I found out later that she had been undergoing tests during that three-week period, at the end of which she was given a diagnosis. On the twenty-ninth of January, to be exact. That evening we went to the opera, and although she was more fidgety than usual, I remember thinking she was enjoying life again. We spent the night together, lying awake for a long time in each other’s arms, as after a long separation, and when I awoke the next day to go to work, she didn’t want to let go of my hand. I remember how happy that made me, and I reproach myself now for having been so blind.
It was about two in the morning when we left the hospital in Stykkishólmur. I had been intending to find us a room for the night, but Malena wanted to drive back to Reykjavík immediately. I called Hotel Borg and booked a room and we set off in the red rental car that was waiting for us by the harbor where I had parked it the previous day.
She tried to rest, drowsy from the painkillers. I don’t think she fell asleep, but she kept her eyes closed, perhaps so she wouldn’t have to talk. In fact, I was relieved at first, because that enabled me to enjoy the still night. Horses slept in the fields, and I saw sheep scattered about like white specks in the semi-twilight, the blurred contours of the distant mountains, a pale moon above the ocean. Peace and quiet with no one around but us, her breath measured, and I was strangely relieved that our Icelandic trip would soon be coming to an end.
I don’t know why I was then seized by this sudden uneasiness. Nothing had changed as we approached Borgarnes, nothing I could put my finger on—the night was as calm as before, the moon was still shining on the sea. It was as though I was incapable of allowing myself to feel good and was searching for a way to shatter the calm, to call darkness down upon me. Why?
As it was, I began to think about the time when I was in Iceland with Vincent and Margaret. Until then, I had been fairly successful in keeping those memories at bay, yet now they assailed me, relentlessly, no matter how hard I tried to ignore them.
The trip had started well. Ísleifur and his colleagues had arranged for us to stay in a small apartment on Sjafnargata, where we settled in before going to dinner at the home of Ísleifur’s parents. We received a warm welcome, Margaret played the piano, much to the delight of the company, and Vincent gave a short speech in which he announced that Margaret’s recital was a token of her gratitude to her land and people. Her success should encourage other Icelandic musicians, for it showed that with talent and determination they, too, could as well as anybody else have the world at their feet. He gave a toast, and when Ísleifur let slip that it was his mother’s birthday, Margaret sat down at the piano and played “Happy Birthday,” improvising a few amusing variations to the hilarity of everyone present.
The next day Margaret was interviewed by a few journalists. Vincent was never far away, interposing comments here and there, to put things in context, he said, because Margaret was too self-effacing. The interviews appeared the day of the recital, and Margaret translated them for Vincent over their morning tea; I was standing within earshot. It amazes me sometimes that they let me listen to those fictitious accounts of Margaret’s life, those tales about her career, instead of telling me to go outside and play. And yet it was as if they were listening to the gospel truth, and simply wanted to make sure no one was straying from the script, casting aspersions, or splitting hairs.
“Excellent,” Vincent remarked every now and then as Margaret read aloud, “brilliant, well written, elegant, hits the nail right on the head.”
The recital was well attended and Margaret got a standing ovation. The reviews were complimentary, although Margaret felt that one of them—written by a young composer—could have been more positive.
“A novice,” she explained. “Studied in Germany, apparently. Just got back.”
I remember it was the sentence “Strange we haven’t heard more about her” that she took exception to, because in all other respects, according to what I heard, the review was fine.
“Not bad at all,” said Vincent, picking up the other newspapers to try to distract her.
“But that’s the biggest broadsheet,” said Margaret.
“Read the sentence again,” said Vincent.
“‘Strange we haven’t heard more about her.’”
“Might he not be saying that it’s a shame your countrymen haven’t been following your career more closely?”
“Is that what it sounds like to you?”
“There’s nothing else in the article that suggests any animosity.”
“But no enthusiasm, either. No generosity. Only a tedious account of my repertoire and a dispassionate description of my performance.
“No, that’s not true,” said Vincent, who had been taking notes while Margaret read aloud. “A professional performance . . . Well received by the audience . . . Hoping this marks the beginning of further concerts in Gamla bíó . . . Not bad at all, Margaret.”
She was persuaded for the time being, and we went for a walk around Tjörnin, the pond in the city center, and later that day visited my aunt Berglind, whom I had met for the first time at the recital. She was older than Margaret and didn’t look like her at all; she was short, rather stout, with a kindly face, and seemed almost shy of my parents. She spoke no English, Margaret explained, and hadn’t finished high school. Her husband was tall and skinny, and rather reserved. His name was Friðrik and Margaret told us he was a cabinetmaker. They had three children: two had left home, which left Jóhann, who was a year older than I.
The same thing happened with us cousins as it does with most children; although we spoke different languages we instantly seemed to understand each other. While the grown-ups drank coffee and tried to make conversation, we went first into his bedroom, the walls of which were lined with pictures of Manchester United football players, and then into the yard, taking with us the ball Jóhann kept under his bed. The two of us kicked it around until a third boy joined us and then others later until we had enough players for two teams.
I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that Jóhann and I became fast friends, and before we left, I persuaded Margaret to ask her sister whether he and I could meet up regularly during the rest of our stay. They lived on Ásvallagata, so it wasn’t far to go, and I wouldn’t need any help getting there. Of course, Berglind said, and I could see my parents were delighted about this new relationship, as it meant they no longer had to worry about keeping me busy.
Margaret’s class started the following day and should have lasted two weeks. For the first few days, I had breakfast at Sjafnargata before leaving for my cousin Jóhann’s house, where I would stay until bedtime. But this involved a lot of useless to-ing and fro-ing and we cousins, naturally, concluded that it would be better if I moved in temporarily. Our parents raised no objections and I stuffed my clothes in a bag and moved to Ásvallagata, where I slept on the floor in Jóhann’s room.
I still look back on those days with a smile on my face and a happy heart. Simple family life was something new to me; it reminded me of a smooth river running gently into the sea, washing the grassy banks, reflecting the bright sky and the birds flying overhead. At least, that is how it seemed to me many years later when I was at Cambridge and would rest my biking legs on the banks of the River Rib and reflect on my life. I also realized that it was my experience there that helped encourage my exile from my parent’s house—for what else could I call my escape to the attic room in Murray and Beatrice’s house?
I can still smell the pancakes Aunt Berglind used to make to accompany the afternoon coffee, and the odor of wood in Friðrik’s workshop in the cellar; I can hear Friðrik’s quiet voice and Berglind’s humming along to the radio, which she always had on in the kitchen. They were relaxed and cheerful, completely different from how they had seemed in my parents’ company. Friðrik let us build a boat in a corner of his workshop and Berglind showed me photographs of my grandparents and of her and my mother as children.
Everything went like clockwork until exactly one week into our s
tay in Iceland, when disaster struck without warning. Vincent knocked on the door when we were in the middle of lunch: boiled fish and potatoes, prepared by Friðrik, because Berglind worked in the mornings. And freshly baked lava bread, which was delicious with butter. Friðrik and Berglind were listening to the news on the radio while slowly eating their food, but Jóhann and I were in a hurry because our friends were waiting for us to resume playing football on the field up at Landakotstún.
“You have to pack your things,” he said when Berglind opened the door. “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving? Where to?”
“Home.”
“Home?”
“You must pack your things.”
He turned to Friðrik and Berglind and tried to explain that we had to go back to England earlier than planned.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, shall we say, nothing that can be done about it, I’m afraid.”
He spoke fast and didn’t think of simplifying his language so they had a hard time understanding a word of what he was saying. Finally, he managed, through gestures, to make it clear to them why he was there, at which the couple exchanged glances and then looked at me, doing their best to put on a brave face.
“I’m not going,” I said to Vincent.
“Magnus . . .”
“I’m not leaving here. You two can go.”
“Magnus Colin. This is beyond my control . . .”
“I’m going to stay. I’m going to live here.”
I don’t remember ever having rebelled against my parents or truly spoken my mind to them, however much I longed to do so. Consequently, Vincent didn’t know what had hit him. He had never lost his temper with me and didn’t then. He seemed bewildered.
“Magnus Colin. Not you as well . . .”
“Take her home and leave me here. I never want to see either of you again.”
I didn’t shout, but my voice was trembling with rage and I remember fighting back the tears. I think I would have won that contest had Vincent not broken down, right in front of the four of us there in the hallway.
First he closed his eyes and lowered his head; his body began to shake, but when his crying became audible I felt every ounce of strength drain from my body. These were quiet, breathless sobs, signifying utter defeat. It was as if myriad failures had all of a sudden converged, forcing my father to appear more sincere than I had ever seen him.
I collected my things, shook Friðrik’s hand, and allowed Berglind to take me in her arms. Jóhann and I looked at each other for a moment, but when I felt the tears begin to trickle down my cheeks I opened the door and walked out of the house without looking back.
I didn’t say a word in the taxi up to Sjafnargata where Margaret and the suitcases were waiting for us, nor on the way to the airport. They were silent, too, and it was only later when I put together snatches of their conversation that I found out what had happened. Then Margaret’s words as we boarded the plane echoed in my head:
“I shall never come here again.”
Chapter 20
Vladimir Ashkenazy set the cat among the pigeons.
He was married to an Icelandic woman and had become an Icelandic citizen in the early eighties, but was living in Switzerland when this happened. He was still considered one of the world’s leading pianists, although by then he was mostly conducting. Icelanders respected and admired him; he was even dearer than a son of their own, because he had chosen to become one of them, preferring them over the superpower with which he had cut all ties. He was a citizen of the world, and he brought that world with him to this small island in the north, with his playing and his appearance—his tousled hair and exotic features, his name. Local musicians vied for his attention, and even those who never listened to classical music were in awe of him.
Until then, the course had progressed without incident. There were eight students in total, and although Margaret later insisted they were all talentless, I could tell from my father’s timid rebuttal that she had liked them well enough. Ísleifur and his colleagues, the perfect hosts, made sure Vincent and Margaret were entertained every evening, and my father even made a deal with a record shop owner to import everything on the Mecca label. Things couldn’t have been better; even the weather was in a good mood and the sun made an appearance nearly every day.
Ashkenazy arrived unannounced. No one knew he was in the country, Ísleifur later explained to my father. My mother was in the middle of teaching when one of the students looked out the window and saw his idol enter the building. He gasped, unable to stop himself from announcing the news to the whole class. There was a small commotion among the students and someone opened the door and looked down the corridor. Soon afterward Ashkenazy appeared with the director of the school, who had been waiting for him by the entrance.
Margaret was upset by this disorder among her students, although I suspect she would have gotten over it had the director not insisted on pausing in the open doorway.
“I expect you two have met before,” he said. “Vladimir Ashkenazy, Margaret Bergs.”
Margaret hesitated, but Ashkenazy shook his head, smiling.
“No, I don’t believe we have.”
“But surely you must know of each other.”
Silence. The students looked first at him then at her, while the director appeared bewildered, as if he realized that he had made a blunder.
“Bergs?” Ashkenazy said.
“The pianist, Margaret C. Bergs,” insisted the director.
As Vincent later pointed out, a civilized human being would have put an end to the embarrassing situation simply by replying: “Yes, of course, how silly of me. Pleased to meet you. I’ve always been a great admirer of yours.” Nothing more. A few words, a handshake, and a friendly smile. After which he would have continued on his way with the director, while Margaret resumed her class, and no harm would have come of that meeting.
“I’m so out of touch,” he said instead. “It’s shameful, really. Forgive the interruption.”
The students knew exactly what had happened. The silence was excruciating and in the end Margaret marched out and went straight to Sjafnargata, leaving her coat behind in the classroom.
That was at ten o’clock. At twelve, Vincent picked up her coat, then came in the taxi to fetch me.
We have never spoken about what happened between us in Ásvallagata. Not a single word. And yet our relationship changed because of it, and was never the same again. He became cautious, not discussing anything with me but the most ordinary matters. He also spoke differently to Margaret when I was around, was wary, and took care not to say anything that was blatantly untrue, not even when he was trying to placate her. I had never been an insolent child, but every now and then I would make it clear that they no longer had the upper hand. I confess I enjoyed this; perhaps it was a sign that I had reached adolescence.
Vincent’s response was to pack me off to St. Joseph’s that fall. It was late, but fortunately Christopher Llewellyn Hunt knew the headmaster. And so I stayed in my parents’ house only a few weeks after our return from Iceland, although the time went by very slowly. Margaret was either bad-tempered or silent. She didn’t touch the piano, and once she stayed in bed for three whole days. She didn’t speak to me much. I contrived to spend most of my time with my friends, playing football from morning until night, or else I stayed in my room. That spring, Vincent had given me an old record player with a built-in speaker, along with a few records from his Mecca label. He was hoping I might be tempted to learn to enjoy proper music, as he called it, but until then I had left it to gather dust. It wasn’t the records he had given me that changed my mind, but rather a Led Zeppelin album lent to me by a friend’s older brother.
I remember clearly the day I first ventured to put Physical Graffiti on the turntable. It was just before supper; the album had been in my room for a few days, but I hadn’t dared take it out of the sleeve before then.
The response was almost immediate. I hadn’t turned th
e volume up, but the sound carried easily in that house. They were downstairs, in the living room, where they had been sitting since I came home. I stood by the door, listening as much for any noise that might come from downstairs as to the music itself, watching out of the corner of my eye as the black disc went around and around, and automatically tapping my feet to the rhythm.
At first there was dead silence, but then I heard my mother say:
“Where’s that noise coming from?”
“From outside, wouldn’t you say?” my father replied, and I heard him open the front door.
Then they understood, and lowered their voices, although Margaret had always found it difficult to speak in a whisper.
“Do something!” I heard her command Vincent. “Do something!”
I sat on the bed when I heard him climbing the stairs. He came up slowly, pausing twice on the way. He tapped gently on the door, paused, then entered before I had time to decide whether to reply or not.
He looked drained.
“Magnus Colin . . .”
I waited.
“This won’t do.”
I didn’t answer.
“You’ll have to turn it off.”
“Why?”
“You know why. This noise . . .”
“It isn’t noise to me. And I don’t care what you think.”
He stood in the doorway looking lost, glancing once over his shoulder down the stairs to where I guessed my mother was watching him. He then turned his attention to me and the record player, before finally trudging over to it, lifting the needle slowly, and replacing the album in its cover. I sat still, gazing at him in silence. I was expecting him to take the record with him, but after holding the sleeve in his hand for a moment, he put it down and walked back to the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and before he closed the door, he added: “I’ve applied for a place for you at St. Joseph’s. I know you’d like to go there. Perhaps it’s for the best.”
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