One Station Away Page 4

  My mother was nowhere to be seen and there were four guests in the lounge, three men and a woman. I had already met Christopher Llewellyn Hunt, director of the Cambridge School of Music, where Margaret had once taught, and his wife, Hilary. I had never met the other two, a tall man my age and an older man with a beard and thick, well-groomed hair. I knew my parents had always considered Hunt one of their staunchest supporters, and I remembered that Vincent used to call him when things weren’t going so well for Margaret. Which was often. Hunt always appeared sympathetic and told Vincent what he wanted to hear—that Margaret was a genius and would one day receive due recognition. She had held several recitals at the school concert hall, and Hunt would write flattering things about her in the program. I remember attending one of them between Christmas and New Year’s Day when I was a teenager. The hall had been almost deserted. Rain had turned to snow.

  I realized I was still holding the flowers when I went to shake the couple’s hands, so I asked my father to take them. He did so, setting them aside without a glance, and it was then that I noticed in my hurry I had forgotten to write on the card. It was too late now, and pointless for me to feel remorse.

  I knew Vincent would introduce me to his guests in the most grandiose terms, but still he made me squirm. He referred to me as a “famous neurologist” working at “the leading neurological research institute in the States,” and told them he had lost count of all the plaudits I had earned and papers I had published, despite my young age.

  “We hardly ever clap eyes on him, he’s so busy,” he added. “But science must come first, isn’t that right?”

  The older man introduced himself as Philip Ellis, and said he and my father were in business together, though he didn’t say what business. Vincent offered no explanations, either, but I assumed my father had founded yet another record label specializing in classical music. Ellis wore a large red stone on the ring finger of his right hand. He smelled of tobacco, and at the corners of his mouth his gray beard was stained yellow. The other man was a German, Hans Kleuber. He spoke with a heavy accent and had a slight stoop, and when he bowed to shake my hand, I thought he was never going to straighten up again. Vincent told me and the Hunts about him. Ellis seemed to know him already. Kleuber owned one of the largest collections of records in the world, Vincent said, having set out to acquire all the piano music that mattered. They had met roughly a year ago, when Kleuber wrote to him inquiring about “a few” recordings from the sixties and seventies.

  “Three hundred,” said Kleuber, grinning. “And Vincent was able to throw light on all but ten or twenty. Incredible, but true.”

  There was no hint of sarcasm in his words, and I wondered how much Kleuber knew about my father’s past. I got my answer a moment later when he added:

  “Of those three hundred records, only about fourteen were released by Mecca.”

  Mecca was the record label my father owned in the late seventies, the type that rereleased recordings by well-known artists under made-up names and sold them cheaply. Thus, for example, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony with Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berlin Philharmonic was reattributed to the Vienna State Orchestra conducted by Wilhelms von Eggertz, repackaged, and sold at less than half the original price. The Vienna State Orchestra and Wilhelms von Eggertz were both my father’s inventions, as were the conductors Romano Ferrere and Claudio Mascarpone, the Helsinki District Symphony Orchestra, the violinist Marta von Klapper, and the vocalist Benjamin Gross. Earlier on in his career, Vincent had failed with two similar enterprises, but with Mecca he had found modest success. He took out a loan, mortgaged the house he had recently inherited from his parents, and decided to move up the food chain, signing deals with four well-known artists, including Heinrich von der Heydt and Camilla Launer, whose career was only beginning. But the musician he seemingly paid the most attention to was Margaret. The two of them had just met.

  Vincent fetched a bottle of Champagne and made a great show of popping the cork before he filled the glasses waiting on a tray next to the fireplace. Everyone could see that it was a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and Hilary indulged him by mentioning the fact.

  “Only the best,” he said. “Only the very best . . .”

  There was still no sign of Margaret, and I assumed he had explained her absence before I arrived, so I asked no questions. We raised our glasses, “To Margaret,” and then Vincent asked me to follow him into the kitchen. He took the empty Champagne bottle with him, and I carried the flowers.

  On the kitchen table, under plastic wrap, were some sandwiches and finger food from the delicatessen in town, and next to them two silver trays, both from Vincent’s parents’ estate. He picked up a tumbler full of colored cocktail sticks and asked me to arrange the finger food and sandwiches on the trays, with the sticks in them. In the meantime, he went to the fridge, took out a bottle of sparkling wine, and opened it over the sink. Then he fetched a funnel and decanted it into the empty Dom Pérignon bottle standing on the dish rack. I pretended not to notice, but instead of the usual contempt, this act aroused feelings of pity, and regret at being there.

  “Where’s Margaret?” I asked.

  He disposed of the empty bottle of sparkling wine under the sink.

  “Upstairs. She’s getting ready.”

  With this he glanced at his watch and gave a start.

  “We must sit down,” he said when we were back in the living room. “I hadn’t realized the time.”

  He indicated the sofa and chairs, then rushed upstairs. I could hear the familiar old creak of the staircase and had a sudden fear that he might slip. Hilary and Christopher Llewellyn Hunt sat together on the sofa, Ellis in one of the armchairs next to them, while Kleuber and I perched on two chairs from the dining room. No one said a word until Kleuber leaned over to me and whispered: “Terribly exciting, isn’t it?” I nodded, although I was starting to feel uneasy and wished I could disappear.

  It was at least ten minutes before Margaret came down. In order to avoid having to walk past us, she entered via the kitchen, through the connecting doors behind the piano. Kleuber came to life and started clapping, and we all joined in. Vincent followed behind, taking his usual seat in a corner by the piano.

  She sat down without looking at us. I thought I saw her bob her head, but I may have been imagining it. I was only too familiar with the tension in her face and the tremor in her hands before she clasped them in her lap. For a moment I thought she was about to push the stool away from the piano and flee, but then her shoulders slowly lowered, her face relaxed, and her eyes fixed on the keyboard. We watched her with bated breath, Kleuber craning his long neck, captivated before she had even struck the first note.

  Rachmaninoff’s Sonata No. 2. “Monstrous” is the word I heard her use to describe it once when I was a boy. I remember that day well. It was summer, and I had been playing football in the field by our house with some of my friends. She was going through a bad patch at the time, and I was doing my best to stay out of her way, make myself scarce. I arrived home and heard a torrent of words coming from the living room, frantic wails of despair, stifled exclamations, choking sobs. “I can’t, I just can’t . . . It’s monstrous, he’s monstrous, and anyone who can play it is monstrous . . .” My father was trying to calm her down, in a gentle voice that only made things worse. “Stop! Stop! You don’t understand . . .” As often, I had entered from the garden, but instead of hurrying upstairs to my room, I walked over to the connecting doors and peered into the piano room. I don’t know why: I was used to such scenes, and thought they no longer affected me. She must have heard me, because suddenly she swung around and looked at me over her shoulder. I have never forgotten her expression, although I may have misinterpreted it at the time, for I felt as if she had spotted the reason for everything in her life that had gone wrong. She gave a loud cry and fled through the living room and up the stairs.

  Vincent stooped to pick up the sheet music she had flung on the floor, then looked at me. For
a moment he seemed unsure whether to stay and comfort me or follow her upstairs. Then he put the music aside, turned away, and walked out after her, head bowed.

  At last Margaret looked up from the keyboard and raised her hands, with a movement so slow as to be almost imperceptible. She held them suspended midair, fingers drooping as if all her muscles had gone limp, eyes closed. She remained like that for a few seconds, in absolute silence, and then, as if a tide had washed over her, she slammed her fingers onto the keys with perfect assurance, and the room was filled with the opening bars of the sonata, which in my memory evoked only anguish. I hadn’t heard the piece since that summer long ago, and yet I knew every single note the instant she played it, and I remembered the parts where she slipped up, as I sat in my bedroom reading the books I had borrowed from the library, and the football magazines I had bought at the newsstand next to the butcher, waiting for the summer holidays in Allington to end so I could go back to St. Joseph’s.

  I was on tenterhooks throughout her performance, half expecting her fingers to seize up, for her to fall apart. But it didn’t happen, not during the fast, strenuous first movement, nor the slow, lyrical second. I had heard her sail through them, but never the last movement, allegro molto, dramatic, almost frenzied where it reaches the high notes. More than once I had heard Vincent and Margaret talking about it after she fled to the bedroom in despair, with Vincent close behind, consoling her. That always took forever, but afterward they would discuss the piece and what had gone wrong, and he would offer words of encouragement. If I was around, she acted as though nothing had happened.

  She had aged, and yet her slender frame remained youthful, her back straight as an arrow. She moved constantly, even during the slow passages when her fingers scarcely brushed the keys, her arms, elbows out to the sides, rising and falling like giant spider legs. My father had always said she was like a sculptor, not a painter. That the notes were like clay in her hands, from which she could fashion whatever she wished: people, cities, hills and valleys, fleeting thoughts. At the time, I had taken no more notice of this remark than of his many other utterances, but as I sat there in the living room next to the transfixed Hans Kleuber, I finally understood what he had meant. Only it wasn’t cities or people or hills or valleys I saw, but rather a wall rising slowly between us. And as it grew higher, so my anxiety increased, for I was convinced that at any moment she would strike that wrong note which would cause havoc: her thoughts would collide with her fingers, the wall would collapse on top of her, and she would run screaming from the wreckage.

  She performed the shorter version of the sonata, which is about twenty minutes. The allegro molto is just over seven minutes, but seemed to take forever. I was exhausted by the time she played the final notes, bathed in sweat, my hands clasped so tight my fingers hurt. Kleuber leapt to his feet—“Bravo, bravo!”—and the others followed; everyone but me. She rose to her feet, smiling, as if there had been nothing to it and she had simply been playing a popular tune, beaming as she came toward us.

  I took hold of myself and stood up, but Kleuber was already beside her, showering her with praise. Hilary and Christopher Llewellyn Hunt were close behind, then Ellis, a man with a knowing look who seemed to keep his thoughts to himself. I stood motionless, and rather than wait for me to approach, my mother flung out her arms.

  “Colin, darling”—she rarely called me by my Icelandic first name—“how wonderful to see you! How long has it been since your last visit?”

  We embraced fleetingly, and before I could reply, she thrust me from her, as if she had suddenly noticed something important, and said:

  “Your tie needs straightening, my dear boy.”

  I had resolved to do it before getting out of the car, but in my haste I had forgotten. Usually, I wouldn’t have let it get to me, but now I felt as if I had done something wrong. I clutched at my neck, fumbled for my tie and attempted to straighten it in the middle of the room.

  “There’s a mirror out in the hallway,” she said as if I had never been to the house before.

  The hum from the living room reached me as I stood before the mirror adjusting my tie and attempting to collect myself. I noticed how pale and tired I looked, but focused my gaze on my collar and tie. I had made a mess of it and had to take the tie off and start over. I heard Margaret raise her voice as though about to deliver the punch line, and Kleuber burst out laughing, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  I remained rooted to the spot after I had finished fixing my tie, unable to make myself go back into the living room. The window beside the front door caught my eye and I glimpsed the rental car parked across the street outside Mrs. Tribble’s house. I fumbled in my jacket pocket for the keys. My feet turned toward the door, and before I knew it I had my hand on the latch. I glanced over my shoulder, turned the handle, and walked into the pouring rain.

  Chapter 7

  As I got into the car outside Mrs. Tribble’s house with the intention of starting the engine, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the same feeling of powerlessness as when I had lain hooked up to the ventilator, listening to the sea and Malena’s voice in my head. I looked at the rain on the windshield and the keys in my hand, but was incapable of moving. It was as if I didn’t know where I was heading and so couldn’t set off. During the past few months, I thought I had made some progress: I no longer felt indifferent about everything, and was able to lose myself in my work, enjoy my first coffee of the day in the quiet kitchen or out on the balcony, find bright moments even though the darkness was never far away. But now I was enveloped by a gloom that penetrated my brain, and for a moment I felt one with it. I didn’t try to move, but instead closed my eyes and started listening for the sea and Malena’s voice down in the village, as though casting around for a light amid the shadows.

  For weeks I had forced myself to stop thinking about that day, but now I couldn’t stop myself. The rain beat down on the car, calm and steady, but apart from that all was quiet. Perhaps I was too impatient or my thoughts too restless, because however hard I tried, I couldn’t conjure up her face or hear her voice. I was seized by a sudden fear and dropped my keys noisily on the floor. I slowly picked them up and started the engine, turned on the windshield wipers, and gazed out into the grayness, at the empty field where we played football when I was a boy, the now dilapidated goalposts and the crows flapping overhead in the mist.

  When I was about to drive off, my parents’ door opened and my father looked out. He saw me immediately and our eyes met for a moment before I turned off the engine and took my cell phone discreetly out of the glove compartment. He waited for me while I crossed the street, but I beat him to it, showing him the phone in my hand and explaining that I had to take a call from the States and didn’t want to bother everybody. He looked at the phone and then at me as if he couldn’t figure me out. He didn’t like it and, as we returned to the house, tried to regain the upper hand by grabbing the Champagne bottle as we walked into the sitting room and handing it to me. It was empty.

  “Do me a favor,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Fetch another bottle of Dom Pérignon from the fridge. And toss this one while you’re at it.”

  I looked around. Margaret was standing next to the fireplace talking to Hilary and Kleuber. She was excited and spoke in a loud voice, explaining something to them as she showed them first the backs, then the palms of her hands.

  I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a bottle of Codorniu Vintage Brut Cava, the same sparkling wine my father had poured into the Dom Pérignon bottle earlier on. There were three more on the bottom shelf next to the butter and eggs. I uncorked it over the sink and stood still for a long time, the Cava in my right hand and the empty Dom Pérignon bottle in my left, before finally grabbing a funnel and forcing myself to follow my father’s example.

  No sooner had I entered the sitting room than Vincent tapped his glass and cleared his throat. An unnecessary gesture in such a small gathering, but doubtless that was
how he had envisioned the moment.

  “Dear friends. When Margaret agreed to celebrate this turning point, it was on the condition that we would invite only our closest friends. Naturally, I had prepared a lengthy guest list, but as you know, Margaret doesn’t like to be in the limelight . . .”

  I was standing behind the others, and couldn’t help lowering my eyes as he spoke. My tie was too tight and I winced with each word. Were the others unaware of what was going on? I wondered. I looked up, contemplating them one by one. Christopher and Hilary Llewellyn Hunt had always shown my parents unswerving loyalty, although I couldn’t recall there being much contact between our two families. If they had any doubts, they certainly gave no sign of it as they stood side by side next to the fireplace. Kleuber hadn’t known Vincent and Margaret long, and besides was so thrilled to have the honor of being among the chosen few, so childishly eager in his appreciation of Margaret, that there was no room for suspicion. Ellis wore his usual expression, as if he were constantly trying to stop himself from smirking.

  Vincent went on talking. When at last I was able to look at him and at Margaret standing beside him, a dreamy smile on her face, I tried to imagine how they might appear to me if I were seeing them for the first time. He was in full swing, discussing the merits of one pianist after another: “Rubenstein was born with perfect piano hands: broad palms and fleshy fingertips, his little finger almost the same length as his middle finger . . . He played the romantics with a rare artistry, but was never much good at Bach and Mozart . . . Schnabel and Backhaus were serious, sturdy pianists like others of the German school, but they lacked imagination and inspiration . . . Horowitz came closest to Rachmaninoff himself, that pure tone came solely from his fingers, for he scarcely touched the pedals . . .” He emphasized each word as if he were explaining a hitherto unknown truth and barely drew breath between sentences.