Educating Simon (7 page)

Mum said, “That's good news, isn't it, Simon?”

“The best.” I kept my tone even and low; no enthusiasm, no rebellion. And, if BM was listening carefully, no credibility.

I wasn't expecting to be called on the carpet by little Miss Prissy Persie tonight, but it seemed I could do no right. She hadn't spoken at all, and I was trying to speak as seldom as possible, per my usual practice for months now, but for some reason I used the term “join the dots.” Evidently in the US they say “connect the dots.” It wasn't in any of those resources Brian had pointed me towards, wasn't amongst the host of Britishisms I'm expected not to utter. As soon as the phrase was out of my mouth, Persie's head snapped up, her attention on the calculations necessary to even out portions of the various food groups on her plate forsaken in favour of shouting at me.

“
Connect
the dots!” she shrieked. “Connect! Connect the dots! Connect! Connect!”

It went on like that for a while, and it took both BM and Anna to calm her down. At one point Anna suggested taking her upstairs, but BM, irritated, said that Anna knows that just makes things worse. It wasn't clear to me how this could be true; she'd be shrieking in her own rooms, which would certainly have been better for most of us.

No one spoke for a good five minutes after Persie quieted down, and then BM turned towards me and, in a low voice, explained, “Figures of speech, metaphors, anything represented in the abstract, can be extremely challenging for her. The expression you used is one of the few she's mastered. But she understands it in the American usage, and hearing a different version of it was profoundly disturbing.”

“So, can she participate in a conversation at all?”

“Of course I can.”

I jumped. I think Mum did, too. I said, “All right. Why is it important to divide up your food portions so precisely?”

“So I can finish them all together.”

“I get that, but why is that important?”

“Because they're all on the same plate.” A plate she never looked up from.

I decided not to pursue that further. But I wanted to know what else she focuses on. “What did you do today?”

“I woke up. I put on my slippers. I took three drinks of water. I went into the bathroom. I sat on the toilet. . . .”

“I'm sorry, Persie,” BM said as he leaned towards her and gently laid a hand on her arm. “I think that's probably more than Simon wants to know. Why don't you tell him about your new book? You read that today, didn't you?”

“Yes.
Analysis of Tonal Music: A Schenkerian Approach
. By Allen Cadwallader and David Gagné. September 3, 2010. An introduction to the fundamental principles of Schenkerian technique. Oxford University Press, USA. Four hundred and thirty-two pages. I read one hundred and sixty-seven pages today. It focuses more on the music and less on reduction itself than Allen Forte and Steven E. Gilbert's
Introduction to Schenkerian Analysis: Form and Content in Tonal Music
. I don't know yet whether I like it more or less, because I do like reduction. But I also like music.” She stopped and turned her head towards BM as if she wanted to know if she should say more.

BM leaned over and kissed the side of her forehead. “That's my girl.” I didn't see any indication whether the kiss or the implied praise meant anything to her.

Schenkerian analysis?
And she's how old?
Eleven? Twelve?
Ye gods. I have only a vague idea what it's about, and this girl is reading graduate school texts on it. And, it would seem, understanding them.

I did my best to bring my jaw back into position from where it had fallen and asked her, “Are you a music savant?”

“I don't know what that is.”

“Like
Rain Man
? The Dustin Hoffman film where he plays the mathematic savant?”

She shook her head, then harder, then harder still. BM leaned over yet again. “It's all right, Persie. I'll explain. You don't need to.” She calmed down immediately. To me he said, “Persie doesn't watch movies. She's tried, but they upset her. Fiction is rather a foreign concept.”

“So is she a savant?”

“That's not an easy question to answer. Certainly she has astounding comprehension of music. But from what I've seen, she doesn't mix her experience of music with her analytic abilities. I mean, she either listens and is transported, or she applies only intellect and analyses.”

“Done,” Persie announced, and suddenly Ned was there to take her plate. And as though she meant “done” to apply to the discussion of Schenker, we all fell silent again. I caught Ned's eye, lifted an eyebrow and dropped it again, and he winked at me.

As Ned was serving the pudding (slap my wrist! I mean dessert), key lime pie with whipped cream on a chocolate crust, Mum and BM chatted about something, and Anna was focused on Persie. Ned set my plate down and whispered, “It really is easiest if we all follow the rules.”

Sotto voce, I said, “Where is that book, anyway?” I turned my head to look into his eyes.

His hand landed oh, so briefly on my shoulder. “Don't worry; you'll get it.” And he moved on.

If there's anything I'm going to like about living here, it's going to be all about the kitchen: Ned, good food, and wine. Things could be worse.

 

Later, I had just gone upstairs and was puttering around my room, working out the best placement for things that belonged back home in my room in London, when BM knocked on my door. Whether I wanted to hear it or not, he was here to tell me more about Persie's behaviour at dinner. He went on for a few minutes about how in the worst cases, people with AS don't always understand how other people want to be treated, that they might not know how to have a conversation that doesn't relate directly to them, that they might have trouble understanding what it means to be polite, or considerate. He added that Persie's case is rather extreme.

I guess I must have looked interested, because he didn't stop there.

“The extreme degree of her condition means that there's very little understanding of, and almost no empathy for, other people. On the other hand, she doesn't expect empathy
from
anyone, either. Also, many people with AS and other forms of autism don't want to be touched. Persie doesn't mind some people touching her. I can, and so can Anna, as long as it's a firm, definite touch and not just a light one. But she seldom makes eye contact.”

“She doesn't expect empathy? She sure expects to be obeyed.”

“I understand that it seems like that. Not all people with AS are as removed from others as she is. Many people with AS work through their issues and manage to lead fairly normal lives. Persie will not.”

“How can you be sure? She seems extremely intelligent.”

He gave me a wan smile that somehow seemed patronising. “You'll have to trust me.”

After he left, I pictured Persie, heard her voice in my head explaining about Schenkerian analysis, her voice a fairly flat monotone. And then I remembered how puzzled she'd looked, even panicked, when I'd asked her about
Rain Man
. And then there was the kerfuffle of the connecting dots.

Maybe he was right. And it wasn't my problem, anyway.

The material from St. Bony, in talking about what today would be like, neglected to indicate whether I was to follow the dress code. School isn't in session yet, but I erred on the side of caution and donned a pair of khaki slacks and a light blue Oxford (of course) shirt. I was too nervous for breakfast, though of course Mum made me eat as much as I could. A few spoonfuls of a muesli were all I could manage; the tiny bits of dried mango in it made me suspect Ned had put it together. I wished I could have enjoyed it more, but all these tests were hanging over me today.

There was an insulated satchel on the counter and a piece of paper in front of it that said, “Good luck, Simon—in case you need any.”

“Who's this from?” I asked Mum. It wasn't from her; it wasn't her handwriting, and it's unlikely she'd have left it because she'd be walking me down to the school so she could talk with the headmistress, whom she hadn't met yet. Evidently BM had pulled quite a few strings to get me into St. Bony, and Mum wanted to thank Dr. Healy in person.

“Ned left that for you. Remember that the school material recommended you bring lunch today; the canteen isn't open yet, and there won't be a lot of time for you to come here or look elsewhere for lunch.” She smiled. “I think you'll be pleased with what he's prepared. And here. Keys to all outside doors except for Brian's office, in case you need to let yourself in after your exams.”

“Thanks. Let's get going.” I just wanted to get this day started. I test well, but I'm often nervous before a test begins. Once I'm into it, I'm fine.

I didn't say much on the walk down Marlborough Street. It felt awkward and also comforting to have Mum walk with me, like going back and forth between being a child and . . . well, being a child. She didn't go to the test room with me, though; we were met at the front entrance by an academic-looking man, maybe forty and decidedly following the dress code, who introduced himself as Dr. Metcalf. What he teaches, or what he does here, I didn't quite catch. He ushered me away, telling Mum he'd have someone collect her to see Dr. Healy.

We walked down several hallways until I was thoroughly turned around and ended up in a classroom with huge windows overlooking a small close with green grass, some benches, and a few ornamental trees. No people in sight. I was pleased, actually; if I have to gaze at something whilst I'm thinking, I like to have a pleasant but non-distracting view. There were several other students in the room, also from outside the US. I didn't make any effort to remember their names; I'll get to know them if I need to.

Dr. Metcalf, half sitting on the desk at the front of the room, explained the rules for the exams and said that the results would have some bearing on our schedules, which we'd be e-mailed by end of day tomorrow. Orientation for seniors, he said, is on Wednesday, and classes for everyone begin on Thursday.

Most of the exams were predictable, on subjects like maths, biology, history, English, a few others. I'm sure I did quite well on all of them but one. History. It's a subject I've always excelled at, and it's one that Oxford will expect me to be good at. A great memory and my synaesthesia help me remember how to spell everything from place names like Afon Tryweryn to emperors like Zhu Yuanzhang, but history is a strong suit for me.

Which is why I couldn't understand why I was struggling a little with this test. Or, rather, there was an obvious reason. It was that so many questions pertained to points of US history, some of them so esoteric that I didn't quite know what was being asked or how to answer. The only questions I'm convinced I did well on were those about the history of Europe, India, and Russia, and a couple about the Chinese dynasties.

Back at the house, I used my newly acquired front door key to let myself in. In my room I found a surprise. There was a package on my desk, and a note, which I read first.

I showered and changed, and then I played with the iPhone, located the phone number, and texted GG to say the exam ordeal was over and I did fine, and got
X
s and
O
s back. I hadn't decided whether to keep the thing, so I didn't change any of the default settings.

Downstairs I heard voices, Mum's and Ned's, and laughter, coming from the kitchen. It appeared Ned was having her help him prepare dinner, apparently salmon, and they were getting along like old chums. They hadn't seen me yet, so I watched from the door, and it came to me that Mum used to cook a lot before Dad died. She was very good, too; taught me a lot of what I know about cuisine, as a matter of fact. I'd kind of forgotten that.

Finally Ned looked up. “Simon! How goes it? I'm sure you wowed them. But did you wow yourself?”

I shrugged and tried to subdue a temptation to grin.

“Your mom made you a treat. A reward for your hard day.” He held out a small, pristine, white plate with several tiny balls arranged on it. Tea butter balls. They're made from butter (of course), flour, butter, confectioners' sugar, butter, vanilla (we always used Tahitian, but I don't know what's in this kitchen), finely chopped walnuts, and—did I mention butter? While they're still barely warm from the oven, you shake them up with more confectioners' sugar to coat the outsides. I think they're my favourite biscuit. I looked up at Mum as I took the plate and the napkin Ned handed me.

Mum smiled but didn't take any active credit. She said, “We're having barbied salmon with scallion horseradish mayonnaise. I'm making that, and the raspberry fool for the pudding. Um, dessert. Ned's making a surprise soup. He says it's one of Persie's favourites, but he won't tell me what it is.”

“Now, Emma, we say ‘grilled' here, not ‘barbied.' Miss Persie will have you hog-tied if she hears you. Hey, Simon, Brian tells me you're quite the wine aficionado. Wanna help me pick something out from the cellar for tonight?”

Now,
that
I would love to do. And I felt an unwilling rush of something like pleasure at the thought of BM's noticing this about me and even sharing it in a good way with Ned. I tried to curb my enthusiasm. “Sure. When?”

He turned to Mum. “You've got this covered, right?”

She laughed, something I haven't heard her do lately. Hands waving dramatically in the air, she put on a pseudo French accent and said, “But of course!”

I set down the biscuits and followed Ned towards the back of the kitchen, where the door to the wine cellar is. The stairs lead back under the kitchen and into an area that far exceeded my expectations: several tall, glass-fronted, temperature- and moisture-controlled storage units, each partially full of bottles.

“Miranda—Brian's ex—was responsible for keeping these full of wine. When I got here there wasn't a lot left, so I've been working to restock. Brian seemed to have lost interest.” Ned turned to watch my face. “He'd lost interest in a lot of things. And then he met your mother.”

That was a place I'd rather not go. “You call him Brian?”

“Oh, sure. We're all friends here.”

“Um, where does he get his money? In England, at least, an architect would have to be quite the success to have a place like this.”

He grinned. “Well, his clients do like him. He gets lots of referrals. But this house was in his family, and I expect he got money from them, too. There's no mortgage, I don't think, though the property taxes are probably hefty. Now, on to the wine.”

He moved from case to case: lighter whites, meaty whites, light reds, heavy reds, rosés, each case divided into countries and regions of origin. There was also a case for sparkling wines, and one for brandies, cognacs, ports, after-dinner wines. Very impressive.

Returning to stand near the lighter whites case, Ned crossed his arms casually and leaned against a post that supported the floor above. “So, what would you like for tonight?”

You
. It almost slipped out. “You've led me to this case. Is this the category you'd recommend?”

His smile was cryptic. “Maybe I led you to the one most people would choose. Doesn't mean it's the best choice. Sometimes it pays to take a risk. Let me ask you this: If the salmon were given a heavier treatment”—he waved a hand in the air—“something less summery, what would you drink?”

“Probably a pinot noir, maybe a white burgundy. Depends.”

“So, for a lighter treatment, would you go red at all?”

“Maybe a rosé?”

He made a slight face. “Not bad in concept, but would it hold up to the horseradish?”

As soon as he said horseradish, I headed for the sparkling wine case, looked for a pink foil over a large cork, opened the door, and pulled out a bottle at random. It was a rosé prosecco.

Ned laughed and clapped his hands. “I love it!” He bowed obsequiously and imitated a pretentious waiter by saying, “Excellent choice, sir.”

I moved over to the sweet wines. I was looking for a sauterne my father used to love, but I didn't see it. There were sauternes here, but nothing I recognised.

Ned said, “Another excellent idea—fabulous with fool. Do you want a recommendation?”

“Please.”

He moved to stand beside me, and in the cool cellar the warmth of his body was almost like a wave, or a gentle pulse. In a trance, I watched him, not the bottles. He pulled one out and handed it to me. “This one, I think.” He didn't move away. “You know, I think it's great that we're celebrating tonight. And I think we're celebrating not just your day, but also your mom's coming out of her shell.” He closed the case and stepped back.

“Shell.”

He laughed and headed towards the stairs. “Don't tell me I gave you too much credit. I know teenagers mostly don't even know their parents are people, let alone sympathise with their difficulties, but—yes, shell. She's seemed so wound up, so tight, since she got here. But not this afternoon. Did she teach you to love wine?”

“No. My father.”

“Well, you could learn a few things about cooking from her. She's no slouch.” He took the stairs two at a time. I followed, watching him from behind, watching his behind, and once again thought that things could be worse.

Back in the kitchen, I picked up the plate of tea balls. “Thanks, Mum. Haven't had these in a while.” The relatively friendly comment was more for Ned, so maybe he'd give me back a little credit, but Mum beamed like I'd given her an unsolicited hug. To Ned, I said, “Any reason I can't take these into the music room?”

He feigned a scolding tone. “If Miss Persie finds one tiny smudge of dusty sugar on that piano, you'll hear about it for the rest of your life. Here.” He handed me a glass of San Pell, two-thirds full, with a submerged lime wedge. “Don't spill one drop!”

There was a table with coasters in the music room, so I set my water and plate down, ate two biscuits, wiped sugar from my fingers, and perused the CD collection. It was massive. Everything from Tantric Buddhist monks to Tippett. There was also an area devoted to less erudite recordings. It seems BM—and perhaps Miranda? —enjoyed the popular music of the 1980s. Plus The Beatles, of course. Too soon, I'd finished the plate of biscuits. If it hadn't been for the dinner Ned and Mum had planned, I'd have gone looking for more. I turned away from the CD rack I'd been browsing—and nearly dropped the plate.

Persie had come in, very quietly, and she was sitting on the piano bench, facing me with her side towards the keyboard. I did my best to hide my fright. “No Anna?”

“She has today off. It's not the right schedule.” Probably compensation for the tantrums she had to deal with all weekend. “Daddy's grilling fish. Ned is cooking.” She didn't look at me.

“My mum is cooking, too.”

No response. All right, I would avoid referring to anyone who hasn't been here long enough to become the norm. That would include me, of course, so I asked something about her.

“Did you do any Schenkerian reductions today?” She hummed three notes. “What's that?”

“Beethoven,
Cello Sonata, Opus 69 in A minor,
second movement. Scherzo, allegro molto.”

I know only so much about Schenker's method. A whole movement down to three notes? “Why that movement?”

“It's fun.”

“Why Beethoven?”

“I wanted to start with something easy.” Her tone was flat; there was no bragging in it. No expectation of praise or admiration.