One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  “This is a bad time for me. I’m in the middle of a research project . . .”

  “We’re keen for you to take part. This program is a big thing for your mother.”

  She made no effort whatsoever to appear polite as she tried to persuade me. After much insisting, she finally suggested the interview take place in New York; at the earliest possible opportunity, she added, and said she would e-mail me. She spoke as if she were doing me a special favor.

  It wasn’t until I got off the train in Connecticut and walked to the hospital that I was finally rid of her voice echoing in my head. By then the sun was shining on the fields and on the sea in the distance, and the birds flew merrily above my head.

  The day before had been difficult. The patient hadn’t responded at all, and we had given up after less than two hours. Simone and Anthony had looked to me for an answer, as if I knew something they didn’t, and I replied more sharply than I had intended. And so I was a bit startled when I turned into the corridor and saw Anthony hovering outside my office, clearly waiting for me. Before I had a chance to say good morning, he handed me a copy of the New York Times—the Arts and Leisure section, to be precise—and said: “Have you seen this?”

  I took the paper from him, and he followed me into my office, studying me as I took off my backpack and contemplated the front page: a big photograph of Margaret sitting by the grand piano in the living room in Allington, and Vincent next to her, leaning against the instrument. Margaret was looking down at the keyboard, one hand in midair, while Vincent stared straight into the camera, cupping his cheek. The title was spread across the page: “Out of the Silence Comes Music,” and below the caption: “Margaret C. Bergs Breaks the Sound Barrier in Her Seventies.”

  I read the first few sentences, but Anthony couldn’t contain himself.

  “A terrific article,” he said, “and then a review of all her new CDs on page four. It couldn’t be better.”

  He waited eagerly while I turned to page four, where the article from the front page continued next to the review, then quietly cleared his throat.

  “I’m quoted,” he said. “Here,” pointing to an extract taken from the forum.

  I handed the newspaper back to him and said the article seemed very complimentary, and that I must read it when I had a moment.

  “Some of us fans have been hoping for a possible performance,” he said then. “I mentioned the idea to your father in an e-mail. He told me the big concert halls are trying to book her, but that she doesn’t think she will be up to it. For health reasons,” he added.

  I told him that didn’t surprise me.

  “You realize the pressure is only going to increase,” he said. “After this article, other papers will follow suit.”

  “And now the BBC wants to make a program about her,” I said.

  Anthony didn’t seem surprised, and I assumed Vincent must already have told him about it. I was going to ask, but decided not to.

  When I took a quiet look at my computer in the afternoon, the article was being discussed on all the piano music forums. It had also made the news in England, and someone said they knew for a fact that the Times and the Telegraph were preparing to write about her. I thought I could detect from the wording that this information came from my father, who was clearly in contact with more people than just Anthony. I wondered whether he might have gone so far as to take part in the forum discussions himself (under an assumed name, of course), but decided that was unlikely, as he had no need. At the same time, I wondered whether I was being unfair by suspecting him of such a thing, but then I remembered my conversation with the BBC producer and any remorse I might have felt vanished.

  Chapter 33

  Malena didn’t answer her cell phone and the school could only tell me that she was away for a while. I got in touch with two of her friends who couldn’t help me, and I saw no point in trying others. My conversations with them were awkward, because they clearly found it strange that I should be asking them about her, and they were guarded. Or so it seemed to me, and I imagined they must think I had done something wrong and that she was avoiding me. I wasn’t close to either of them.

  I went to her apartment, where the super said he hadn’t seen her for a few days. Since I didn’t have a key, I asked if he would let me in. He didn’t know me, but when I explained the situation to him, showed him my driver’s license and my hospital ID card, he complied with my request. I followed him into the bedroom and the living room, but opened the bathroom door on my own, and turned on the light.

  “Nobody here,” he said, indicating the visit was over.

  However, he indulged me when I asked him to wait a moment while I opened the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, not least because I had the presence of mind to slip a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet. I tried to conceal the fact that I hardly knew the apartment, although I am not sure I succeeded. I seldom had reasons to be there.

  I didn’t see any suitcases and I noticed that some of her clothes were missing, too. But by then the super had started to grow uneasy. I paused in the doorway and cast a longer glance than I had intended around the apartment, before he seized the knob and closed the door.

  During the next few days I discovered how little I really knew about the woman who meant everything to me. I guessed she must have returned to her family in Buenos Aires, and yet I had no address or telephone number for her mother or her sister. Nor did I know her mother’s first name, although I remembered her sister was called Camila, and tried to find her online. I gave up after a few failed attempts for I was shooting in the dark; her sister was married and had likely taken her husband’s name.

  I unburdened myself to Simone, who had already realized something was wrong. Obviously I was incapable of doing any work, and decided to remain holed up in my office on the pretext of doing some reading. Anthony and my other colleagues didn’t suspect anything was wrong, but Simone immediately saw through it. She went out of her way to help me, sat with me in my office trawling her laptop for addresses and telephone numbers, picking my brain as if we were engaged in actual research, astonished at how little I knew.

  “What’s the neighborhood called where she grew up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Palermo . . . Flores . . . Agronomía?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about the clinic she went to after the accident in Iceland?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did she study before she came here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She spared me any overt criticism, but I could see she was confused by my ignorance. And I found I couldn’t explain it to her. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her we had scarcely spoken about the past or our families, that I had purposefully avoided it and that possibly she had done the same, presumably out of concern for me. I had seen her mother once when they were talking on Skype. I was coming home from the hospital and accidentally stepped into the picture, at which Malena said:

  “This is Magnus. Magnus, say hi to Mom.”

  I said hello and she waved to me. I waved back and then got out of the way.

  When we reached an impasse, Simone suggested we go to Juilliard and try to convince them to help us. Of course I had already called them, but the woman who answered the telephone said she wasn’t allowed to give me any personal details.

  “We’ll go there together,” said Simone, “and lay our cards on the table. They have to make an exception. I can confirm that you’re telling the truth, and anyway, it’s probably better for a woman to be present.”

  I thanked her, and the next day we set off for the office at the school, arriving just after it opened. The woman at reception remembered me and repeated what she had said on the telephone, somewhat grumpily this time. But then Simone stepped in and the woman’s tone gradually softened until at last she asked us to wait while she went to speak to her superior.

  We sat down and Simone took my hand, pressing it gently before letting
go. She doubtless meant to reassure me, and yet something about her touch reminded me of Malena, and it was all I could do not to break down. I stood up and walked over to the window, where fortunately I managed to take hold of myself.

  Soon afterward, the woman came back and said that her boss was going to speak to the head of the dance department, who was expected to return from a trip later that day. She spoke as if she had done us a huge favor, but I felt no better. Without being pushy, Simone asked when we might hope to hear from them. The woman said she couldn’t promise anything, possibly the next day.

  It had been over a week since Malena disappeared—nine days, to be exact, if I count the day I woke up alone in my bed. I was carrying the note she had left on my bedside table in my wallet, and I had fingered it so many times since that it was beginning to look worn. Now I wanted to take it out again to show Simone, as if I had to prove something to her. But I thought better of it, and as we walked down the street, I managed to hide my feelings, and even gave a faint smile when Simone joked about how officious they had been at Juilliard.

  When we hadn’t heard anything by late afternoon, I called the office and was told the head of the department wasn’t due back until the following day. His flight was delayed. Moreover, he had said in an e-mail that he would have to consult the school’s lawyer first. The woman was less supercilious than the first time we spoke, and made it clear she was doing her best. I was careful to thank her for all her help and told her that they could call me on my cell phone day or night.

  “Might she not simply have felt like a change of scenery?” she said then, her voice changing as if we were old acquaintances. “Artists can be so unpredictable.”

  I didn’t sleep much that night, but couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. I was staring at the crack in the ceiling—the narrow crack which stretched all the way from the window to the wardrobe, wondering if it had grown longer and wider since I had last contemplated it—when my cell phone rang. I gave a start and seized the phone from the bedside table. For a split second, I thought it was the woman at the office, before realizing that of course she wouldn’t be calling me so early. Nor did I recognize the number on the screen, much less the voice when I answered.

  I think I had always suspected the worst. From the very moment I woke up and read the note she had left on my bedside table, I had feared I would never see her again.

  The voice faltered.

  “I . . . Is that Magnus Colin Conyngham?” she asked, struggling to pronounce my name.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Camila. I’m Malena Romero’s sister.”

  She fell silent, and I had the feeling she was waiting for me to say something. I didn’t reply immediately, and then she added, so softly I could barely hear:

  “She’s dead. Can we meet?”

  Chapter 34

  Monsieur Chaumont waylaid me. I suspect he had been waiting for me to leave for the hospital. He was standing outside our building with his dog on its leash. The moment I appeared he gave a start, and the dog scurried behind him as if I were a major threat. I said good morning to him, and was about to carry on toward the station when he stopped me.

  “You signed it,” he said.

  I knew he was referring to the rental agreement and was therefore a little surprised not to detect any hint of resentment or censure in his voice.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I had decided to sign it, too. Even if there is much in it that I dislike.”

  I nodded and looked down the street. He went on talking.

  “I have lived here for twenty-three years. A friend told me about the flat when I first moved to the city. That was before I met Estelle. I had just graduated from college and planned to write a novel and teach on the side. A great novel capturing the spirit of the times, the kind young men dream about writing . . .”

  I nodded.

  “And then I met her. She moved in with me. Temporarily, until we found a bigger apartment. That was eighteen years ago.”

  I remarked that this was a good neighborhood, or words to that effect.

  “Now she wants to move.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, and then appeared to pause before adding: “Because of Malena.”

  He avoided my gaze, stooping to adjust—or rather, to fumble with—the dog’s collar. I waited.

  “She misses her,” he went on at last, “and doesn’t understand what happened.”

  “She died,” I heard myself say. “That’s what happened.”

  He seemed taken aback, and I hoped he would bid me farewell and hurry inside, but instead he held forth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, almost babbling. “It’s unpleasant to have to bring this up, terribly unpleasant. But I’m at my wits’ end. Twenty-three years . . . I don’t want to move. She says she can feel her presence, hear her voice, her footsteps, in the middle of the night, sometimes. Was it an accident?”

  I don’t remember what I replied. Perhaps I simply said good-bye and hurried away.

  I suppose I was expecting to feel sad and miserable after the conversation. Which might explain why I was so astonished at my reaction. I am not easily riled, but now suddenly I felt at odds with everything and everyone.

  I even became irritated by a man in the subway, simply because he held me up for a few moments at the turnstile while he fumbled with his MetroCard, although fortunately I had the sense to hold my tongue. I found the train too cold, and the woman who sat next to me fidgeted too much, but again I said nothing. Even so, I suspect she sensed my annoyance, as she quickly moved.

  My anger still hadn’t subsided by the time I got off the train, but I was able to analyze the cause of it as I made my way to the hospital. Clearly it had been provoked by Monsieur Chaumont’s insensitivity and self-pity, but I couldn’t help wondering whether there wasn’t a deeper reason.

  The shrink I went to see was expansive on the subject of grief; he spoke of denial, depression, anger, and other emotions which I have forgotten. He listed them on a piece of paper in the order in which they were supposed to appear as he sat facing me in his easy chair while I gazed out the window at the violinists in the music school on the other side of the alley. He used an ink pen, and his handwriting was neat, and I threw the piece of paper away when I got home. I could no longer recall where on the list anger was, although I was sure he had placed it high up and warned me it might flare up at any moment. I tried to remember whether he had said anything about how it might manifest itself or whom I would direct it at, but my memory was hazy. On the other hand, I clearly remembered him hinting that before I attained acceptance, as he called it, I must expect to see Malena in a different light than before. Different meaning worse, although he was careful not to spell it out.

  Perhaps that was the last straw. That, and the Asperger’s quiz. In any event, I saw no reason to continue my sessions with him.

  Fortunately, I had no time for further reflections about the shrink or my anger, because when I got to the hospital, I was told Anthony and Simone had both been asking for me. The patient had been taken down to the MRI scanner, and the secretary who intercepted me told me they were waiting for me there. She also handed me a message she had taken, from a man who had called the switchboard moments before I arrived.

  “A doctor from New Mexico,” she said. “This is his cell phone. He’s up early.”

  I opened the notes that had come with our patient to verify that this was indeed the young doctor who had been in charge of her there. It was, and I decided to call him before going down, even though I knew Simone and Anthony would be getting impatient.

  He answered after the first ring and asked me to wait a moment while he found somewhere quiet as he was on duty.

  “How is it going?” he then asked, straight out.

  I explained in brief, and was more forthcoming than I am accustomed to, telling him among other things that my colleagues thought it was irresponsible of me to imagine she was
capable of communicating. But perhaps they were right. At least that’s what the latest results would suggest.

  “She is conscious,” he said the moment I stopped talking.

  There was no trace of arrogance in his voice but plenty of conviction. He was young.

  “Do you speak to her in Spanish as I suggested in my report?”

  I told him we did, both Spanish and English, but said I didn’t recall having seen any reference to language.

  “I made a few notes on some sheets of paper which I put in with the report. I did it in a hurry; things were frantic here at the time.”

  I had the report in front of me and told him I saw no such instruction.

  “Two sheets of lined, yellow paper.”

  “One sheet.”

  I described it to him.

  “Damn it, the other one must have gotten lost on the way. But it’s not so important.”

  “You’re sure about her?” I said, because I needed some encouragement.

  “She is conscious,” he repeated as bluntly as before. “But she needs coaxing. She’s on her guard. Didn’t you see that in my notes?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, I had the distinct impression that she responded differently when it was just the two of us. The moment she heard other voices she seemed to go back into her shell. It was only at the very beginning, when she was coming to, that one of the nurses saw her move her eyes. But after that, nothing.”

  My heart leapt.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, unable to conceal my excitement.

  “Yes, and it’s understandable, all things considered.”

  “Do you mean the accident? How it happened?”

  “Yes, she was probably mixed up in some drug deal. Wittingly or unwittingly. That’s what the police seem to think, at any rate. There’s a lot of trafficking around here.”

  “Do you think she’s an immigrant?”

  “Yes, I’ve always assumed she’s an illegal. But I could be wrong.”

  I thanked him for the information.