He can’t have been much older than thirty, of medium height, with dark hair and spectacles. He was waiting for me at the main entrance, and I could tell from his expression that he had been hoping I wouldn’t turn up. We said hello and he asked me to follow him up the stairs.
“I’m on the second floor,” he said.
His office was small and very tidy. It contained few personal belongings apart from some CDs and a framed photograph of a woman I supposed was his girlfriend or wife. He invited me to sit down and turned on his computer.
All I had with me was the envelope Kleuber had given me. He glanced at it and said:
“I assume you have looked at the data I sent.”
I told him I had an e-mail, opened the envelope, and pulled out the sheet of paper.
“What about the data?”
“What data?” I said.
He asked if he could see what I had. I passed the piece of paper to him.
“There are two attachments missing,” he said. “Haven’t you seen them?”
I admitted that I hadn’t.
“Now I understand why you made the journey,” he said, turning to the computer and suggesting I bring a chair up to the desk so that I could better see the screen.
First he opened the document in which he compared Margaret’s interpretation of Mussorgsky to that of Ashkenazy.
“I can print it out if you want, but it might be easier if I just take you through it on the screen.”
He seemed more at ease once he had the data in front of him and was able to focus on it: a scientist discussing the results of his research, objectively and without any sentiment.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” he said. “Pictures at an Exhibition.”
He pulled up two graphs.
“We’re going to look at the waveforms side by side. The horizontal line measures time,” he explained, “the vertical line amplitude. When I press the button you will see your mother’s recording on the top graph and Ashkenazy’s on the bottom.”
He looked at me as if to make sure I was following him. I nodded.
He raised his forefinger higher than necessary and let it fall onto the keyboard. The Promenade’s first notes rang out jauntily inside the office, out of tune with how I was feeling.
“I’m playing both recordings at once,” he said, “although you can’t tell. You see as well that there’s no difference between the two graphs . . .”
“It doesn’t exactly jump out at me,” I said, as the wavy lines sped past.
“I’ll freeze them,” he said.
He enlarged the two graphs, placing one on top of the other. They were identical.
“If I enlarge them further and play the music slowly, you can see even better,” he said. “The red lines are Ashkenazy, the green your mother.”
He started the music again, gradually slowing it down until they were playing only one note at a time. The two wavy lines moved across the screen in perfect harmony.
“The entire work is the same. No difference between the recordings.”
He showed me an example of “Gnomus” and “Il Vecchio Castello” to prove his point.
“Do you want to see more Mussorgsky?”
I had stopped following, and shook my head.
“The other document is particularly interesting, and shows a comparison between your mother’s playing of Chopin’s Études and that of Minoru Nojima.”
I slipped off my jacket and hooked it over the back of the chair, using the opportunity to wipe the sweat from my brow. I wished I could take my leave, hurry away, and each time I looked out the window my gaze was drawn to three little chapels standing in a semicircle around a small pond. The path ran right past them, toward the student center and then up to the parking lot. I sat down again, forcing myself to listen.
He went through the same motions, pulling up two graphs, comparing them. Études 1 and 2, op. 10, looked identical on the screen, as did nos. 4 and 5. However, when it came to no. 6, the music clashed, jarring on the ear, and the two graphs revealed two different recordings. I felt a glimmer of hope, which faded as he said:
“It took me a while to find it, but I finally succeeded. Maurizio Pollini, a recording from 1990.”
He pulled up the graph of Pollini’s interpretation and played both recordings simultaneously. There was no difference between them.
I had a hard time sitting still, and Bouwer could tell.
“Look at this one,” he said. “Number seven.”
He leaned back in his chair. Chopin’s music rang out once more, but suddenly started to reverberate in my head and I had difficulty distinguishing the notes.
Bouwer raised his forefinger and brought it down decisively on the keyboard.
“It happens right there. The lines diverge. For the first time. You heard the echo, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“But then they join up again,” he said, pressing play once more. “For twenty-two seconds. After that they go their separate ways.”
He played the Étude through to the end, without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“So, it isn’t the same recording,” I said.
It was as if he had been waiting for me to make this observation.
“That’s what I thought, too,” he said. “Until I examined the graphs more closely. The amplitudes are identical.”
He pulled up the two graphs again, superimposed them, and pressed play. The echo was clearly audible, and then he pressed a few keys on the computer until it disappeared and the two sets of lines merged.
He looked at me. His smile was that of a contented scientist who has solved a riddle, and bore no trace of malice.
“The performance has been sped up in several places, and slowed down twice. But it’s the same recording. Maurizio Pollini. Whoever did this has a remarkable ear. With those few changes, the recording released in your mother’s name is better, incredible yet true.”
He reminded me of Anthony: earnest in his diligence and unwitting ruthlessness.
“Number three is the only one that eludes me,” he said then. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
He clicked on Étude no. 3, op. 10, on Margaret’s CD and played it on its own. We sat motionless in our seats in front of the computer; he was slightly hunched over, I was paralyzed. I tried to thrust my memories aside, telling myself this wasn’t her playing, but someone else, that it was simply a matter of finding out who. And yet I couldn’t convince myself; once more I was back in the living room in Allington, once more I was that boy holding a glass of milk listening to her comfort me.
We sat still till the end. When it was over I felt too weak to get up straightaway. He switched off the computer.
“You’re a scientist,” he said ruefully, and then added: “I googled you . . . This is self-evident. I’m sorry.”
I paused on the path next to the chapels. The sun was shining on the pond and an overhanging oak tree. A few leaves clung feebly to its branches; the slightest gust would blow them away.
When I looked over my shoulder, I saw him watching me from his office window.
Chapter 48
I still find it difficult to comprehend what happened over the next twenty-four hours, which is in itself worrying, as it wasn’t that long ago. For example, I don’t recall starting the car and driving off campus, although I have a clear image of the transit officer who came over to me when I accidentally went in the wrong toll lane for the highway. I can see him shaking his head before taking the payment I passed through the window and lifting the barrier that was blocking my way. A small line had developed behind me, which I noticed only when impatient drivers leaned on their horns.
I drove for about an hour before stopping for gas. There was half a tank left, but I needed a rest, so I filled it up before leaving the car in the short-term parking lot outside the service station. It was no different from any other such constructions you find on a highway: an anonymous, one-story building with fast-food res
taurants and a convenience store, restrooms by the entrance, plastic tables and chairs next to the windows overlooking the highway. There was a stench of fried food in the air and a long line for coffee.
It was only when an elderly man asked me the time that I remembered my phone in my pocket. I had put it on silent before my meeting with Caspar Bouwer and forgotten about it. I had nine missed calls and many unread texts, but I put the phone back in my pocket without checking further. I needed peace and quiet, solitude. I had nothing to say to anybody.
It was only one o’clock and there wasn’t much traffic on the highway. It would likely get heavier as I drove south. I switched on the radio, searched through the channels, but found nothing I felt like listening to.
It seemed unlikely that Kleuber was an accomplice. He was gullible but honest, and would have been taken in by my parents’ charade, the attention they lavished on him, the kindness they showed him when he was having problems. I was convinced that Philip hadn’t shown him the attachments when he urged him to get me involved, undoubtedly at my father’s behest, who of course must have known about the whole thing.
“I’ve only looked at these two CDs,” Bouwer had said. “What is the likelihood, do you think, that the others aren’t tarred with the same brush?”
How did Vincent think he could get away with it? I asked myself as the car sped along the highway, and the answer I came up with was that he had failed to take into consideration technology: computer programs and databases with their infallible memories. That world was a closed book to him; he had always been leery of it and made an effort to stay away from it.
My phone lay on the passenger seat. It was still on silent, but I could see out of the corner of my eye whenever the screen light up. It was Kleuber, understandably impatient, but I didn’t feel up to talking to him. I was thinking about my mistakes. My naïveté. Trying to fathom how I could have let Vincent fool me after everything I had been through with him. I was ashamed.
When I got down to Connecticut the traffic was at a standstill. An illuminated sign by the roadside said an accident two miles south had closed three out of the four lanes and we could expect long delays. I was sitting in a dip and could see row upon row of cars in front of me going up a tree-lined hill.
I was in no hurry, and in some respects I welcomed the delay. I had automatically slowed down the last half hour, driving in the far right lane, below the speed limit. I had felt my despair grow with every mile, and I knew that if I didn’t collect myself, it would get the better of me. I tried to picture the graphs which Bouwer had shown me, but the lines would disappear somewhere in my mind and instead I found myself looking at the computer in our lab, the screen lighting up, tennis balls flying over the net in bright sunshine. When I heard her calling my name from the scanner with Malena’s voice, I pulled over and stopped in the break-down lane to shake it off. I felt I was losing my mind.
My phone continued to flash on the passenger seat. The traffic barely inched forward. The sun started to fade above the hills, casting shadows on the road. It was almost four o’clock; the days were growing shorter.
By the time I approached the accident site, I had begun to marshal my thoughts. I managed, for example, to arrive at the obvious conclusion that I should avoid my parents and anything related to them. They were their own worst enemies and there was nothing I could do to change that. I had only been a child when I realized the destruction they could cause, but I had let down my guard. Why?
I had failed our patient and betrayed my colleagues. In fact, I had shamefully been on the verge of giving up in the face of what were predictable problems. I needed to see to her immediately, take charge of the research, talk openly with Simone and Anthony, and possibly even Hofsinger, too. I owed it to them to behave honorably, to get my act together. I owed it to myself.
Science had always been my escape. The place I went when I felt cornered, the sanctuary where I could find order and discipline, whatever else was going on.
A delivery truck had overturned on a bend and was lying on its side across the road. The flashing lights of police vehicles and fire trucks were visible in the distance—the ambulances were long gone. Two automobiles had veered off the road, but neither looked badly damaged. When I finally inched past the site, I instantly recognized the images of canned foods on the delivery truck.
I decided to stop at the hospital on my way back to New York. It was only a slight detour, a fifteen-minute drive from the highway at most. I wanted to organize the following day’s research, speak with Anthony—and with Simone, if she was there—find out who had been trying to get a hold of me, help them with whatever they needed. I wanted to look in on the patient. Above all, look in on her and say a few words, hold her hand, try to reassure her. And remove from her room Margaret’s CDs. I should never have played them for her. I should never have poisoned her mind with my parents’ deceit and falsehood.
It was nearly five by the time I parked in the gravel lot behind the main building. The lights glowed in the windows; it was getting dark outside.
I planned to talk to Anthony first. I was going to warn him not to take part in any further discussions about my mother. Not to respond when pianoguru posted his accusations, to keep a low profile. I would explain later, but I was too tired now, far too tired, I planned to say when he asked me why.
I didn’t get to talk to him, however, because no sooner had I stepped out of the elevator than our secretary came running over to me.
“Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day.”
She caught me off guard but didn’t wait for me to reply.
“She’s dead.”
I felt as if I was a spectator, looking at us from far away in the brightly lit corridor. She said something else, but I couldn’t make it out because of the hissing noise in my head. But I do remember her lips moving and someone seizing me by the arms as my legs gave way, and then nothing more until I came to on the sofa in my office.
Chapter 49
The waters of the Hudson are deepest where it flows past the village, wide and calm. The far bank is rocky but there is sand on this side and an old dock which appears to be used only by pleasure boats, and mostly in the summer. Today, the water at the river’s edge is frozen over, although the ice doesn’t look very thick to me. The forecast is for continuing frost.
I took the train up and am seated in a small diner down by the river. The journey took only about an hour, and on the whole the views were pleasant, more so the farther we advanced. This area is sparsely populated and tranquil, the houses quaint, and there are a few interesting buildings close by, such as the mills I saw from the train, and the foundry, which used to bring people up here in the old days. It’s a museum now, and the workers’ cottages have been renovated and are rented out to tourists during the high season.
It is eleven o’clock. We arranged to meet at twelve, but I wanted to play it safe and took an early train. I had nothing better to do. I haven’t been back to the hospital since she died, which was almost six weeks ago.
When I came to on the sofa in my office, Hofsinger and Anthony were both standing over me. Our secretary had fetched a glass of water, which she handed to me the moment she thought I was able to hold it, and I dutifully lifted it to my lips, even though I wasn’t thirsty.
Both men wore expressions of concern and embarrassment. Embarrassment mostly, I expect.
It occurred to me I ought to explain my behavior to them, tell them about my journey, my overwhelming fatigue when I finally got out of the car, but I didn’t have the energy.
“Are you all right?” asked Hofsinger.
I nodded.
“Where’s Simone?”
“She’s gone,” Anthony said, and the secretary added: “She was with her this morning when she died.”
I set the glass of water down.
“It’s unfortunate,” said Hofsinger. “Very unfortunate. We’re back to square one.”
They said
she had probably died of a stroke, and I didn’t ask any questions. They left soon afterward, Hofsinger first and the secretary last, not before fetching me a cup of coffee and a doughnut from the pantry.
I glanced around. My office looked strangely unfamiliar, the chair, the computer, the bookshelves, the papers on my desk, the sofa I was stretched out on. Our secretary had pulled the door closed when she left, but I could hear footsteps in the corridor and rumbling noises. Then everything went quiet.
I got to my feet. The CDs I had ordered were mostly still in their boxes on the desk. The Mephisto Waltzes in the padded envelope. I picked them up, one by one—Liszt, Schubert, Saint-Saëns, Schumann. Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Mussorgsky. I looked at them for a moment, wondering how I should get rid of them, before putting them down again.
I don’t know what I was expecting from Mrs. Bentsen’s room, but I felt the need to go in there. I hesitated for a few minutes, then put the CDs back in the boxes and the envelope, before pushing the chair under the desk and slipping into my jacket pocket the photograph of Malena and me which I had pinned to the bookshelf above my desk.
It was as if she had never been there. The machines were gone, the bed freshly made, ready for the next occupant. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, and the streetlamps by the path to the parking lot cast a dim light that reached over to the door where I stood, motionless, having closed it behind me.
I was surprised not to feel her presence. I walked over to the bed and sat down on it, running my hand absent-mindedly over the sheets. I tried to imagine her before me, but her face refused to appear, and after a while I stood up. The CDs I had brought for her were next to the stereo system in the corner. I gathered them up and dropped them in the trash bin on my way out.
On the table next to the door are some newspapers, which the breakfast customers appear to have read thoroughly, and tourist booklets affectionately if modestly depicting the village and its surroundings. I picked one up on my way in, along with a four-page real estate brochure, but I left the newspapers, as I haven’t been following the media for the past few weeks, not since a few days after Caspar Bouwer disclosed his findings.
One Station Away Page 23
