“That sounds like a complete load of—”
“Oh, and we took the liberty of buying a case of red wine,” said JJ.
“For my mom?” asked Noel. “But didn’t you just order some red-wine extract from Switzerland?”
“The ANOX? It’s been held up. Anyway, a new study says the wine itself is just as good. Some chemical in it, I can’t remember the name, stimulates nerve regeneration.”
“Resveratrol. Researchers in Italy found that when it was added to human nerve cells growing in culture, they grew contact points.”
“Contact points, exactly. And people with Alzheimer’s have fewer contact points, am I right? So by having daily shots of wine you prevent, you know …”
“Neurodegeneration. Where’s my mother now, by the way?”
“Sound asleep. She had a bit too much wine. Don’t worry about her, I’ve got my hand on the wheel. Oh, by the way, I fixed her treadmill. We’re going to boil her blood for forty-five minutes every day. That’s the key to alertness and longevity—boil your blood for forty-five minutes a day. That’s what my grandfather used to say.”
“By ‘boil her blood’ you mean get her heart going.”
“And brain. Neurobics, I call it.”
“How old was your grandfather when he died?”
“Fifty. He fell off his bike and broke his neck. Oh, and we were looking at your mom’s scrapbooks. Amazing. She’s got articles on your dad’s work back in the eighties! And articles on you when you were a little boy! You were both famous! And Dr. Vorta is quoted in some of them! So I’m making copies for my scrapbook, if it’s OK with you.”
“And we found some things in the attic,” said Samira. “I hope you don’t mind us poking around.”
“What’d you come up with?”
“These.” From the kitchen table Samira picked up a sheaf of ice-blue airmail letters, with British stamps.
“My grandmother’s letters! You found them! Fantastic!”
“There’s magic spells inside a couple of the letters,” said Samira. “Witch’s spells, I mean. Good spells.”
“I know, I’ve been looking all over for them for years! I remember some of them from when I was a kid. Where’d you find them?”
“In here.” JJ held up a red-and-white chequered book, a battered and food-stained Better Homes & Gardens. “Flattened like leaves inside the pages. Maybe we can try some of the spells on your mom.”
Noel stared at the cover of the book, remembering certain flourthumbed pages that had made his life happier; he could now smell and taste the desserts he had helped his mother make, like Rice Krispie squares and vanilla fudge and lemon meringue pie (“a luscious filling made with real lemon tucked under a fluffy blanket of lightly toasted meringue …”). “OK, I’ll try anything.”
“One last thing,” said Samira. “Your mom is becoming more and more … silent. As I’m sure you’ve noticed. So I’m going to get her painting—it’ll help her to express herself. Art therapy, by an amateur like me, hope you don’t mind. I’ve only done one semester, but I’ll do my best …”36
“Yes, by all means, art therapy sounds like a good idea. A very good idea—”
“Our next concern is you,” said Samira. “Because your system’s run down. Caregiver collapse. Depression, exhaustion, maybe even guilt— it’s common according to Dr. Rhéaume. So JJ and I have drawn up a Top Ten list for you.”
“Most of these are Sam’s,” said JJ. “Try to guess which two are mine.” He handed Noel a piece of lined yellow paper.
Noel’s 10 Commandments
1.Get enough sleep, and take time out to relax, so you can focus better on things that are important (like finding a memory cure!).
2.Eat three square meals to give you energy for things that are important (like finding a memory cure!).
3.Allow others to help, because caring for your mom is too big a job to be done by you alone.
4.Take one day at a time rather than worry about what may or may not happen in the future.
5.Structure your day because a consistent schedule makes life easier for both you and your mom.
6.Remember that your mom is not being difficult on purpose; her behaviour and emotions are being distorted by AD.
7.Have a sense of humour because laughter helps to put things in a more positive perspective.
8.Focus on and enjoy what your mother can still do rather than lament over what is lost.
9.Try to depend more on OTHER RELATIONSHIPS for love and support.
10.Draw upon the Higher Power, which is available to you.
“Take a guess—which ones are mine?” JJ repeated.
“Well … let’s see. Seven and ten?”
JJ responded with a woofy laugh. “Bingo! You know what the Higher Power is?”
“God?”
“A belief in mystery, magic and miracles. The three ms.”
Noel’s brain filled up with acres of sunny blue sky. “Thanks for this, both of you.” Tears were rising, but he coaxed them back to their source. His arms ached to hug them both, but remained lifeless at his side. He reread number 9, drawn into the vortex of capitals, desperately hoping it was a hint, a kick under the table, a coded Valentine.
Chapter 14
Noel & Samira (II)
It was not a hint after all, Noel concluded, after scarcely seeing Samira for the next seven days. She passed him in the hall with only a syllable or two, walked by him in Dr. Vorta’s office with barely a nod. Not surprising, he thought. What a fool I was to expect anything more! It’s always the same. In any case, it was all a big distraction. I’ve got better ways of occupying my brain.
To prove it to himself, Noel spent more and more time underground. He ignored pleas from his mother and JJ to come up for air, just as he ignored his Ten Commandments, which he decided were unobeyable. He drove himself harder and harder. He would sleep in his chair, rarely using his bed, for the mornings seemed years away from the night. Time was the enemy, the poison.37 And though he felt lonely, and out of joint, he also felt he was making progress. He was sure of it. And he was losing weight—an added benefit.
He was also starting to lose his mind, he strongly suspected one night. For inspiration and clues, he had begun combing through a book of mediaeval Arabian chemistry, as well as four versions of The Thousand and One Nights—including Galland’s translation, a charred edition borrowed from JJ. After a day of frenzied speed-reading, thinking himself into a stupor, he snapped the books shut. “That’s it,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve lost it …”
He was sitting in his father’s swivel chair, staring catatonically at a dirty-white wall that matched the interior of his head, when a percussive sound jostled him. A rhythm he had heard before. In a dream? Rat-a-tattat, rat-a-tat-tat. Softly. Then a muffled, disembodied voice. “Noel?”
Déjà vu, literally, in his mind. “Yes?” he said.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes … of course. The door’s unlocked.”
“Can you open it?”
With his heart galloping, Noel sprang from his chair and yanked open the door. Samira, in a camisole and flared boot-cut pants, both black, was holding a tray against her bare midriff.
“Come in, sorry. Here, let me take that … Sorry, Sam, I was just … in the clouds. As usual.”
“JJ made them for you. Brain food.” Samira set the tray down, kissed Noel on both cheeks, giving him a gentle hug in the process.
The contact, only the fleetest touch of skin and hair, aroused Noel from his catatonia like a branding iron. “Thanks. I mean, not for the … I mean for that too, but, you know …” He nodded at the plate of salmon sandwiches encircled by walnuts, carrots and grape tomatoes. “I appreciate it …” He could still feel her kiss-prints burning on his flesh. And especially the … well, keeping my mom company.”
“That’s JJ’s department, not mine, I have to admit. I haven’t been around much these past few days. It’s crunch time at school.”
&nb
sp; Noel took a breath, his first in a while. “I understand.” He lifted his gaze from the tray to her face. She was radiant, a vision of beauty. The way she used to look!
“What a great lab this is! JJ gave me the grand tour the other day, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You’re … welcome to come down. Anytime you want.”
“Thanks.” Samira looked away, at the rows of chemicals, trying to conceal her shock at how awful Noel looked. Pallor of a corpse, JJ was right. “Well, bon appétit. I’ll let you eat in peace. And then maybe you should … you know, take a break. I mean, after you’ve done what you have to do …”
“I’ve finished. For the day. My mind’s shot. I don’t suppose … no, never mind.”
“What?”
“You … you wouldn’t like a drink, would you?”
“I’d love one.”
“Really? Great. Here, sit down. No, this chair’s more comfortable. I’ve got something that JJ distilled. A Newfoundland recipe.”
Samira laughed as she sat down. “Screech? Thank God for JJ.”
“Amen.” Noel opened the bottom drawer of a battered wooden filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle with a skull and crossbones on the label. He filled two beakers to the halfway point, held out one to Samira.
“Thanks. Health and happiness.” She clinked her beaker against his then took a sip. “Hey, that’s not … as bad as I thought it would be.”
Noel laughed. And then grimaced as the rum and God knows what else burned down his chest like lava.
It was Samira’s turn to laugh. “The last time we had a drink I ended up falling asleep on your bed. Which I forgot to apologise for.”
“My fault entirely. I was … away much too long.”
“When you left, I think it was my turn to ask some personal questions.”
“You’ve got a good memory.” Noel took another sip, cautiously. “Fire away.”
“I wanted to ask you about …” Samira paused as she noticed the books on the table. “Is this … The Thousand and One Nights?” She picked up one of the volumes and opened it. “A really old edition. Beautiful.” She smiled. “So is this what you’ve been up to all day?”
“No, I … just … wanted to check something out.” He took the book from her. “So what did you want to ask me about?”
She took another sip from her beaker. “About the colours in your head, your synaesthesia. I never knew it existed until I met you, or rather until Norval told me about it. I mean, I know what it is in poetry because we studied it at school. But what is it … you know, what happens inside your brain? Do a lot of people have it?”
Noel reached for his glass. The sensations he had felt not five minutes before—numbness, fogginess, sluggishness—were all converted into their opposites. His mental horizon was clear, cloudless; he was floating in something close to pure happiness. And it wasn’t only from the bathtub rum. He smiled, something he hadn’t done in a while. “It depends on who you talk to. Some researchers put it at one in two thousand, others at one in twenty thousand. But we all have it—we’re all synaesthetes for the first three months of our lives. But we forget this, of course. Infantile amnesia.”
“Norval says you can remember your natal hour.”
“Norval would say something like that. If it’s sounds good he’ll say it.”
“He also predicts you’ll be a great artist one day.”
“He also predicts the winners of horse races. Not very well.”
“Does he think you’ll be a great artist because his favourite authors— Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Nabokov—all had synaesthesia?”
“Probably. But great art like that is definitely out of my league. So is mediocre art, for that matter.”
Samira held Noel’s eye for a full quarter of a minute, until he looked away. “Are there any great scientists who had it?”
“Richard Feynman, for one.”
Samira laughed. “You’re kidding. I just read an article on him—in a section of the paper I never read, even while listening to my mom on the phone. There was a long delay in the metro. A suicide jump, I think. He was into quantum mechanics, right? In the sixties?”
Noel nodded. “My father liked him because of his … range. Because he wasn’t your average boring scientist, as you probably know. He wrote on science and religion, on the role of beauty in scientific knowledge, on gambling odds. He cracked uncrackable safes, played bongo drums for a ballet …”
“Painted a nude female bullfighter.”
Noel smiled. “Right. My father once had a drink with him. In Queens.”
“Are you serious? Wow, a brush with greatness. I’m just trying to remember … Didn’t he have some famous last words?”
“‘I’d hate to die twice—it’s so boring.’”
Samira burst out laughing. “That’s it. Almost as good as Dylan Thomas’s.”
“Really? What were his?”
“‘Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.’”
It was Noel’s turn to laugh. “What number are we on?” He held up the bottle then poured.
“Three—we’ve a ways to go.” She swivelled in her chair, put her feet up. “So I can see why your father liked Feynman. Maybe one day you’ll be like him.”
Noel gazed at Samira’s dark brown ankle boots, at the criss-cross of laces wound through button hooks. “There’s no’ a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening, as my mother would say.”
“Great Scottish accent! Almost as good as Norval’s.”
“Right.”
Samira traced her finger round the lip of the beaker. “You’ve made quite an impression on JJ. He says you’re a genius.”
“JJ has kind words for everybody—it takes some getting used to. But there’s more to genius than having a good memory.” Noel’s mind began to stray, but he corralled it. “The funny thing, about Feynman I mean, is that I got some ideas about memory loss—about memory being physical particles—after looking at a Feynman diagram in my dad’s notes.”
“What’s a Feynman diagram?”
“Well, briefly, it’s a graphic method of representing the interactions of elementary particles, a way of calculating the processes that occur, for instance, between electrons and photons. One axis, for example the horizontal axis, is chosen to represent space, while the other represents time. Straight lines are used to depict fermions—particles with halfintegral values of intrinsic angular momentum, or spin, and wavy lines are used for bosons—particles with integral values of spin, such as photons …”
“This is the brief explanation, right?”
“Sorry, I … I’m not a very good storyteller. Or teacher. I always lose people.”
“No, no, it’s … it’s my fault. Entirely. Go on.”
“I’ll get to the point. Descartes, as I’m sure you know, famously divided the world into two parts—‘extended things,’ i.e., the physical world, and ‘thinking things,’ i.e., the mind. So the brain for him has two kinds of material—mental material, in which the thought exists, and physical material, which is where the memory is stored. So ever since Descartes philosophers and scientists have debated whether the human mind will ever be knowable.”
“Because if it’s not physical, how can you study it?”
“Exactly. But now, the standard view of neuroscience is that when we have a new thought, or a new memory, our brain has physically changed. With the formation of engrams, memory-traces. So the mind doesn’t exist beyond that—beyond the grey mush, the nerve spaghetti of the brain— and therefore memory is a biological process that can be manipulated like anything else. And not only can you manipulate it, you can improve it.”
“With a memory pill, for example.”
Noel smiled. “Precisely.”
“So Descartes was wrong. But what’s Feynman got to do with all this?”
“Well, we still have to understand the interaction between the mental—the thought or new memory forming—and the physical. How do the two influence each
other? Descartes thought that the pineal gland—via the eyes—was the point at which the two interacted, which is ridiculous, but now scientists think that the interaction happens at the quantum level.”
“Hence your studies of Feynman.”
“Well, I’m … not really at that level. And never will be.”
“Noel, I’m sure you’ll get there, and beyond. All you need is … well, confidence. Or arrogance—the arrogance of Norval.”
Noel managed a half-smile. “Yeah, I guess I could learn a few things from him.”
“And JJ can show you a few things too.”
“I know. He’s good at re-routeing my thought patterns—at deingraining bad mental habits, if that’s a word.”
“Has he converted you to CAM? To ‘neutraceuticals’ instead of pharmaceuticals?”
“No. Big Pharma’s bad, but the ‘wellness’ industry is worse. Unregulated and dishonest. Untested and unreliable. For the most part, anyway. But I’m trying to keep an open mind—it does have some things to offer. And I love JJ’s enthusiasm, optimism, which rubs off.”
A patch of silence followed, which neither person seemed to notice, let alone be uncomfortable with. Noel gazed up at the small basement window, like a dungeon grate, and saw snowflakes dance and cling to the glass. Each one was worth an hour of study under the microscope, his father had told him, each one a map of divinity.
“I’m trying to remember,” said Samira, her words slightly slurred, “how we got on to all this.”
Noel shifted his gaze. “I’m the one who got us off track. You were asking about coloured hearing.”
“Right, I wanted to know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Does it screw up your life? Would you ever want to get rid of it?”
“No, I wouldn’t. Ever. I have trouble, in fact, conceiving of a world in which letters and sounds are neutral, clear, white, whatever. Sometimes I think those who don’t have synaesthesia are missing out on something. Almost like being colour blind. I think all synaesthetes feel the same way. Mind you, we’re not all the same—most have mild cases, which don’t interfere with their everyday life, while a few have trouble functioning in society because of it, like some artists. And me.”
The Memory Artists Page 21