One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  “That’s the same waiter,” she whispered playfully when he had left.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember?”

  “No,” I said. “I only had eyes for you.”

  She smiled.

  “Should I order fish and see whether he brings me chicken instead?”

  I had forgotten the mix-up, and her assumption that her accent was to blame. We laughed a lot that evening, she made fun of herself, and equally of me, and when she ordered steak au poivre it didn’t occur to me to ask whether she had changed her diet again. It felt as if nothing were wrong, as if we had nothing to hide, and the only time her hand faltered and she dropped her fork on the floor, we didn’t let it spoil things, but instead admired the speed with which the waiter picked it up and brought her another.

  At home we made love, and through the window the moon rose above the towers by Central Park. I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt about the glacier and our trip to Flatey. But in it everything was upside down. She never tripped, and the sun shone on the glacier, and the bay was like glass. We moved into a house by the shore and watched the boats come into land. When she ran down to the harbor to meet the boat, I woke up.

  She was gone. It was eight o’clock. She had left a little note on my bedside table which said: You’ve no idea how much I love you.

  I never saw her again.

  Chapter 30

  While I was expecting the seven CDs to get a positive reception, I had too much on my plate to give it much thought. I played Schubert and Liszt regularly for our patient and had spoken briefly to Anthony about the seven discs’ imminent release, perhaps showing slight nervousness. He told me he was eagerly awaiting them and assured me this was going to be a big event. I confess I had grown used to him talking to me as if I were somehow involved, and while I had no objection to that, I was careful not to let him think I knew more than I did. I was a little surprised, therefore, when this time he didn’t ask questions, but I was too busy to wonder why.

  I soon had the answer when he knocked on my door one day and showed me with a triumphant smile the seven CDs he had just received in the mail. At the same time, he plucked out of an envelope a photograph of my mother which, as promised, had been included in the special offer. I gave a start when I noticed that it was dedicated to Anthony in person, thanking him for his contribution to the discussions on the music forum.

  “Your father got in touch with me out of the blue,” he said, when he saw my reaction. “I was surprised. He sent e-mails to a few of the others on the forum as well, three that I know of. He was terribly friendly. We received the CDs four days before everyone else.”

  Although I understood perfectly that it was equally clever of my father to cultivate a rapport with online music enthusiasts as well as with traditional music journalists, I somehow didn’t like the fact that Anthony was one of them. To be honest, I am not sure whether it was jealousy or whether I thought I saw trouble ahead. In any event, I didn’t let it show and simply nodded as I took the CDs, giving them a fleeting glance before handing them back. I ignored the photograph.

  “I’ll start listening to them tonight,” he said. “Can hardly wait. This one first,” he added, holding up the Rachmaninoff for me to see. “But I doubt I’ll be able to stop there. I may end up listening to all of them before going to bed.”

  That evening my thoughts were with our patient and the tests we had planned for the following day. I was determined not to go online and browse the forum where Anthony and his friends held court. I came close to turning on the computer once or twice, but resisted the temptation and went to bed at a reasonable hour. At about three in the morning I was awakened by a siren’s wail outside and couldn’t get back to sleep. I got out of bed and before I knew it I was online.

  It looked as if Anthony was still up. His most recent post was from a few minutes earlier—an emotive description of Margaret’s interpretation of Scarlatti’s sonatas. He had been busy that evening, commenting on her Rachmaninoff and Mussorgsky, and had gotten into a minor argument with someone calling himself “pianoguru” who had dared to question whether Margaret was as versatile as everyone suggested. Those who had enjoyed the CDs in advance competed to give their opinions, and although my intention had been to take a quick peek at the computer, I didn’t switch it off until I had read everything they had written. Their enthusiasm was genuine, their analyses interesting, their descriptions oftentimes quite imaginative. In addition, the forum members seemed privy to a lot of information that could only have come from Vincent.

  “It is extremely interesting and explains a lot that she should have played the Rachmaninoff on the same piano he himself used during his concert tour of Great Britain . . .” “In her youth, she studied under Moiseiwitsch . . .” “I understand that she focuses on one composer at a time, playing nothing else for weeks or even months on end. For example, she practiced Scarlatti for five months straight before starting the recordings . . .”

  Instead of going back to sleep, I sat in front of the screen waiting for each fresh post. Anthony had called it a day, but the others carried on, assumedly living in places where it wasn’t the middle of the night. Although some of them were quite pompous, it was clear from their discussions that most of the members were deeply knowledgeable and passionate about classical music.

  It was nearly five o’clock when I forced myself to go back to bed. It was still dark and after I had lain awake for a while thinking about what I had read, it started to rain. I got up, opened the window, and listened to the rain on the trees as I had when Malena was there. I always found it slightly amusing the way she became so excited whenever it rained at night; she would leap out of bed the moment she heard the first drops fall, open the window, and listen to the soothing murmur as if it held the key to a secret. She tried to teach me to listen to its rhythms, its nuances, and sometimes I pretended to know what she was talking about. But mostly I just smiled and ran my fingers through her hair as she lay with her head on my chest.

  Perhaps I was asleep when the telephone rang; I am not sure. It’s in the living room and has such a soft ring that I don’t always hear it straightaway. A call in the middle of the night never bodes well, and my heart skipped a beat when I finally realized it was ringing and leapt out of bed. But there was nothing to fear—Vincent had simply gotten the time difference muddled up, as he was inclined to do.

  “Is it really only five in the morning?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Wait, are you sure it’s five and not . . .”

  “Yes, but don’t worry about it.”

  I hadn’t recognized the caller ID number on the screen and I soon found out why.

  “I’ve got a cell phone. I’m calling from London. Philip and I are standing in the heart of the city, in Oxford Circus. In the sunshine, I might add.”

  I guessed he meant Philip Ellis, his business partner whom I had met at Margaret’s birthday party. But I didn’t ask.

  “You aren’t at the hospital yet, are you?”

  “No, you called my home phone.”

  “Did I? I still haven’t gotten used to this thing. It has a memory. My assistant put all the numbers from my address book into it. Do you have one like this?”

  I said I didn’t know which phone he had, but mine was two years old.

  “This is an Apple phone,” he said. “It’s white and has lots of little pictures on the screen. Apparently you can take photos with it and go online. I tried playing music on it, but it has a tinny sound.”

  I said I didn’t have such a fine cell phone and asked what he meant by assistant.

  “I had to hire an assistant. We’re up to our eyes, Magnus. I don’t think you realize what’s been going on.”

  I told him I was paying attention.

  “The day after tomorrow, we’re releasing seven new CDs. Scarlatti, Mendelssohn . . .”

&nbs
p; “I know.”

  “We’ve sent them to a few influential people and the response has been tremendous.”

  I refrained from saying that I knew that, too.

  “If you haven’t already ordered them, I’ll send you copies.”

  I told him I had already ordered the CDs.

  “Good. The reason I’m calling . . .”

  I waited. He was surrounded by noisy traffic but his voice boomed the way it always did when he was excited, and I was sure the passersby could hear every word he said.

  “The reason is because the BBC wants to do a program about Margaret. Philip and I have just come from there. Have you been to their headquarters?”

  The question was absurd, as he must have known I had never had any reason to visit the BBC headquarters. He didn’t wait for a reply but carried on.

  “Very impressive. And there’s nothing they won’t do for us.”

  It was still dark outside but the rain had stopped. I opened the balcony doors and felt the cool morning air.

  “They want to talk to you. That’s why I’m calling. I told them you probably hadn’t much to contribute, that music wasn’t really your thing, but they still think you’d be an interesting addition. When are you next coming over?”

  “To England?”

  “Yes.”

  I told him I was in the middle of a research project.

  “That’s what I thought. In that case, they might want to interview you at the hospital.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Yes, there at the hospital, in Connecticut.”

  “When?”

  “Wouldn’t it be best for them to arrange it with you directly? I’ll give them your numbers.”

  “Are you sure this is really necessary?” I asked.

  “Philip is calling me,” he said, ignoring my question. “He’s just managed to get us a table at this café, it’s very crowded so I’d better hurry. I’ll send your love to your mother. Good-bye.”

  I said good-bye but kept my ear to the receiver. For a few seconds, I could hear the noise of the traffic, and Vincent muttering to himself as he pressed the wrong button on his phone: “How on earth do I turn this thing off?”

  Chapter 31

  The research progressed slowly. Initially, the patient replied only to questions that tested her motor cortex, and yet her responses were quicker than before and her resilience increased from day to day. This made us hopeful, although we didn’t really understand why she seemed unable to activate the parahippocampal gyrus. Simone and Anthony sat for hours on end in front of the computer analyzing the scanned images but found no explanations, and the theories Hofsinger and I offered proved tenuous. I spoke to both Osborne and Moreau, neither of whom could think of anything.

  Apart from that, it was interesting how well Simone and Anthony were suddenly getting along. They cited each other when they had a chance, made sure they regularly compared notes, and backed each other up when I allowed myself to ask them challenging questions. I found it amusing, and when Simone and I were alone I told her how glad I was that she had finally discovered Anthony’s qualities. She didn’t appreciate my humor.

  I felt buoyant during that time, convinced it wouldn’t be long before our patient started to exercise her parahippocampal gyrus. To a certain extent, it was interesting that she should find it so difficult, and I would sometimes talk to her about that in the evenings as I sat with her listening to music on the CD player, or to the audiobook of One Hundred Years of Solitude in Spanish, which I had bought at my local bookstore. The owner had ordered it for me, and when I went to pick it up, he had asked me why I hadn’t bought the digital version instead, as there were fourteen CDs altogether. He fetched the box and we both held it and remarked on how heavy it was. When he commented that I was obviously becoming fluent in the language, I played it down without divulging the reason for my purchase.

  I would sometimes sit with her until close to midnight. I had never read Márquez’s novel, and although I couldn’t understand all of it, I somehow managed to follow the thread, and even found myself becoming absorbed at times. I assumed she was listening attentively to the saga of the Buendía family, and I found it difficult sometimes to turn the CD player off and leave her there in silence. I imagined that if she could talk she would have tried to persuade me to let it play a bit longer. Just for fifteen minutes . . . or ten. Please . . .

  Anthony was starting to put together a complex theory when at last she responded to our calls. That was two weeks after we started the tests, on a calm, clear Thursday morning. Over the past few days, I had reworded my questions with the help of the dictionary, and although this didn’t seem to change anything, it made the exercise less tedious for us.

  “Imagine you are at the Buendía’s house in Macondo. The sun is shining and you are following Ursula from room to room . . .”

  I repeated these instructions a few times in both English and Spanish, occasionally adding some fresh detail in an attempt to catch her attention (descriptions of the room, the sound of the river, the light coming in through the window). At first she didn’t respond, so after a while I made my usual suggestion that we take a break, turning to Simone and Anthony who were discussing a movie one of them, I don’t remember who, had seen the night before. I happened to know it: an old French film about a man who fell in love with his neighbor, but did nothing because she was married and he was friends with the husband, a famous painter in a wheelchair. His love was reciprocated, and once they permitted themselves to hold hands on the stairs, but that was all. I remembered that the house where they lived was in an old square with a café, a bakery, and a Saturday market. On the other hand, I didn’t remember the ending, and was about to ask when one of the programmers started gesticulating.

  He was shifting in his seat, whispering furiously as if by raising his voice he might cause an upset. We hurried over to the screen and saw the parahippocampal gyrus light up, not once but several times with uniform breaks in between.

  It felt as if a dam had burst, or as Anthony said half in jest, as if the patient had suddenly decided to do as I asked. I smiled with the others as no one took his comment seriously. And yet I remembered his words when an hour later I suggested we strike while the iron was hot and see whether she might be able to answer a few simple questions with a yes or a no. I explained to her that if her answer was yes, she should imagine herself playing tennis, and if it was no, that she was walking from room to room.

  “Is that clear?” I asked, and received no reply.

  I reworded the question, but it was no use.

  “Imagine you are playing tennis,” I persisted, trying to confirm whether we had lost contact with her. “Imagine you are walking from one room to another . . .”

  “She’s tired,” said Simone. “We should call it a day.”

  I waited until everyone except Simone and Anthony had left before saying that I disagreed.

  At first she misunderstood.

  “You mean you wanted to carry on?” she said.

  “No, but I don’t think it was tiredness that stopped her.”

  “What, then?” asked Anthony.

  “Possibly she isn’t ready to answer our questions,” I said.

  The next day there was no response from her at all, either in the motor complex or in the parahippocampal gyrus. Simone and Anthony were concerned, and at one point I heard Simone say to herself: “Maybe we’ve lost her.” I didn’t reply, because I was convinced that our patient’s silence showed that she had more control over her thoughts than we had assumed.

  I said as much to her that evening when I sat with her after putting Liszt on the CD player. I added that I didn’t doubt she had good reasons for her decision, while at the same time making every effort to persuade her. However, I was careful not to put pressure on her, and made fun of my limited Spanish, adding that it was better to try and fail than never to try at all.

  I continued talking to her like that for I don’t know how lo
ng before I realized Simone was standing in the doorway. I had my back to her, and probably wouldn’t have noticed she was there had she not had to suppress a cough.

  I was annoyed that she had walked in on us, but tried not to show it, and nodded as if to say she was welcome to listen in, although of course she knew that I didn’t mean it.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said when we were out in the corridor. “The nurse told me she thought you were in with her.”

  “You weren’t disturbing anything,” I said, waiting for her to tell me what she wanted. I assumed it must be urgent.

  But it wasn’t. She simply wanted to let me know that she and Anthony had gone over the day’s images and found nothing new.

  So you were just snooping, I wanted to say, but didn’t.

  Chapter 32

  The producer from the BBC called me when I was on my way to the subway. I had just stopped off at the diner on Columbus and Seventy-Fourth, and was holding a paper cup in one hand and a bagel in the other, enjoying my walk to Central Park West, where the morning sun shone on the trees in leaf. My phone was in my backpack, and I managed to spill some of my coffee as I twisted around to get it, so I was a little surly when I finally answered. I could see that the call was from England—Vincent’s new cell phone, I guessed, as I hadn’t memorized the number.

  It was a woman who spoke very quickly. Could I come and do an interview next week?

  “Where? In London?”

  “No, preferably in Allington. At your childhood home.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “We’ll pay for your trip.”

  “I can’t.”

  “How about the week after?”

  “No, I’m very busy.”

  “I see. Your father warned us about this.”

  “About what?”

  “That you wouldn’t want to come.”

  I had moved away from the center of the sidewalk and set my half-empty coffee cup on a low stone wall. My calm was shattered; all at once I found myself making excuses to a complete stranger.