One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  Kleuber continued to call me while I was at the hospital, and after the fifth or sixth time, I felt I had no choice but to pick up. I was on my way to the parking lot by then, and asked him to hold on while I searched for the key and started the engine. I automatically strapped on my seat belt, but didn’t drive off or switch on the headlights. The evening had grown cold but the car soon warmed up.

  He seemed flustered, and for a moment he had difficulty finding his voice. I only half listened to his apologies: he had been relentless, but hoped I would understand, given the situation, given what was at stake. Through my windshield, I had a clear view of the streetlamp that illuminated Mrs. Bentsen’s room, and I noticed the bulb was flickering.

  I told him about my trip and left nothing out. I was taken aback when he instantly went on the defensive, declaring that he didn’t trust Caspar Bouwer—or should he say, pianoguru—who had repeatedly proven he was a two-faced egomaniac, not to put too fine a point on it. He himself had listened to Ashkenazy’s recording of Mussorgsky, and although it was some time ago, he clearly remembered that his interpretation, while technically perfect, was superficial, nothing like that of Margaret.

  He said he wasn’t surprised Bouwer had pulled up graphs on his computer; the man had already shown his partiality for effects and trickery. If he refused to listen to reason we must seek legal advice. As soon as possible. Could we meet to discuss it tomorrow morning?

  He was intense and yet he spoke clearly and with his usual conviction. He said he had delayed his return flight, that he owed it to my parents to help me “deal with the situation” and would do everything in his power to put an end to these attacks.

  “I believe him,” I said then.

  He seemed stunned and I felt sorry for him until he spoke again.

  “I am aware that you haven’t always been on good terms with your parents, but I can’t believe you would let that influence you.”

  I was exhausted and his tone irritated me. I asked him whether it didn’t strike him as odd that he hadn’t been sent the attachments which clearly showed the results of Caspar Bouwer’s investigations, and whether he thought this omission was an accident.

  “I would have been spared the trip had I seen them,” I added.

  “There were no attachments,” he said. “Of that I am sure.”

  It was hot inside the car when I drove off. I said good-bye rather abruptly and rolled down the window to get some fresh air. I was half expecting him to call back, but he didn’t, not until the following morning.

  “I apologize for calling you at home, but your cell phone isn’t ringing.”

  The relief in his voice was palpable, and he went on to tell me that the whole thing had just been made absolutely clear to him. “The whole thing” was how he referred to it. Naturally, after our conversation the evening before he had been concerned, but he had just gotten off the phone with both Ellis and Vincent, and he now knew exactly what had happened.

  “Not ideal,” he said, “but understandable, and demonstrates clearly how fond your father is of Margaret. Understandable and all too human.”

  I waited for him to continue, but instead he suggested I call Vincent, who was ready to tell me everything.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told him, but he persisted.

  “You must give him a chance to explain. You owe him that much.”

  I capitulated, but not before having breakfast followed by a shower.

  “Are you at the hospital—in Connecticut?”

  His voice was slightly faltering, and yet this time I didn’t have the feeling he was trying to make me pity him.

  “I’m at home.”

  “I did something stupid,” he said, clearing his throat. “I alone am to blame.”

  He went on to give me a detailed account of how the recordings had gone in Allington. Well, on the whole, except that Margaret had been forced to take breaks.

  “The pain,” he said, “came on without warning.”

  They had resumed recording from the beginning when she had recovered, but on a few occasions the cramps had been bearable and thankfully short-lived so she was able to play through them. It was only later, when he was preparing the recordings for release, that he noticed the groans in the background. It was more complicated than one might think to have Margaret replay the necessary fragments, but he had managed it all the same. Except in two instances: one of the études and Pictures at an Exhibition.

  “That’s when I made a mistake.”

  He went on to describe how out of desperation he had been tempted to erase her groans by stealing approximately sixty seconds from Vladimir Ashkenazy’s recording, and forty-two from Minoru Nojima, splicing them into Margaret’s performances.

  “It was a mistake, Magnus, my boy. I got ahead of myself. And now your mother is paying the price.”

  I told him that Caspar Bouwer maintained the plagiarism was far more widespread.

  “He’s making it up. That man will stop at nothing. He’s been through every CD and is making a mountain out of a molehill. But I confess that I laid myself open to it.”

  “Does Margaret know about this?”

  “No, she knows nothing. And she must never find out. Never.”

  “Are you sure there is nothing more?”

  “I’m telling you the truth. It saddens me that you don’t believe me, but I do understand. Forgive me.”

  It’s a well-designed booklet and the photographs are attractive. Most if not all are taken in summer or early fall with the trees beginning to change colors. They show the main street bustling with people dressed for the warm weather, filling the tables outside the cafés and restaurants. One photograph is of the bicycle repair shop, announcing bikes for rent at reasonable prices and a few suggested routes for enthusiasts. One alongside the river, but two or three up into the hills overlooking the village.

  I must say I was pleasantly surprised that Thomas Stainier should remember me when I called. His voice had the same mischievous ring but was even more youthful than I recalled. It hadn’t taken me long to find him when I sat down at my computer between Christmas and New Year’s Day, as there is only one bicycle shop in the village and he seems to have stayed put there since he gave up medical research.

  “Yes, by all means drop in,” he said, seemingly quite happy to hear from me. “Maybe I can interest you in a bicycle.”

  After my conversation with Vincent, I told Kleuber I wanted no part in any action against Caspar Bouwer. I was hoping he would take my decision at face value, but of course he didn’t and tried to pressure me for an explanation. Finally, I was forced to admit that I didn’t trust my father, which was more difficult for me than I had imagined.

  I haven’t spoken to Kleuber since, and I have no idea whether he made good on his intention to hire a lawyer to try to put a stop to pianoguru. In any event it did no good, as Caspar Bouwer published his findings according to plan late Wednesday evening, following them up two days later with an even more detailed report. As was to be expected, other Internet warriors instantly picked up the story, followed by trade magazines such as Gramophone and International Piano, and then one newspaper after another. They were merciless, since after all Vincent had tricked and embarrassed them. Anthony took my advice and kept a low profile, while technicians the world over went to work examining all of Margaret’s recordings. Unfortunately, their findings came as no surprise.

  I stopped following the coverage, and have so far managed to avoid the media. I’ve kept to myself and am grateful to Hofsinger for allowing me to take unpaid leave while I try to gather my thoughts. It has been good to have some time alone, and the holiday period wasn’t as difficult as I had feared. It snowed on Christmas Eve and I sat in the living room watching the balcony become white, the table and chairs, the trees in the backyard. I fetched a packet of birdseed from under the kitchen sink, scraped the snow off the table and scattered some seeds on top of it. I thought I could hear birds tweeting in my slee
p that morning, and when I woke up, the seeds were gone.

  On Christmas Day I took the plunge and called my parents. Vincent answered at the first ring, as if he had been waiting by the telephone.

  “I’ve grown old,” he said. “Perhaps I slipped somewhere, I don’t know, it’s all so confusing . . .”

  “I just wanted to check in,” I said, “it is Christmas after all.”

  “Margaret’s having a rest,” he said.

  “Give her my regards. I won’t be easily reachable for a while.”

  He was distracted and didn’t try to prolong the conversation. I didn’t ask how they planned to spend the day, and we said good-bye, incapable of wishing each other a Merry Christmas.

  I didn’t look at my phone again or check my e-mails, text messages, or missed calls until the day after my visit to Caspar Bouwer. In fact, I left my cell phone in my jacket pocket after I got home from the hospital that night, and the next morning the battery had run out. It was late in the day when I reluctantly charged it.

  It came as no surprise who had been trying to get a hold of me: my colleagues at the hospital, Kleuber, Vincent, Anthony from his mobile. There were no interesting e-mails, and I scarcely glanced at them. The same was true of my text messages, until I came across one from Simone.

  I suppose I felt relieved; in any case, I paused for a moment, stroking my thumb over her name on the screen before opening the message.

  I remember her words—how can I ever forget them?—but the moments that followed are lost somewhere in my mind, and I still haven’t been able to recover them. When I came to I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to delete her message, the phone shaking in my hand.

  “I had to do it.”

  Nothing more, only that brief sentence, as simple as it was devastating.

  What did she want me to do? Expose her? Applaud her? Comfort her? Run to wherever she was and fling my arms around her? What?

  My hands trembled as I watched her words disappear from the screen, and for a brief moment I felt as if I had accomplished something. But of course they existed somewhere in the Cloud or inside a computer, evidence I was so eager to get rid of.

  The next day when I spoke to Anthony and told him I had discussed taking a break with Hofsinger, he mentioned that he had just received the results of the autopsy.

  “Suffocation, not a stroke,” he said.

  I managed to reply that we might have expected it.

  “Yes,” he said, “I guess it isn’t all that surprising. But damn, I thought we were getting close.”

  I have had no contact with Simone. She resigned, and according to our secretary she is living in France. But not a day goes by when I don’t think of her, and I will get in touch with her soon, if only to hear her voice.

  On New Year’s Day, I made a call to Camila, Malena’s sister, in Buenos Aires. I didn’t know how she would react to hearing my voice and was surprised by how pleasant, even kind, she was on the phone. She said they had been thinking of me, the family, and when I told her that I wanted to visit her sister’s grave, she encouraged me to make the trip. I hadn’t expected this, but she had surprised me before. “You know she loved you very much,” she had said the last time we spoke. “More than I think you can imagine.” It’s strange that I should take such comfort in these words, which I play back every day, but maybe I needed someone to corroborate my own beliefs.

  I’ve booked a flight at the end of January and practice my Spanish diligently. I must say that I’m making decent progress, but of course I still have a long way to go.

  A red-and-white ferryboat is sailing upriver, making slow headway against the current. I fold the real estate brochure and put it in my pocket. It is full of useful information. The rents here are much lower than in the city, and there is more inventory than I had expected. For example, I saw an ad for a nice two-bedroom apartment in an old house down a small side street, charmingly renovated, judging from the photographs.

  But I am getting ahead of myself. It is true that when I decided to call him, working as an assistant in his bicycle shop seemed like a convenient—if somewhat hasty—solution to my situation. But since then, I’ve slowly been getting my bearings, and now I’m just hoping that Thomas Stainier will be able to lend a hand. How, exactly, I’m not sure, but I’ve always held him in such high regard and believe that he has the ability to solve problems that others can’t. His voice confirmed that when I called him, bright and cheerful, slightly naughty, as if to say: “Don’t worry, I’ve figured it all out.”

  The ripples the ferryboat makes break up the thin layer of ice along the riverbank. For a moment I wonder if I’ve made a mistake coming up here, but then I realize I’ve nothing to lose. At worst, I’ll learn something about fixing bicycles.

  Despite everything, I had the presence of mind to ask for her ashes. Our secretary was very helpful, so the only thing I had to do was pick them up and sign the necessary papers. She made it easy for me, printing them out and putting them neatly in a folder. At first, I wasn’t sure what to do with her remains, but eventually I found my way to the village the first week of January. Despite it being a cold morning, it reminded me of the day I had picked Malena up at the train station and we walked down to the sea. I stopped on the beach where I had taught her to skim stones and watched the small waves lapping at my feet, little servants offering their assistance. And that’s when I opened the jar and scattered her ashes. The waves took them and gently brought them away from me until I could see them no more. I managed to say a few words, and while they are not worth repeating, they made me feel better.

  I put on my coat and wrap my scarf around my neck. It is ten to twelve and I want to be punctual. As I open the door and set off up the street, I feel a refreshing wind on my back from the river.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OLAF OLAFSSON was born in Reykjavik, Iceland, in 1962. He studied physics as a Wien scholar at Brandeis University. He is the author of four previous novels, The Journey Home, Absolution, Walking into the Night, and Restoration, and a story collection, Valentines. He is executive vice president of Time Warner and lives in New York City with his wife and three children.

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  ALSO BY OLAF OLAFSSON

  NOVELS

  Absolution (1994)

  The Journey Home (2000)

  Walking into the Night (2003)

  Restoration (2012)

  SHORT STORIES

  Valentines (2007)

  CREDITS

  Cover design by Abby Weintraub

  Cover photographs: Elizaveta Olegova/EyeEm (seascape), De Agostini/A. Dagli Orti (Chopin score), Mark Leary (seacoast), Jordan Siemens (green field), Julie Toy (brain MRI), all © Getty Images

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ONE STATION AWAY. Copyright © 2017 by Double O Investment Corp. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Digital Edition DECEMBER 2017 ISBN: 978-0-06-267750-1

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-267748-8

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