‘Ika, I have to ask you a few things,’ I said. He looked past me out the window and said nothing. It looked as if he shrank a little. And I felt moved to tears again. I didn’t want to have this conversation, if it could be called that. I knew he would contribute precious little.
‘What were you doing in the sea yesterday?’ As I expected, he didn’t respond. I was at a loss to know what to do. How to continue.
‘It was Thursday and you knew I was here waiting for you,’ I said, wincing at the sound of my words. I didn’t want him to feel I was putting pressure on him. That his Thursday visits were an obligation. But there was no reaction, spoken or otherwise. He sat staring into space, immobile. I stood up and started to clear the table.
‘If you don’t tell me anything, I can’t help you,’ I said. I kept my back to him and my eyes on my hands as I cleared the last few pieces from the table and wiped it with a cloth.
‘I think you need help. Everybody does from time to time. Some things are just too hard to deal with without help.’
I sat down at the table again. I couldn’t help looking at him. I swallowed and began again.
‘When I was about your age I thought I could manage by myself. But sometimes that just isn’t possible. Some things are too hard for children to sort out.’
He still said nothing and refused to make eye contact.
‘Can I ask you a few questions, Ika? You don’t need to answer, just nod or shake your head. Okay?’
Nothing.
‘Is that okay?’ I repeated and bent forwards. He sat back, maintaining the distance between us. But I thought I could discern the slightest little nod. Or perhaps he just let his head sink lower to avoid my gaze.
‘What were you doing in the sea yesterday? It’s winter. The water is very cold.’
Nothing.
‘Did you go into the sea because you were sad?’
A small shake of his head.
‘Because you were scared?’
A nod. Possibly – it was hard to be sure.
‘Did someone hurt you yesterday?’
A nod. A definite nod.
‘Okay. You don’t need to tell me what happened. But I would like to come with you to your home.’
Suddenly he looked up, not quite at me, but I could see his eyes widening, as if he were frightened. Terrified, in fact.
Vigorous shake of the head.
Did it mean he didn’t want to go home? Or did it mean he didn’t want me to accompany him?
I needed time to think. I had to take him home, or I had to report my suspicions. Possibly both. But it could not be done behind his back. I needed to try to explain something that was still muddled in my own head. So I bought us some time.
‘Okay, let’s think about it while we take showers and get dressed,’ I said.
Which is what we did. We both showered, and I think we both thought.
I also thought about another little boy.
‘Grow up!’ she whispers. ‘Please, grow up soon.’
She pushes down on the metal frame of the baby seat and lets it go. The little body bounces lightly against the soiled denim as the metal springs forwards, but the baby makes no sound. His unsmiling eyes stare back at her and he keeps sucking the first two fingers on his left hand as he rocks back and forth.
She presses down with more effort and lets go again, watching as he bounces a little harder, then slowly comes to rest. She bends forwards and puts her ear to his chest and feels a hushed, wheezy sound deep inside. It sounds like a fish sucking for air, she thinks. She knows how that sounds because she has been fishing with Grandfather. Before. Although that time is getting harder to see. She has to close her eyes to make the pictures appear and each time they seem a little duller. Smaller, too, as if watched from an ever-growing distance. She knows she needs them, though she tries not to think about them. Just occasionally to make sure they are still there. And each time she remembers she feels a rush of relief. She remembers. She remembers how the mouths of the fish looked. No lips, nothing like a mouth really, just white bony edges that kept opening and closing, while the round eyes stared at the sky. The gills that made no sound as they opened and closed in vain, exposing the strange blood-red membranes that slowly dried in the sun. Then a final sigh as the neck was snapped in Grandfather’s hands. After that no sound, just the odd silent spasm until all was still. She does remember.
She bends forwards again and whispers into the soft ear that looks like a velvet shell.
‘Grow up, please.’ She pulls the baby fingers out of his mouth and waits, her eyes intently staring into his baby black ones. His eyes lock with hers, and he smiles and stretches a wet hand towards her.
‘I love you,’ she whispers, and takes the outstretched hand and sticks the pink little fingers into her own mouth.
9.
Ika came out of the bathroom wearing his shorts and T-shirt. I had put them to dry the night before but hadn’t had time to wash them and they looked stiff and uncomfortable, saturated with dried salt. He walked over and sat down on the piano stool, his back to the piano, and stared into space.
‘Ika, here is what I think we should do,’ I said, trying to sound confident and hopeful.
‘I think we should call Mr Brendel over the road and ask him to take us back to your home. He knows your grandmother.’ Ika jumped and turned his face towards me, but as always without looking me in the eye. He said nothing.
‘I will talk to your grandmother and we will see what to do,’ I said, having no idea what I meant. What could be done, if anything.
Ika turned on the stool and put his hands on the keys.
I had discovered his musicality by chance. One Thursday I had sat down to play while I was waiting for him. My piano was never particularly good, and the humid and salty air in a house that was always more or less open to the elements had not been good for it. But it matched my ability rather well and I never had an audience. Or so I thought.
I had been listening to Bill Evans again. It had been a long time, and it wasn’t until recently when I had finally mastered downloading music from the internet that I had found myself returning to music I used to love. I listened, and I was trying to teach myself to play some. But I ignored the echoes of the past that the music evoked.
That Thursday it was ‘Peace Piece’. I was lost in the music, and hadn’t noticed the hands on the windowsill outside. Suddenly a minute stirring caught my eye. I tried to keep my fingers moving over the keys and not break the atmosphere while I turned my head to see what he was doing. His dirty little hands were hanging on to the windowsill with such force that the nails shone white against the skin. I could only see a glimpse of the top of his head but I could see his hands. And that was when I first noticed that the third and fourth fingers on both hands were webbed. A fine, almost translucent film connected the two fingers from the base to the first joint. I hadn’t noticed it before, but here the two hands were spread out in order to provide maximum support. My instant impression was of something exquisite and fragile. A mayfly’s wings. Fins of a veil tail fish. Then my professional self took over, and I wondered if it was medically significant. I wracked my brain for information. Vague memories of various syndromes stirred, but I let them go, and focused on my playing again. When I finished and looked up the hands were no longer there.
‘Come inside,’ I called, still playing. ‘Let’s try the piano together.’
A moment later he appeared, and tentatively approached the piano.
I went to get another chair and indicated to him to sit on the piano stool. He did and I adjusted the height a little. I sensed that he thought that I was too close and I pulled my chair back a touch before I sat down.
‘Have you seen a piano before?’ I asked. He shook his head.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let me play some scales. It’s a little bit like letting your fingers run up and down all the keys. Like this.’
Ika sat absolutely still watching my hands.
Whe
n I finished he tentatively put his own hands on the keys. He played the same scales, a little uncertainly, but hitting the right key almost every time. When he made the odd mistake he immediately corrected himself. Whatever I played, he played.
‘Are you sure you have never seen a piano before?’ I asked.
He shook his head, his eyes still focused on the keys.
I was utterly fascinated. In fact I was so moved I felt tears brimming in my eyes. I swallowed and leaned back on the chair.
And then he played ‘Peace Piece’.
He had only heard me play it of course. So he played with my intonation, my hesitation. He stumbled here and there and he played with childish simplicity, but as I listened, I realised that he had corrected some of my mistakes. I wondered how long he had been hanging on the windowsill, and how many times before. I sat breathless, stunned.
After he finished we sat in silence for a moment. It felt as if our relationship had changed. As if we had all at once become closer. I also felt as if I had been given a new responsibility, one that I accepted without hesitation.
I realised he would come to need better teachers than I could ever be, but for a start, I could give him what I had to offer.
Since that first day he had gathered a strange repertoire. Initially I thought he just had an uncanny ability for memorising and copying. But there was more to his talent than that. He developed his own sound and his own interpretations. Always distinct, and utterly fascinating. And he had his own taste, unpredictable and diverse. I allowed it to meander, find its own way forwards. Often it felt like an adventure trail. We never knew where each piece would take us, to what new musical experience it would lead.
And here he was, again seated by the piano. I had no idea what he was thinking.
To allow me to collect myself I suggested that he play for a while. I went into the kitchen where I stood leaning against the bench trying to decide what to do. Suddenly I heard him begin to play. I recognised the music. One of the first that we had discovered together: Philip Glass’s ‘Mad Rush’. I sank down on one of the kitchen chairs and listened. He played slowly, slower than I had ever heard the piece played before. And after a while I realised he was improvising large sections. The pulse increased gradually and I was hypnotically pulled into the music. I had never heard him play like this before. In part, it was painful to listen to, but it was also breathtakingly beautiful. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose to stave off my tears.
When the music stopped I went back into the room. Ika sat on the piano stool, slowly closing the lid. As he placed his hands on the closed lid and bent forwards I could see the dark bruises around his neck.
‘Here is what I think we should do,’ I said. ‘I will call Mr Brendel. You remember him, don’t you? The farmer who lives up the hill on the other side of the road?’
Ika nodded with his eyes on his hands.
‘I will ask him to drive us to your home. I will come too, of course. And I’ll talk to your grandmother. Then we’ll decide what is the best thing to do.’
No response.
‘Is that okay?’ I asked.
He kept his head bowed, but after a moment he shrugged his shoulders. I longed to hold him, find a way of comforting him and make him believe I could help him. And convince myself as well. All I could think of saying was: ‘It will all come right. I promise you it will all come right.’
I listened to my own words. They sounded hollow and I didn’t think they sounded comforting at all.
I went and rang George.
10.
I don’t know what I expected. I had never really given any thought to Ika’s family or homelife. To me he had seemed like a solitaire with no connection to anything or anyone. Stupidly, I had never asked. And he had never volunteered any information.
The small weatherboard house sat on a piece of flat land covered in yellowed grass. It looked abandoned; there were no signs of life. No washing on the clothesline that slowly turned in the breeze. No flowers. No curtains: the windows were black holes. The section was unfenced, marked only by a shallow ditch along the unsealed road and a low hedge of dead macrocarpa on one side. I could see no other houses and no animals, so perhaps fences were superfluous here. George drove up and parked on the dry yellow grass near the house, beside half a dozen car carcasses in varying stages of decay. Two large mongrel dogs came running towards the car, furiously barking. We stayed in the car with the doors closed, waiting.
The woman who eventually emerged through the open front door was small and very thin. From where I was I couldn’t judge her age, but she walked with a slight limp, or perhaps with exaggerated caution, as if she were in pain. She called the dogs and they withdrew reluctantly, whimpering.
‘How about you and I take a little drive? Leave the ladies to themselves for a little while?’ George turned to Ika in the back seat.
Ika didn’t reply, but made no effort to get out. I took this as a yes, as did George.
‘Thank you,’ I said to him and stepped out of the car. I really meant it. ‘It shouldn’t take very long.’
I had no idea how long it would take of course. Or what ‘it’ really encompassed. I just felt I had to say something that sounded – well, normal.
I watched them drive off, leaving a slowly dissolving cloud of dust behind. The woman stayed where she was just outside the front door in the shade of the jutting roof. She had crossed her arms over her chest. It was easy to see she wasn’t looking forward to this. Nor was I.
I introduced myself but she didn’t offer her name.
Instead she interrupted me impatiently. ‘I know who you are.’ She waved one hand dismissively.
Again, I felt the familiar pang of alienation. They knew me; I didn’t know them. I wasn’t one of them.
‘Can I come in?’ I asked.
She cocked her head and looked at me briefly, making it clear that I mustn’t take it as a given. She waited just long enough and then looked me straight in the eye for a fleeting moment. She had strangely pale blue-green eyes, set off against her light brown skin. Then she turned and walked back inside. I hesitated for a moment before I followed.
The house had no smell, and this somehow surprised me. It was bare and dry, void of signs of human life. The hallway was dark and completely empty – there were no pieces of furniture, no mats, not even rubbish. No shoes by the doorway. Nothing. Just a clean, worn strip of linoleum running the length of the narrow space. I could hear a TV or a radio from behind one of the closed doors but there was no sign of any other person in the house and there were no other sounds. The TV playing for nobody seemed to emphasise the feeling of forlornness that filled me the moment we drove up outside.
I followed the woman into the kitchen. It was very basic: a bench with a sink and stove. A worn, scratched fridge. Everything looked utterly clean, but the very cleanliness of the house was disturbing. It was aggressive, and it had nothing to do with comfort or care. She nodded for me to sit down on the one chair at the table, and I did. She went and got another chair from the corner and sat down opposite me. She said nothing but took out a pouch of tobacco. She rolled herself a cigarette, which she lit.
As she turned towards the window to exhale smoke I could see her face properly for the first time. Probably about my age. Over fifty. Too old to be Ika’s mother, most likely. She had a strong face with regular features and those striking light blue-green eyes, but whatever beauty might once have been there was long gone.
‘I am here to talk about Mika,’ I said. ‘I found him in the sea yesterday.’
She inhaled heavily and released the smoke through the corner of her mouth. She made no comment.
‘I think he was trying to kill himself,’ I said, bending forwards across the table to emphasise my words. The Formica table was cool under my palms.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply and shook her head slowly. She still didn’t speak.
‘I have got to know Mika a little since we first met las
t year,’ I continued. ‘He comes to my house most weeks. On Thursdays. His choice. I don’t know why Thursdays and I have never asked. But I appreciate his company very much and I am very fond of him.’
I paused briefly and she opened her eyes. She still said nothing.
‘But he has never told me anything about his home. And I have never asked. Perhaps I should have.’
She looked at me, sucking at her upper lip. Her lower jaw was virtually toothless. Then she rose abruptly and walked up to the window. She stood with her back to me.
‘I do what I can,’ she said. ‘It’s hard.’
I waited for her to continue.
‘There is something not right with him. Always was. No wonder, perhaps, considering. Might have been Lizzie’s fault.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Well, not her fault exactly. But she was in a bad way when she had him. Could’ve been the drugs. I don’t know. But there was something wrong with him. Everything was wrong.’
She sucked on the cigarette and smoke lifted above her head and found its way out through the mesh covering the open window. She turned around and looked at me. It felt like an appraisal, as if she were judging my ability to absorb what she was about to say. How I would react. Her face was a dark shadow against the window behind.
‘It’s not easy, you know. I can’t be here all the time. I have a job in town. Then there are the twins, though I can’t have them here right now. Not since Joe came back. Since the accident I’ve had to keep him here.’
Her tone of voice had changed. The words flowed more quickly, confidently. It felt as if what she was telling was practised. A prepared story – perhaps not for this purpose particularly but for more general use. And it was as if she were testing it on me. I felt distinctly uneasy.
‘Joe is not right in the head either. And he never will be. He’s twenty-three, but in his head he’s more like three. A big, strong, dangerous three-year-old. Him, I’m stuck with forever.’
She coughed, a deep scratchy sound that shook her thin frame.
Memory of Love (9781101603024) Page 6