A Traitor to Memory (97 page)

2 November

It seems to me that the truth about James Pitchford and Katja Wolff lies between what Sarah-Jane said about James's indifference to women and what Dad said about James's besottedness with Katja. Both of them had reason to twist the facts. If Sarah-Jane had disliked Katja and wanted James for herself, she'd not be likely to admit it if the lodger had shown a preference elsewhere. And as for Dad … If he was responsible for Katja's pregnancy, he'd hardly be likely to confess that transgression to me, would he? Fathers tend not to reveal that sort of thing to their sons.

You listen to me with that expression of calm tranquility on your face, and
because
that expression is so calm so tranquil so unjudging so open to receive whatever it is that I choose to maunder on about, I can see what you're thinking, Dr. Rose: He's
clinging
to the fact of Katja Wolff 's pregnancy as the only means currently available to him to avoid …

What
, Dr. Rose? And what if I'm not avoiding anything?

That could be the case precisely, Gideon. But consider that you've come up with no memory relating to your music in quite some time. You've offered very few memories of your mother. Your grandfather in your childhood has all but been deleted from your brain, as has your grandmother. And Raphael Robson—as he was in your childhood—has barely warranted a passing mention.

I can't
help
the way my brain is connecting the dots, can I?

Of course not. But in order to stimulate associative thoughts, one needs to be in a mental position in which the mind is free to roam. That's the point of becoming quiet, becoming restful, choosing a place to write and writing undisturbed. Actively pursuing the death of your sister and the subsequent trial—

How can I go on to something else when my mind is
filled
with this? I can't just clear my brain, forget about it, and pursue something else. She was
murdered
, Dr. Rose. I'd forgotten she was murdered. God forgive me, but I'd even forgotten she existed in the first place. I can't just set that to one side. I can't simply jot down details about playing
ansiosamente
as a nine-year-old when I was meant to play
animato
, and I can't dwell upon the psychological significance of misinterpreting a piece of music like that.

But what about the blue door, Gideon? you inquire, still reason incarnate. Considering the part that that door has played in your mental processing, would it help if you reflected upon it and wrote about it rather than what you've been told by others?

No, Dr. Rose. That door—if you will pardon the pun—is closed.

Still, why not shut your eyes for a few moments and visualise that door again? you recommend. Why not see if you can put it into a context quite apart from Wigmore Hall? As you describe it, it appears to be an exterior door to a house or a flat. Could it be possible that it has nothing to do with Wigmore Hall? Perhaps it's the colour that you might think and write about for a time and not the door itself. Perhaps it's the presence of two locks instead of one. Perhaps it's the lighting fixture above it and the entire idea of what light is used for.

Freud, Jung, and whoever else occupy the consulting room with us … And yes, yes, yes, Dr. Rose. I am a field ready for the harvest.

3 November

Libby's come home. She was gone for three days after our altercation in the square. I heard nothing from her during that time, and the silence from her flat was an accusation, asserting that I'd driven her away through cowardice and monomania. The silence claimed that my monomania was merely a useful shield behind which I could hide so that I didn't have to face my failure with Libby herself, my failure to connect with a human being who had been dropped into my lap by the Almighty for the sole purpose of allowing me to form an attachment to her.

Here she is, Gideon, the Fates or God or Karma had said to me on that day when I agreed to let the lower ground floor flat to the curly-haired courier who needed a refuge from her husband. Here's your opportunity to resolve what has plagued you since Beth left your life.

But I had allowed that singular chance for redemption to slip through my fingers. More than that, I had done everything in my power to avoid having that chance in the first place. For what better way to circumvent intimate involvement with a woman than to subvert my career, thereby giving myself an exigent focal point for all my endeavours? No time to talk about our situation, Libby darling. No time to consider the oddity of it. No time to consider why I can hold your naked body, feel your soft breasts against my chest, feel the mound of your pubis pressing against me, and experience nothing save the raging humiliation of experiencing nothing. Indeed, there is no time for anything at all but resolving this plaguing persistent pernicious question regarding my music, Libby.

Or is the consideration of Libby right now a blind that helps cloud whatever it is that the blue door represents? And how the hell am I to know?

When Libby returned to Chalcot Square, she didn't bang on my door or phone me. Nor did she announce her presence through the means of either the Suzuki's engine gunning explosively outside or pop music blaring from her flat. The only way I knew that she was back at all was from the sudden sound of the old pipes clanging from within the walls of the building. She was having a bath.

I gave her forty minutes' leeway once the pipes were silent. Then I went downstairs, outside, and down the steps to her front door. I hesitated before knocking, almost giving up the idea of trying to mend my fences with her. But at the last moment when I thought, To hell with it, which I realise was my way of turning tail and running off, I found that I didn't want to be at odds with Libby. If nothing else, she'd been such a
friend
. I missed that friendship, and I wanted to make sure I still had it.

Several knocks were required to get a response from her. Even when she did answer, she asked, “Who is it?” from behind the closed door although she knew very well that I was the only person likely to be calling on her in Chalcot Square. I was patient with this. She's upset with me, I told myself. And, all things considered, that's her right.

When she opened the door, I said the conventional thing to her. “Hullo. I was worried about you. When you disappeared …”

“Don't lie,” was her reply, although she didn't say it unkindly. She'd had time to dress, and she was wearing something other than her usual garb: a colourful skirt that dangled to her calves, a black sweater that reached her hips. Her feet were bare, although she had a gold chain round her ankle. She looked quite nice.

“It's not a lie. When you left, I thought you'd gone to work. When you didn't come back … I didn't know what to think.”

“Another lie,” she said.

I persisted, telling myself, The fault is mine. I'll take the punishment. “May I come in?”

She stepped back from the door in a movement that was not unlike a complete body shrug. I walked into the flat and saw that she'd been assembling a meal for herself. She had it laid out on the coffee table in front of the futon that serves as her sofa, and it was completely unlike her usual fare of take-away Chinese or curry: a grilled chicken breast, broccoli, and a salad of lettuce and tomatoes.

I said, “You're eating. Sorry. Shall I come back later?” and I hated the formality that I heard in my voice.

She said, “No problem as long as you don't mind if I eat in front of you.”

“I don't mind. Do you mind being watched while you eat?”

“I don't mind.”

It was a conversational check and counter-check. There were so many things that she and I could talk about and so many things that we were avoiding.

I said, “I'm sorry about the other day. About what happened. Between us, that is. I'm going through a bad patch just now. Well, obviously, you know that already. But until I see it through, I'm not going to be right for anyone.”

“Were you before, Gideon?”

I was confused. “Was I what?”

“Right for anyone.” She went back to the sofa, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sat, an oddly feminine movement that seemed completely out of character.

“I don't know how to answer that honestly and be honest with myself,” I said. “I'm supposed to say Yes, I was right in the past and I'll be right again. But the truth of the matter is that I might not have been. Right, that is. I might not ever have been right for anyone, and I might never be. And that's all I know just now.”

She was drinking water, I saw, not Coke, as had been her preference since I had known her. She had a glass with a slice of lemon floating amid the ice cubes, and she took this up as I was speaking and she watched me over the rim as she drank. “Fair enough,” she said. “Is that what you've come to tell me?”

“As I said, I was worried about you. We didn't part on good terms. And when you left and didn't return … I suppose I thought you might have … Well, I'm glad you're back. And well. I'm glad you're well.”

“Why?” she asked. “What did you think I might have done? Jumped into the river or something?”

“Of course not.”

“Then?”

I didn't see at the moment that this was the wrong road to be traveling down. Idiotically, I turned into it, assuming it would take us to the destination that I had in mind. I said, “I know your position in London is tenuous, Libby. So I wouldn't blame you for … well, for doing whatever you felt you needed to do to shore it up … Especially since you and I parted badly. But I'm glad you're back. I'm awfully glad. I've missed having you here to talk to.”

“Gotcha,” she said with a wink, although she didn't smile. “I get it, Gid.”

“What?”

She took up her knife and fork and cut into the chicken. Despite the fact that she'd been in England for several years at this point, I noted that she still ate like an American, with that inefficient shifting about of the knife and the fork from one hand to the other. I was dwelling on this fact when she answered me. “You think I've been with Rock, don't you?”

“I hadn't really … well, you do work for him. And after you and I had that row … I know that it would be only natural to …” I wasn't sure how to complete the thought. She was chewing her chicken slowly, and she was watching me flailing round verbally, perhaps determined not to do a single thing to help me.

She finally spoke. “What you thought was that I was back with Rock, doing what Rock wants me to do. Fucking him, basically, whenever he wants it. And totally putting up with him fucking everyone else he comes across. Right?”

“I know he holds the whip hand, Libby, but since you've been gone, I've been thinking that if you consult a solicitor who specialises in immigration law—”

“Bullshit what you've been thinking,” she scoffed.

“Listen. If your husband is continuing to threaten you with going to the Home Office, we can—”

“It
is
what you think, isn't it?” She set down her fork. “I wasn't with Rock Peters, Gideon. Sure. It's hard for you to believe. I mean, why
wouldn't
I go running back to some complete asshole, since that's, like, my basic m.o. In fact, why wouldn't I move right in with him and put up with his shit all over again? I've been doing
such
a totally good job of putting up with yours.”