He curled on his side, hoping to escape again into the oblivion of sleep. Just as he laid his head on the pillow, he felt—something. He couldn’t have named it. It wasn’t physical, and yet it made the back of his neck prickle. He rolled onto his back, and sat up.
She was standing beside his window, looking down on the street. His mother had sometimes done that when she was thinking, or when some sound or light distracted her. He always noticed it, because at every other time it seemed she was in constant motion, cleaning something, fixing something, cooking, answering the phone. Now she stood still, his dead mother, gazing peacefully out into the night as if she hadn’t anything else she needed to do. Her empty hands were clasped in front of her.
He said, in a choked whisper, “Mom?”
She turned her head, but lazily, as if there was no hurry now, nothing to worry about. Her face and form were perfectly distinct, but the light from the streetlamp shone through her, as if she were illuminated from within. She smiled at him, and one hand drifted toward her lips, then opened toward him.
She hadn’t done that since he was a little boy, when she used to blow him kisses as the school bus bore him away.
He was young enough to wonder if it had all been a mistake. Had she gotten up, when they carried her to the funeral home? Had she climbed out of the casket, surprised everyone, gotten the funeral director to bring her home? All those people today, the doctor, the priest, the neighbors—they were all wrong! Everything was going to be fine, and she—
He cried, “Mom!”
Her smile grew, and she inclined her head to him. Then she was gone.
Just like that. She was there, and then she wasn’t. There was no warning shimmer, no flicker or shift. She just ceased to be there. Fourteen-year-old Kristian, throat aching from his bout of weeping, stared dry-eyed at the empty space beside the window, willing her to return.
Kristian never saw his mother again after that night. But this experience—seeing Frederica Bannister appear in 1861—was more like seeing the ghost of his mother than anything that had happened to him since. It was as if his mind responded to a different set of stimuli than simply the visual ones. In a way, he felt Frederica’s presence, even to the prickle on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath of relief. Whatever else might have happened, Frederica Bannister had arrived safely in 1861.
She looked very much as she must have when she first lay down on the transfer cot. Her hair was pulled neatly back into a thin ponytail. She wore slacks and a loose blouse. She wore glasses, which he hadn’t seen in the clinic or in her photograph. They had thick lenses and black plastic frames, the sort worn by people who couldn’t use contacts or have laser surgery.
Her thin lips curved in a smile as she looked around at the Castagno of 1861 for the first time. Kristian was sure he had smiled in exactly that way.
She drifted through the garden gate, and began a circuit of the garden. Kristian followed at a cautious distance. His impression of her was more intense than if he could merely see her with his eyes. He sensed her. Her delight in the setting, in having arrived, was palpable. When she completed a circle of the house, and hovered outside the French windows, he recognized her delight in the pretty little salon, the antique fortepiano. She would know what that instrument was as well as he did, and take pleasure in it. He hung back, watching as she ducked behind the olive tree, remembering he had felt that same urge to hide when he had seen the cook come into the garden.
Brahms came down the stairs, and then Clara. Frederica moved forward, to peer past the fluttering curtains at the sight of the two of them, seated together on the green brocade bench of the fortepiano. The intensity of Frederica’s feelings imparted itself to Kristian, so that his heart seemed to lurch, his breath to come faster. The cook arrived, and called out. Clara and Brahms rose, went together into the kitchen, and Frederica followed them.
Kristian went after her, but he was running out of time. He should have insisted on a longer transfer. Frederica had been in no hurry. They had given her eight hours to explore, to observe. If everything had gone well, no doubt they might have allowed her to transfer a second time. It was what he had expected and hoped for, when he thought the prize was to be his.
It had been a crushing blow, learning that someone else had been chosen for the transfer. Only his mother’s death and Erika’s diagnosis ranked higher on his list of life’s worst moments. Neither the shattering breakup with Catherine nor the blowup in the dean’s office at Juilliard had sent Kristian to his knees as had the phone call from Gregson. It was the event that had sparked the disasters to come. It felt to him as if his future vanished in a puff, destroyed by a few words that began with, “We’re very sorry, Kris, but . . .” He would never forget the sensation of that moment, that feeling that the floor had dropped from beneath him, all at once.
There had been no warning, no intimation that there was anything amiss. The sudden heartache shocked him. It was followed by a rush of anger that held him in its grip for weeks, spilling over onto Catherine and, eventually, onto his work at Juilliard.
Poor Erika! While he had tried to hide his despair from her, she had tried everything she knew to comfort him, to offer alternatives, to create hope where there was none. She tried to persuade him to go to another school, U Mass or even Boston Conservatory, but he wouldn’t do it. For her sake, he pretended he was over it, pretended he was happy to go back to Angel’s, pleased to be back in Boston in their little apartment, sharing chores and expenses. He knew she watched him sometimes, worrying, wondering, but he grinned at her, made lighthearted comments, tried to act as if he were his old self. He didn’t think he would ever be that insouciant young man again, but he could hardly indulge in self-pity. Erika’s burdens were far heavier than his own.
He thrust that memory aside. He was here now, and he had to make the most of it. He followed Frederica into the kitchen of Casa Agosto, and was struck to the heart by the charm of the homely scene. He hovered in the tiny foyer, watching as Frederica moved around the table, peered over Brahms’s shoulder, floated behind Clara as the two spoke to the cook, to each other, drank wine, ate what looked like marvelous ravioli and a salad of brilliant greens and radiant tomatoes.
When he felt the slight quiver, the shift, he knew his time had come to an end. Frederica was still in the kitchen observing Brahms and Clara at their leisurely lunch. She must have been as surprised as Kristian had been to discover Clara Schumann in Brahms’s Italian summer retreat.
He felt the tiniest jolt, like being wakened from sleep by a touch, and he opened his eyes in the transfer clinic.
They were all there, the Bannisters standing behind Max and Elliott, Chiara on the other side of the cot. Elliott looked both strained and relieved. Max was nodding satisfaction. “We got it right, didn’t we?”
Chiara said, “How do you feel?”
Frederick Bannister said, “Was she there?”
Disoriented, his mind still in Casa Agosto, Kristian said, “Yes! She’s beautiful!”
They all looked at him strangely. Chiara put out her hand to take his wrist, and Mrs. Bannister said faintly, “What? What did he say?”
Max and Chiara exchanged a glance. “He’s time-lagged,” Max said. “Let’s give him a moment. It can be confusing, right after a reversal.”
He and Elliott bent to begin detaching wires and tubes. Kristian sat up as soon as he was free, and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. Chiara, wordlessly, handed him a glass of water, and when Frederick Bannister began to speak she threw up a commanding small hand. Kristian grinned at her, drained the glass, and gave it back. He stood up, and turned to the Bannisters.
“Your daughter arrived at just the time she was supposed to,” he said. “Five minutes after I did.”
“Then she’s still there?” Bronwyn Bannister said.
“I don’t know. I only had an hour.”
Max said, with evident caution, “It seems so, Mrs. Bannister. That’s what we’re trying to f
ind out.”
Kristian said, “She was observing Brahms and—” He stopped.
Elliott said, “And what?”
Kristian cleared his throat, and said, “Could I have more water?”
“And what, Kris?” Elliott said, as Chiara took the glass to refill it from a large bottle of mineral water.
“There was another woman there, a cook, I think. Older, plump, gray haired. In an apron.” Kristian avoided Elliott’s eyes, and when Chiara came back he concentrated on the glass of water, sipping it slowly, giving himself time to think. What was he doing? Why was he hiding Clara’s presence in Castagno? Of course, she wasn’t supposed to be there, but then neither was Brahms. And now, so many years later, did it matter?
It did. At least to him—it did.
It was hard to believe that now, in his own time, she had been gone more than a hundred years. She had looked so lovely, there before him only moments ago, subjectively . . . her skin so clear, her haunted eyes so beautiful, her small mouth softening as she bestowed that melancholy smile on Brahms. . . . Lucky Brahms!
“Frederica didn’t see you, then,” Max said.
“No.”
“What do we do now?” Frederick Bannister spoke as if he were certain there was a next step, but Kristian saw the doubt in his eyes. He tried to take his wife’s arm, but she moved, stepping just out of his reach.
Chiara said, “You two need to sleep. I can give you something, if you like.”
Mrs. Bannister said, “Oh, I couldn’t! I want to sit with Frederica!”
Her husband tried again to reach for her. She pulled her arm away from his groping hand, and cast him a look of loathing. Kristian didn’t know if she was about to erupt in fury or collapse in hysterics.
Bannister’s mouth tightened. “Bronwyn, she doesn’t know you’re there, and we really do need to rest. Look at the clock. It’s almost three in the morning. We’ve been up more than twenty-four hours.”
“Your room is ready,” Chiara said. “Come with me, and we’ll let Elliott and Max decide what steps to take next.”
“You go on, Bronwyn,” Frederick Bannister said. He made a gesture with one hand, but he didn’t attempt to touch his wife again. “Go with Dr. Belfiore. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
None of the men spoke until the two women had traversed the long room and gone out into the corridor. Elliott and Max edged closer to each other, as if girding themselves against the onslaught that was sure to come. Kristian folded his arms, and regarded the other three with bemusement.
Frederick Bannister broke the silence the moment the door closed behind the women. “This has gone on long enough. Enough of these short transfers! Give Mr. North the time he needs to find out what happened to my daughter.” His eyes glinted with anger despite the fatigue that dragged at their corners.
Max shook his head. “No. The time-lag effects could be serious.”
“I’ll be okay,” Kris said.
Bannister said tightly, “It’s his choice, isn’t it?”
Elliott gave him a mournful look. “We’ve seen this before. He should have a couple of days to rest before he—”
Bannister turned to Kristian. His eyes were like chips of granite; gray, flat, and hard. He gripped Kristian’s arm with one thick hand, and in an undertone he said, “If it’s a question of money, I—”
Kristian’s skin crawled beneath Bannister’s hand. He only just stopped himself from ripping his arm free, as Bronwyn Bannister had just done. “I’ve already said I want to do it,” he said. He saw by the flicker of Bannister’s eyes, the quick release of his arm, that Bannister knew he had offended him.
“Sorry, Mr. North,” Bannister said. “In my world, it’s always money that makes things happen.”
“That’s not going to work here,” Max said. “Let’s be clear about this. Time lag is serious, and with at least one subject, it never completely went away.”
Elliott put in, “Time loss, confusion, balance problems. It’s a question of disrupted synapses, we think, though we don’t know yet if—”
“I’ll take the chance,” Kristian said. “As I recall, I signed some sort of release that dealt with it.” He arched one eyebrow at Frederick Bannister. “I’m sure your daughter did, too.”
Max snorted. “The release is for one transfer, perhaps two. Not three, and not in a twenty-four-hour period.”
“You’re wasting time,” Bannister growled. “Mine, and Mr. North’s.”
“And Frederica’s,” Kristian murmured. That won another glance from Bannister, and he thought the granite-chip eyes were a little softer.
“We’d have to get approval from Chicago,” Elliott said, but it was a weak protest.
“I’ll handle them,” Bannister said.
Max gave him a quizzical look. “Can you do that?”
Frederick Bannister’s voice was sharp and commanding. “Watch me.” He nodded to Kristian. “Mr. North, do you mean it? Can you go now?”
“I don’t need to rest. I slept nearly twelve hours today.” Kristian glanced up at the big clock. “Yesterday. Whatever.”
“That’s it, then,” Bannister said. “Mr. McDonald, Mr. Bailey, set it up.”
“We just need—,” Elliott began again.
Bannister turned on his heel, and went down the room with his short, impatient steps. He seized the phone and began punching numbers.
Max said, “Kris, how long do you want?”
It was like being asked what he wanted for Christmas. “How long can I have?”
Elliott heaved a doubtful sigh. “Eight hours would be easiest, I guess. It’s the same as Frederica was supposed to have. I already have it programmed.”
Frederick Bannister’s hard tenor carried from the far end of the room. Kristian glanced at him, and saw that he stood very still, the phone at his ear, his eyes intent on the blank wall before him. Another man, Kristian thought, would have gestured, or paced. Bannister’s stillness gave the distinct impression of strength. Of authority.
Bannister finished his call, and replaced the receiver with a decisive motion. He looked back at the men around the transfer cot and gave a sharp nod.
“Jesus,” Max said. “That was easy. What’s he got on Braunstein?”
“Money,” Elliott said dourly. His cheeks drooped, and Kristian thought, irrelevantly, that Elliott was beginning to look like a basset hound. “It’s always about money. The Bannisters are rolling in it.”
Kristian stared at the unprepossessing figure of Frederica’s father, and wondered if it could really be money, or if there was something else. What was it Bannister did? Some sort of business—finance of some kind. And a trusteeship with the University of Chicago. And, Kristian felt sure, a list of heavy-hitting lawyers to draw on.
He thought of Erika and himself, penniless, powerless. Parentless. They could hardly be more different from Frederica Bannister.
“This is going to take some time.” Elliott turned toward the bank of instruments, pulled a keyboard out of a slot, and began to tap commands into it.
Max said, “Kris, you’d better eat something. Maybe take a shower. That’s a long time to be out. You’ll get pretty tired. To say nothing of time-lagged.”
Kristian grinned at him. “Put some espresso in the IV. I’ll be fine.”
Max laughed, but Elliott shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t care who likes it or who doesn’t,” Bannister said tightly. “Get it ready. And call me when you’re going to start. I want to be here.”
He turned to Frederica’s cot, and the lines in his face deepened. He hesitated, looking down at her. For a moment, Kristian thought Bannister was going to bend, kiss her perhaps. Instead, he brushed away a strand of hair from her cheek, awkwardly, as if he wasn’t used to doing it. He straightened, and stamped away down the long room to the door. Anger in place of fear. Kristian got that.
Chiara returned, and after she had been informed of the plan she led Kristian off to find some
thing to eat. She opened the door into a dark room. She felt her way along the wall to a bank of light switches, and flicked one. One end of a vast, cold kitchen brightened.
The contrast with the colorful, crowded kitchen of Casa Agosto was so intense it took Kristian’s breath away. This one was filled with modern equipment, a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator, two stainless-steel ovens, a wide gas range with an assortment of pans and utensils hanging from a rack above it. The floor was an institutional linoleum, nothing like the worn flagstones of the kitchen of 1861. Kristian eyed everything doubtfully. There was no actual food to be seen.
Chiara said, “Sit there, please,” pointing to a metal-topped counter with bar stools arranged around it. “I will make you some pasta.”
She delved into the Sub-Zero, her small figure dwarfed by its big doors. She emerged with a covered dish and a jar in her hands, and a pint of cream under one elbow. Kristian leaped up to help her, but she shook her head. “No, no. It’s better I do it myself.” She deposited everything on the counter, and took two saucepans from their hooks.
“You seem to know your way around this place,” Kristian said.
“I have been here one week today. Frederica arrived last Monday, and we have kept very odd hours since then, Elliott and Max and I. We do our own cooking. That is—” She smiled. “I do the cooking. I am—how do you say it in English—very pickup.”
“Picky.”
“Oh, sì, sì, sì. Thank you. Picky.”
Kristian laughed. “A pickup is a truck. A sort of small truck, with an open back.”
“Oh, yes? Pickup. Picky. I will remember.” While she talked, she was setting water to boil. When it began to roll, she spilled ravioli out of the dish into the pan. Into the other saucepan she emptied a jar of sauce. “Sauce from a jar is not so good, but it is all I have.” She stirred a bit of cream into it, and went back to the refrigerator for a wedge of cheese. He liked watching her neat little figure, the nimble gestures of her hands. He tried to imagine her with a scalpel or a hypodermic, and he thought he could see that. She would be just as efficient in a hospital room or a medical office, quick, deft, comforting. Of course, she wouldn’t be wearing those jeans, and that fitted tee shirt that made her look like she was still a college girl.
The Brahms Deception Page 9
