself some scrambled eggs or go out to the café on Columbus when the telephone rang. It was in my bedroom and the ringer on so low that it was pure coincidence I heard it.

  “Magnus Conyngham?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Perhaps you won’t remember me. Hans Kleuber. We met at your mother’s seventieth birthday party.”

  I told him I did, but his call was so unexpected that he could scarcely have found my reaction welcoming. At least that’s what I told myself later.

  “Forgive the intrusion. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning, but you didn’t answer.”

  He fell silent, as though waiting for an explanation, but I said nothing.

  “Could we meet?”

  “Meet?”

  “I’m here, in New York.” And then he added: “It has to do with your parents.”

  I was going to ask him what this was all about, but I changed my mind; Margaret and Vincent were fond of him and I owed it to them to show him courtesy.

  “Of course,” I said, clearing my throat gently. “Where are you staying?”

  I took the train down to Soho before noon. He was at a small hotel north of Canal Street and was waiting for me in the lobby. We greeted each other with a firm handshake, and I made an effort to compensate for my abrupt manner on the telephone. He didn’t seem to hold it against me, and bowed with an almost childlike sincerity as he shook my hand, remaining like that for a moment longer than necessary before straightening up.

  We sat in a small library, beyond the reception area. He told me he came to New York once a year to attend musical events; he had been to see the Philharmonic the night before and was going to the opera that evening.

  “Orpheus and Eurydice,” he said. “I can’t wait.”

  We sat by the window. Outside the sun was creeping down the walls of the houses opposite. I had eaten before I left home, and when the young waitress came over to ask if we wanted anything we ordered only coffee.

  “I am indebted to your father,” he said as the girl walked away. “He stood by me when I got divorced. And yet we barely knew each other. Your mother, too. I visited them twice in Allington, and we sat in the living room listening to music late into the evening. It helped me a great deal. He didn’t have to be so kind to me.”

  He picked up the envelope he had placed on the table between us and opened it.

  “I had a call from Ellis yesterday.”

  “Ellis?”

  “Philip Ellis, your father’s business partner.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “He looks after the money side of things. General management . . . accounting . . .”

  I remembered the red gemstone on the ring finger of his right hand, the tobacco-stained beard at the corners of his mouth.

  “He received an e-mail yesterday. Or rather, the company did. He called me straightaway. I was on my way to the Philharmonic, but I read it when I got back to the hotel and printed it out.”

  He reached his long fingers into the envelope, drew out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me.

  “It’s from pianoguru. His real name is Caspar Bouwer. Dutch. He lives in Massachusetts, where he is associate professor of physics at a university just outside Boston. Single, according to Facebook. He has views on everything. Most of them unusual.”

  I opened the piece of paper, but flinched from reading it.

  “What does he want?” I asked.

  Kleuber put down his coffee cup and clasped his hands together.

  “He claims he can prove that the recording of Mussorgsky is plagiarized.”

  I glanced at the sheet of paper.

  “Is that the word he uses?”

  He nodded.

  “What exactly is he up to?”

  “He also says he has bought your mother’s Chopin Études and wonders whether she is a fan of Minoru Nojima.”

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “A Japanese pianist. Well-respected in professional circles, but eccentric, doesn’t do many recordings, is practically a recluse.”

  “But he has recorded Chopin’s Études?”

  He nodded again.

  “Have you listened to them?” I asked.

  He said he had, and that he probably had this particular recording in his collection, but couldn’t say for sure.

  “Very different from your mother,” he said. “He possesses an extraordinary technique, but has none of the lyricism that distinguishes your mother’s playing.”

  “What is it he wants?”

  Kleuber pointed to the piece of paper.

  “He says that unless Margaret and the recording company come clean he will make his discovery public. He has given them until Wednesday.”

  “Do you think he’s serious?”

  Kleuber looked out the window, clasping and unclasping his fingers.

  “Shouldn’t we assume that he is? He is clearly not right in the head.”

  “What does Vincent say?”

  “He knows nothing about it. Philip got in touch with me and the two of us decided it was best not to tell him anything about it. Not for the moment.”

  “How did you get my number, then?”

  “Philip found it for me.”

  I picked up my cup but the coffee had gone cold, so I left it. It was only lukewarm when the waitress brought it.

  “I thought about contacting a lawyer,” he said, “but that might just wind him up. Still, I think someone ought to try to talk him out of it.”

  “Massachusetts?” I asked.

  “Waltham,” he said. “Just west of Boston.”

  I looked at the sheet of paper. “‘I wonder whether Mrs. Bergs is a fan of Minoru Nojima?’”

  I picked up my cell phone and keyed in pianoguru’s e-mail address (or rather that of Caspar Bouwer, associate professor of physics), introduced myself, and said I wanted to meet him. My fingers were shaking, with rage not fear.

  Before pressing send, I passed the phone to Kleuber. He read the message and nodded.

  “As soon as possible,” I had written. “As soon as possible.”

  Chapter 47

  The highway follows the coastline for the first hour, before turning inland in a long, slow curve westward. There the urban sprawl gives way to a vast expanse of tree-covered hills that turn blue where they meet the horizon. The monotonous landscape is soothing and relaxes the mind, especiall
y on a glorious autumn morning when the pale sun shines on the hills and everything seems so far away.

  He had replied to my e-mail while I was on my way to the subway, having taken my leave of Hans Kleuber. His message was brief: I was welcome to pay him a visit, but he doubted it would be of much use to my parents. We arranged to meet in his office at the university; I told him I would be there at ten the following morning.

  I picked up the rental car on Sunday evening and found a parking space in my street after driving around for forty minutes. I set off at six in the morning and pulled up outside the university at half past nine, after stopping twice on the way to get gas and stretch my legs. I got slightly lost after I left the highway on the outskirts of Boston, and had the sense to ask someone for directions when the ones on my cell phone were confusing.

  Having parked the car, I made my way to the physics department. It was on the north side of the campus, which stood on a hill outside of town, a mix of brick and glass structures, green lawns, neat flower beds, a pond here and there. There were many students milling about, on their way to or from lectures, and I stopped at the student center to get a cup of coffee. I could see the highway in the distance, continuing westward to the city by the sea.