One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  “What should I do?”

  I was still in the street, having moved away from Central Park West when an ambulance sped noisily by. On the sidewalk opposite, Monsieur Chaumont was still walking his dog, fortunately heading the other way.

  “Vincent, I have to ask you if there’s any truth in these accusations. Even the merest shred.”

  “Magnus, my boy, I know why you’re asking. I fully realize. But this is a lie from beginning to end.”

  “Not an oversight anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing in the manufacturing process that might account for it?”

  “No, nothing. Out of the question.”

  He was pathetically cowed.

  “So what’s the explanation?”

  “I don’t know. I’m bewildered.”

  “How could the computer give him that information?” I said to myself as much as to him.

  “I haven’t a clue. I know nothing about all this technology. It confuses people. Unless he’s doing this for his own amusement. He’s had a grudge against Margaret from the beginning. Read some of his posts and you’ll see. Who listens to music on a computer, anyway? No true music lover, I can assure you. The sound is artificial, utterly lifeless . . .”

  I was about to tell him I had noticed pianoguru before, when he continued:

  “Kleuber thinks I should get legal advice.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and for a while I simply listened to the noise of his breathing. For the first time he struck me as old.

  “I need you, Magnus. Could you see your way to helping me?”

  It was clear from his words that he wasn’t counting on my assistance and his voice revealed the same uncertainty; he sounded meek, almost apologetic. As if he were telling me that he knew he didn’t deserve my help, that I owed him and Margaret nothing.

  “I’ll go online,” I said, “and see what I can make of it.”

  “When you get to the hospital?”

  “No, at home. I’m heading back there now. I’ll call you later.”

  “Thank you, Magnus, my boy. With all my heart.”

  I felt as if I were standing in the hallway at the house on Ásvallagata. His voice was trembling as it had then, just before he broke down. I had to prevent that from happening.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” I said as I hurried up the steps to the front door.

  I was surprised at how reassuring I sounded.

  Chapter 43

  The post was just as he had described it, brief but nasty. I had been half expecting to discover that Vincent had been exaggerating, not necessarily on purpose, but if anything it was the opposite; for example, he hadn’t mentioned pianoguru’s insinuation about Margaret’s interpretation of Chopin’s Fantasy in F Minor, op. 49: “Am I alone in having the impression that I’m listening to Dinu Lipatti?”

  So far there were only a few responses to the post. Fritzb23 had said his was big news if true, jonjon had agreed, and 3cords had used the opportunity to criticize Apple for its faulty search engines, its monopoly of the music market, and its lamentable offering of classical music. “Yes, capitalist pigs,” added khammond, and there the thread ended.

  I saw no need to remain at home on the computer, so I caught the train up to the hospital as planned. Before I left, I called Vincent; we only spoke briefly, but I think I managed to calm him down. I had never spoken with him about Anthony, but I guessed he knew we were colleagues. It turned out he did, and naturally Vincent sang his praises as I had expected.

  “I’ll have a word with him,” I said.

  “I’m very grateful to you, Magnus. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  There was a definite if faint glimmer of hope in his voice, and I was relieved.

  I had just gotten off the train and started the last leg of my journey up to the hospital when my cell phone rang. I was expecting it to be Vincent, unable to contain himself, but it wasn’t him but Simone, who said, without preamble:

  “Where are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

  “I’m almost there.”

  “It’s nearly eleven.”

  I told her I was aware of the time.

  “I need to speak to you.”

  I was in a hurry to speak to Anthony, so I suggested we meet around noon.

  “In over an hour?”

  I didn’t reply, and I doubt she was expecting me to. She hung up, and I paused for a moment to send a text message to Anthony asking him to meet me in my office in five minutes.

  He was there when I arrived. I closed the door and told him unequivocally about pianoguru and his antics as I took off my jacket and put my backpack down. He told me he had seen the post before he left home, but hadn’t really paid much attention.

  “Have you spoken to Simone?” he asked, and his expression seemed to suggest that they had already had a conversation. However, I decided not to ask him anything about that, and told him I was expecting her shortly.

  I sat down at my computer, opened the forum where pianoguru had been making his claims, and beckoned Anthony over. He drew up a chair, leaned forward, and started reading.

  If his mind had been on the research and whatever it was Simone wanted to discuss with me, that changed the instant he looked at the screen.

  “He’s always ranting about something,” he said when he saw pianoguru’s name. “Fritzb23, jonjon, 3cords . . .” he murmured as he scrolled down the page, “. . . no heavyweights, that’s for sure. 3cords is an idiot, jonjon and Fritzb23 are both nobodies. Pianoguru can be unpredictable and pompous, but he clearly listens to music and knows something about it. However, he has all sorts of misconceptions and isn’t particularly musical. I’ve had to straighten him out more than once,” he added.

  I told him that Vincent was very worried.

  “I can understand why,” he said. “This is annoying. But he needn’t worry. No one listens to pianoguru. You can see from the responses. Only three posts. And from people who don’t matter.”

  “Do you think he’s making it up?”

  Anthony said he didn’t think so.

  “He isn’t that devious,” he said. “I reckon it’s his software. He was bragging in one of his posts about having merged iTunes with his own database. I’ll see if I can find it . . .”

  Anthony ran his slender fingers deftly over the keyboard, and in no time had pulled up all of pianoguru’s posts on the screen. He scrolled through them and quickly found the one he was looking for.

  “Here,” he said. “In fact, there are several, because he starts off boasting about having merged the databases, and then goes on to say he has managed to fix all the resulting glitches.”

  He shook his head at such stupidity.

  “There are so many idiots on the Internet,” he said. “We do our best to keep them in check, but that’s easier said than done. It takes work. They need to be dealt with the moment they start making trouble.”

  I read pianoguru’s posts. Anthony’s description was spot-on: first he announced that with the help of “computer science students here at the school” he had succeeded in merging the two databases, and in his subsequent posts he went on to list the ensuing technical difficulties and their solutions in mind-numbing detail. Finally he said he was able to proclaim victory; that was two months ago.

  “As you can see, the explanation is obvious,” said Anthony, when I finally tore myself away from the screen. “His database is a complete mess.”

  I had never suspected that Anthony’s arrogance might warm my heart this way. I resisted the temptation to embrace him. Even so, I think he could sense my gratitude as we sat next to each other, leaning back in our chairs and staring silently at the screen. He was trustworthy. Steady as a rock.

  “Have you heard that recording by Ashkenazy?” I ventured to ask.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes, a long time ago. He doesn’t manage to convey the longing or sorrow of the piece. Margaret does that brillia
ntly. He isn’t a very sensitive pianist.”

  I breathed more easily.

  “I’m wondering whether I ought to challenge him,” he said then, “but I doubt there’s much to be gained from that. I think I’ll just say something about the CD instead.”

  He looked at the clock on the computer.

  “I could do it now. What time is Simone coming?”

  “In ten minutes.”

  “She isn’t happy,” he said. “Just so that you know.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t want to talk about it. But we didn’t do anything this morning.”

  “What?”

  “She said there was no point in taking the patient down before she had had a talk with you.”

  He spoke as if he and I were on the same side, standing together. I might have objected to that in the past, but right now I felt comforted.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded and left.

  I sat in front of the computer, browsing pianoguru’s posts, which now appeared in a fresh light. They no longer filled me with dread, and I wondered whether it had taken Anthony to make me overcome my misgivings. I couldn’t help but admit that it had, and I felt ashamed.

  Chapter 44

  Simone didn’t show. While I waited for her, I called Vincent and relayed to him my conversation with Anthony. I explained exactly what he had said about the databases, and couldn’t resist quoting his opinion of Ashkenazy.

  “You can’t imagine how relieved I am,” he said, but his voice remained frail.

  I had expected him to perk up at the news, return to his jubilant state even, but pianoguru’s attack seemed to have taken a bigger toll on him than I had imagined. Perhaps he realized this, or at least he seemed to echo my thoughts, when he said in a low voice:

  “I thought we had reached dry land at last. After all we’ve been through, I really thought we had.”

  Strange as it may seem, I missed his swagger, his habitual garrulousness, his tendency to ignore what he doesn’t wish to hear, to stick to his guns no matter what. I felt sorry for him; it was an uncomfortable sensation.

  We said good-bye, and I opened the door and scanned the corridor for Simone. There was no sign of her, so I took the elevator up to the third floor and knocked on her door before opening it. She wasn’t there, and the lights were off.

  As I closed the door behind me, a nurse stepped out of the elevator carrying a blue folder. I recognized it immediately as belonging to Simone.

  “She’s not in her office,” I said to save her the trouble.

  “Really? She left her folder in the basement this morning.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This morning. After the tests. She must have put it down while we were taking the patient out of the scanner.”

  I nodded as though her words hadn’t surprised me.

  “Well, I’ll just leave it on her desk, then.”

  I took the stairs, pausing next to the window and looking out at the traffic on the main road and the red-painted supermarket depot with its delivery trucks bearing images of canned food. In the distance I could see the train moving off toward the city.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. My thoughts were racing, and I found it difficult to shake off the ghosts that were suddenly assailing me. The morning had been productive, and I shouldn’t forget that. I had finally been of some use to my parents, I had responded in their hour of need, taken control instead of fleeing the way I often did, shown them kindness. Perhaps not love, but kindness.

  Of course I had known from the beginning that our patients would probably have doubts about the point of staying alive in their condition, but yesterday I had let my concerns get the better of me. I had put words in our patient’s mouth and been reckless in my interpretation of her responses.

  It was only back in my office that I started to wonder what might have transpired between her and Simone. I fumbled in my pocket for my cell phone and was about to call Simone’s number, but hesitated. I decided not to send the text message I started typing, either, as I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I resolved to look in on our patient and play the Schubert CD for her, which I should have done already, given the trouble she had taken to tell me that she actually liked it.

  I gave a start when I opened the door and saw Simone sitting beside the bed, her coat on her knees. And yet I closed the door behind me, reached for a chair, and sat down opposite her.

  “Buenas tardes,” I said in a low voice.

  Simone looked at me while I contemplated the patient, lying like an effigy between us, her head filled with memories, fears, and desires. I wished I could clasp her hand and say something encouraging, if only about the birds I had seen as I gazed out the window. But I said nothing and kept my hands to myself.

  In the end I couldn’t avoid catching Simone’s eye. Her expression was inscrutable, but she had this going-away look that made me uneasy. It was as if she were just passing through and had popped in to say hello to a relative before continuing on her way. She sat with her hands in her lap, occasionally running the fingers of her left hand over her coat, folded and placed on her knees.

  When I got back from Liège, Simone said she wanted to speak to me in private. I received her text message just fifteen minutes after I landed, which made me think she must have tracked my flight on her computer. She herself had flown back the day before, hurried home as fast as she could.

  We met the following morning. She told me she was going to quit, that we couldn’t carry on working together. She spoke as if she were giving me the objective results of exhaustive research.

  It wasn’t easy talking her around, but I succeeded in the end. I seem to recall that she gave in only when I myself had written a letter of resignation and was poised to deliver it to Hofsinger. We were standing in her office at the time, and I couldn’t help embracing her, although that probably wasn’t wise given the situation. And yet she smiled and said “okay,” and I convinced myself we had turned a corner.

  I don’t know how long we had been sitting opposite each other in Mrs. Bentsen’s room when it occurred to me that the patient probably found our silence strange. I was about to say something but wasn’t sure what, and so I rose and put on the Schubert CD. The volume was low so I turned it up a fraction, and instead of sitting down again I stopped by the window and looked out. It was starting to rain.

  I jumped when I heard her push the chair away from the bed. Possibly she had been waiting for me to turn my back, because out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw her let go of the patient’s hand and straighten up before she left.

  I went after her. She stopped in the corridor and I waited for her to say something to show how upset she was with me. But she didn’t speak, her face impassive. Finally I blurted out:

  “I thought I could get closer to her if I was on my own.”

  “And you succeeded, didn’t you?”

  “It’s no excuse, but . . .”

  “I succeeded as well.”

  I had already considered carefully how I would go about justifying myself: bringing up my conversation with the doctor in New Mexico, reminding her that together we hadn’t made progress for days.

  “I couldn’t let her down as well,” I heard myself saying.

  She looked at me. “As well?”

  “I refused to recognize my mother’s talent. I turned a blind eye to Malena’s illness. And to you . . .”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I . . .”

  “Don’t.”

  I was about to tell her that I had felt vindicated every time my mother got a bad review or encountered failure of some sort. That Malena’s illness had been staring me in the face for months. That what I had done in Liège was unforgivable. But I had the sense to keep quiet.

  “How did you find out?” I asked instead.

  “The night duty reports, Magnus. How on earth did you think you could get away with it?”<
br />
  Her voice betrayed no accusation, only surprise and disappointment. But I had no time to reply because she quickly said: “Perhaps it’s just as well. Now we know where we stand.”

  The nurse I had bumped into outside Simone’s office half an hour earlier came down the corridor with a medical student she was showing around; they paused, and she fetched a wheelchair and a walker in a small alcove off the corridor, then opened the linen cupboard and placed a towel and sheet on the wheelchair. I gave a start, as if they had caught us doing something wrong. The nurse gestured to us and said: “You found her, then.” I tried to smile as she added: “Simone, I put your folder on your desk. You left it in the basement this morning.”

  I followed Simone to the elevator. She was holding her coat as if she were unsure what to do with it.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We mustn’t give up, just because our patient seems to be having doubts,” I said.

  “Did she seem in any doubt to you?” she asked. “She didn’t to me.”

  “You didn’t ask her directly, did you?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “What were we expecting, Magnus? What exactly were we expecting?”

  The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside and pressed the button. I stood watching her until she disappeared, only collecting myself when she had probably reached the ground floor and was perhaps already on her way out of the building.

  I still wonder whether I should have read something in her eyes the moment before the doors closed.

  Chapter 45

  Simone didn’t come to work for the rest of the week—she called in sick and didn’t answer calls or e-mails. Anthony ran the tests while I took a back seat. Unsurprisingly, he got limited results from our patient—but enough for him to keep trying. She was admirably resourceful.

  His post about Margaret’s performance of Mussorgsky’s work was both erudite and forceful. Naturally, he acted as if pianoguru didn’t exist, and instead of responding to his innuendos offered what I considered a detailed and insightful comparison of Margaret’s and Ashkenazy’s playing. I said this to him and he appreciated the compliment, adding that he hoped this would be the end of the affair. And as far as I could see he was right, because the tone of the debate instantly became more objective and restrained. Fritzb23 and jonjon behaved as if they had never even read pianoguru’s posts, much less contemplated his accusations, fervently agreeing with Anthony’s analysis of the zeitgeist in late-nineteenth-century Russia, as well as his reflections on the inner life of the composer, in particular when he was writing Pictures at an Exhibition, which Anthony described as a “masterpiece and a challenge for the pianist, at once mournful and uplifting.” 3cords kept a low profile, but more surprising, there wasn’t a peep from pianoguru himself.