One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  “This isn’t Buenos Aires.”

  She looked a little flustered. She picked up the contract, opened it, then immediately folded it again and pushed it toward me.

  “In that case, couldn’t you talk to him?”

  I didn’t answer her, and we sat in silence for a while. The contract lay on the table between us, but closer to me. I contemplated it, then raised my eyes and looked straight at her.

  “How did she die?”

  If my question shocked her she managed to hide it.

  “She fell asleep.”

  “What?”

  “She passed away in her sleep.”

  Her answers were so clear and direct, it felt as if she had rehearsed them.

  “Was it during the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At my house.”

  “Was she in the habit of staying with you?”

  “No, she usually stayed at our mother’s, but that night she was with me.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged.

  “She occasionally stayed with me.”

  I should have known I wouldn’t get any more out of her, but something about her behavior clouded my judgment.

  “Did she leave anything behind?”

  “Like what?”

  “A letter.”

  “No, why would she have done that?”

  “And she said nothing before she died? Not a word?”

  She looked at me without replying.

  “Did they do an autopsy?”

  “No, she was cremated.”

  “What?”

  “She was cremated. The funeral has already taken place.”

  I had managed to hold myself together up until then, but now I could feel the strength drain from my body. I had a lump in my throat and my mouth was suddenly dry. I looked down and was surprised to see that my right leg was trembling under the table; I tried to hold it still but it kept moving up and down faster and faster until it hit the table. Coffee sloshed over the sides of her cup, and I took the opportunity to get to my feet to fetch some paper napkins. My head was swimming and for a moment I thought I might fall over, but then it passed.

  “It got on the rental agreement,” she said when I came back.

  First I dried the table, then a tiny wet patch on the document. Naturally the coffee stain wouldn’t come off, and that seemed to upset her. She picked up the agreement and ran her fingers over the stain as if to make sure I had done it as well as I could, then pushed it back over to me.

  “She was very ill,” I said.

  “Ill? She’d been through this countless times. She was always spraining this and twisting that. When you’re a dancer that’s what happens.”

  As she sat opposite me, hands clasped, I had no way of telling from her face whether she herself believed a word of what she was saying. I looked at her as if somehow I thought I might influence her, but then picked up the contract.

  She sat motionless when I had said good-bye, and I could feel her eyes on me as I stepped through the door. I walked slowly down the street, pausing for a moment in front of the house where Malena had lived, and gazed up at the window.

  As I had anticipated, the owner raised no objections when I discussed the matter with him, and I told the sister this when I called her. My report was brief but when I was about to hang up, she stopped me. I expected her to ask some clarifying questions about the lease, unnecessary no doubt, but her voice was different. It was as if she had planned to tell me this when we met but had not been able to for some reason.

  “You know she loved you very much,” she said. “More than I think you can imagine.”

  Chapter 38

  Where exactly have you been?”

  Simone had closed the door behind her and was standing in the center of my office. After a two-day break, they had resumed the tests early that morning, as she and Anthony were eager to get started. I had decided to stay away, and had spent the morning with Hofsinger and some of the hospital administrators discussing plans and budgets. I realized now that this had probably been unwise.

  I had popped in to see our patient the evening before, put on the Mexican CD for her, and said a few words about the rain pounding on the windows. But I made no mention of the impending tests, and avoided falling into the same trap of lecturing her as I had the other evening. When I left, I was convinced she must have recovered from my sermon, but decided on my way to the train station that I would play it safe and let Simone and Anthony take the next step.

  “Didn’t Anthony tell you I was busy with Hofsinger?”

  Simone looked at me as if she thought I was hiding something, then heaved a sigh.

  “She isn’t answering any of the questions.”

  “What?”

  “We’re getting no response from her whatsoever.”

  Out of a sense of duty, I questioned her a little about the tests. Her answers were brief, unsurprisingly, as there wasn’t much to report. Her gaze made me uneasy.

  “What exactly did you say to her?” she then asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “On Monday evening.”

  “I said we were going to take a break. Didn’t I already tell you that?”

  “You were in there an awful long time.”

  I didn’t like her tone, still less that she had been asking the nursing staff about my movements. However, I knew I was on thin ice and tried to act accordingly.

  “I had an unexpected call,” I said.

  She frowned, making it clear she wasn’t about to let me wriggle out of this one. But I kept my calm and asked her to sit down.

  I told her about my conversation with the young doctor from New Mexico without, I believe, holding anything back. Although, admittedly, I decided not to mention his theory about the patient behaving differently when the two of them were alone. But I told her he was convinced she was on her guard, explained why that might be happening, and allowed myself to imagine the sort of life she had led, although there was little evidence to back it up. I became sidetracked for a moment in these reflections, before collecting myself and reiterating that the young doctor had no doubt that she was fully conscious.

  She listened in silence and didn’t respond immediately when I had finished talking. She was looking straight at me, and for some reason I found myself remembering the words she had whispered to me in the hotel room in Liège. It felt uncomfortable, and I did my best to thrust the thought aside, but there was something in her manner I found troubling. I feared she might be able to read my thoughts, so I stood up and opened the window.

  “When did this conversation take place?”

  Of course I couldn’t help noticing the tone of cross-examination in her choice of words. I told her the truth.

  “And you held off telling me this?”

  I admitted it had been a mistake. I told her I realized that now.

  I had the feeling she was about to get up and walk out, but she didn’t.

  “Might you have said something to her which would explain why it went so badly this morning?” she said at last.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “I might have gone too far.”

  She asked me to explain.

  “I hinted that we suspected she might be holding back. I wanted to know how she would react.”

  “And now we know.”

  “It would seem so,” I said, and thought that I had shown enough remorse: “Now we know she understands everything we say.”

  “Or less than we thought,” she said.

  After I had left her in the hotel room in Liège, I paused before reaching the elevator. There was no one around but me, and the lights were blinding. All was quiet except for the occasional swish of the elevator going by. I stood still for a while, looking alternately toward the elevator and down the corridor to her room, still aware of her scent and her words echoing in my head. I wanted to get away, but finally I pulled myself together and turned around. I have no id
ea what I intended to say to her; I don’t remember having given it a thought. Even so, I turned around and walked slowly back to her room, hesitating once on the way but forcing myself not to flee.

  I waited by the door and took a deep breath. Then I steeled myself and was about to knock on the door when I heard weeping.

  A soft, steady sound, so mournful it stopped me in my tracks. And yet it contained no trace of self-pity or blame, no bitterness. It seemed that it would never end.

  I paused for a moment, then hurried away. I still haven’t forgiven myself for leaving her alone a second time.

  I remembered her weeping as I watched her talk about the research. I became lost in thought for a moment, and when at last I emerged from my reverie, I was concerned once more that somehow she could read my mind. But there was no evidence of it on her face, or in her voice when she tried to catch my attention.

  “Magnus, Magnus . . . Are you listening?”

  I nodded. Yes, I was listening. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the patient wasn’t in as good shape as I had hoped.

  My words startled her, and possibly my impassive tone as well. She chose not to reply, stood up, and opened the door.

  “We’ll carry on tomorrow morning,” she said.

  “Yes, we will.”

  She paused as if she felt the conversation wasn’t quite finished, then closed the door, though I hadn’t asked her to.

  Chapter 39

  By eight o’clock we were in the basement. Two of the night nurses, a man and a woman, helped me bring her down, and neither questioned me when I told them I needed to run a quick test. The male nurse was asking the woman’s advice about a new patient on the ward with whom he had had difficulties the night before. She was smart and perceptive, and together they concluded how best to attend to the man’s needs. After we had placed her in the MRI scanner, they asked me whether I needed them for anything else, and left when I told them I didn’t.

  “Just let us know when you’re done.”

  I had walked down to the sea before I started, but hadn’t gone as far as the village. There was no one on the beach, and I sat on a rock and looked at the light out in the bay while scribbling a few sentences in Spanish on a piece of paper. They were simple and to the point, and showed I was new to the language, but after what had happened the other evening, I thought it best not to pretend.

  “We’re alone,” I said, without any need to take the sheet of paper from my pocket. “It’s evening. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Any answers you might give me will remain between the two of us. I promise.”

  That was all. I paused for a moment, then went into the room next door, turned on the microphone and adjusted the screen so I could see it better. I had a clear view of the MRI scanner through the interconnecting window, and of her feet beneath the white sheet. I noticed it had slipped off her left foot, and I went to cover it before continuing. The room was cool, as usual.

  I started slowly, asking her first to imagine she was playing tennis. I was assuming I would succeed in making contact with her, but I was prepared to have to work for it, especially after the trouble she had given Simone and Anthony that morning. I was therefore taken aback when the screen lit up the moment I spoke. I remained calm, pausing before I asked her to imagine she was in Ursula and José Arcadio Buendía’s house in Macondo, walking from room to room.

  She didn’t wait for me to finish the question: I was still talking when I noticed the screen change.

  “Good,” I said, careful not to conceal my excitement. “Very good.”

  Although I knew it was unnecessary, I described the next steps in detail: I would ask her a series of questions to which she could answer “yes” by imagining she was playing tennis and “no” by picturing herself walking from one room to another. She needn’t hurry, we had plenty of time, all evening and all night, and she mustn’t get upset if she had difficulty focusing her thoughts in the right direction, or worry if she became confused and answered yes when she meant no; I would repeat the questions as many times as necessary.

  I paused, cleared my throat, looking first at the screen and then at her feet beneath the sheet sticking out of the machine.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She didn’t reply immediately. A minute passed, possibly longer, and it was then that I realized how nervous I was. I had managed to hide it both from her and from myself, but now I was becoming impatient, and just as I was about to repeat myself, the screen lit up.

  Yes.

  I took a deep breath and repeated the question. This time she replied instantly.

  Yes.

  “Are you American?” I asked next.

  No.

  “Are you from Mexico?”

  No.

  “South America?”

  Yes.

  I didn’t wish to waste precious time trying to ascertain her precise country of origin, as I knew she would tire sooner or later. And so instead I asked her whether she spoke English. She said no at first, then yes.

  “Do you mean you don’t speak English very well?”

  Yes.

  I marveled at her sharpness and was on the verge of saying so, but stopped myself.

  “Married?”

  No.

  “Children?”

  So far her answers had appeared relatively quickly on the screen, but now there was no response. I waited for a moment then decided to word the question differently.

  “Do you have any children?”

  When she didn’t reply I added: “One or more?”

  I stared at the screen in the hope I wasn’t missing anything, but there wasn’t a single flicker, no trace of an answer or any sign of hesitation or uncertainty. My technical skills aren’t up to much—I can’t switch angles, zoom in and out of the brain the way Simone and Anthony do with ease, and for a moment I feared my lack of knowledge might prove a hindrance. But then of course it became clear I hadn’t missed anything, because she replied to my next question immediately:

  “Can you hear me?”

  Yes.

  “Good,” I said, “good. I was beginning to think I might have missed something. I’m not so good with the computers.”

  I picked up a bottle of water, opened it, and took a drink.

  “All right,” I said, “shall we carry on?”

  That wasn’t meant to be a question, and so I was surprised when I saw her reply on the screen.

  No.

  I became flustered.

  “You don’t want to carry on?”

  No.

  I didn’t know what to say, and was about to try to get her to explain her change of heart so that I could persuade her, but thought better of it.

  “You’ve done very well,” I said.

  I called up to the ward and soon afterward the two night nurses came down to help me take her out of the scanner. We wheeled her silently into the elevator and from there into the room. The nurses were checking the monitors and adjusting the bed when I left.

  Chapter 40

  I changed my mind after Anthony went to be interviewed by the BBC. It took longer than he had expected; even so, he came to the hospital afterward and knocked on my door. He was excited and gave me a detailed account of the interview—questions and answers. They seemed very professional, he said, and he complimented the director.

  “A nice guy, and very knowledgeable about music,” he said. “And then he mentioned you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes, during a break. I told him we were colleagues. He couldn’t believe it, what a small world, he said.”

  I might have known Anthony wouldn’t keep quiet, but I still didn’t like them talking about me.

  “What else did he say?” I asked, and instantly regretted it.

  “He told me the producer in London had tried to persuade you to be interviewed at your childhood home, but that you couldn’t leave your work. I told him I wasn’t surprised, as you were extremely busy.”


  It was obvious he thought he had done me a favor, but I tried to make little of it.

  “In any case, he is thrilled that you’ve agreed to do an interview in New York. They do a very good job,” he said again, as if he could tell I was of two minds.

  I still hadn’t gotten around to telling the producer I didn’t want to take part in the project. I had been on the verge of sending her an e-mail twice, but both times I had been interrupted or found reasons to delay. Now, all of a sudden, I felt duty bound, or at least that’s what I told myself while I was listening to Anthony’s account, although I was probably motivated by envy rather than duty. Even his gait irritated me as I watched him leave my office.

  The producer wasn’t as pleased to hear from me as I had expected when I called her.

  “All right,” she said, seemingly in a hurry. “We have a slot at nine on Wednesday morning at the studio. Can you make it then?”

  I was about to put on a tie but changed my mind. I was wearing a light blue jacket and the blue shirt I had bought in Florence with Malena. I couldn’t help wondering whether she would have approved of the combination. She found my way of dressing unimaginative and teased me when I tried to be adventurous.

  I was trying to hail a cab on Columbus Avenue when my cell phone rang. It was half past eight; many people were on their way to work and every cab was taken. I was starting to worry that I might be late.

  I glanced at the number before answering. The producer, I supposed, wanting to make sure I hadn’t changed my mind.

  “Colin Conyngham?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Mr. Conyngham’s office calling, please hold.”

  Before I had a chance to hang up, my father came on the line.

  “Magnus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you on your way?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To the interview.”

  “I’m trying to get a cab . . . Who was that who called?”

  “My assistant,” he said, as if nothing could be more obvious, as if I ought to know that he couldn’t possibly have bothered to dial my number himself.