Erasing Memory (25 page)

W
ALKING INTO
M
AC
N
EICE’S HOUSE
, Aziz was determined to absorb everything about it. She noticed first the dark, wide-planked floor of the hall, then the smell of the place—fresh, as if the windows were always open. The black-and-white photograph on the wall, above the small credenza where he dropped his keys, was of a nude, shot from behind on a stony beach. It immediately, and sadly, brought her mind back to Marcus Johnson’s studies of Lydia.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“It’s a portrait by Bill Brandt, a gift from a few years ago.”

“From whom?”

“From me. It cheers me up. I needed some cheering up.… It was an extravagance, but a day never goes by when I don’t feel grateful for its being there.”

She nodded, then followed MacNeice into the living room,
where he stopped to clear away the only visible clutter, a few books on the sofa. He carried them over to the desk.

“Okay—are you ready?” he said as he walked over to the windows.

“I think so.”

He flung open the curtains and the room was immediately flooded with late afternoon light.

“There’s oak, maple, birch, cedar and a few serviceberries, but mostly maples as far as you can see. I tapped them for a few years and took the sap to a local farm. I’d come back a week later and there’d be a dozen bottles of syrup; the farmer kept six and I kept six. It was terrific.”

“Why’d you stop?” She thought she knew the answer but couldn’t resist asking.

“Just lost interest, I guess.” He moved two wooden armchairs in front of the window and said, “Sit down. I’ll fetch the drinks.”

Aziz picked the one with the high back, which reminded her of the chairs by the fireplace in old English pubs. The trees were even more impressive from a lower angle, stretching into the distance like proud columns before diving down the slope of the hill towards the highway. She rested her head against the back of the chair and looked up. The canopy was alive with birds, hopping from one branch to another or shooting into the sky.

MacNeice returned with a tray. On it were two tumblers of water with lime wedges and two glass cylinders that looked like shot glasses, only taller. The glasses had thick bases that, when she lifted hers, made the contents—a clear liquid—seem heavier and more impressive. He set the tray down on a small wooden table, sat down and handed her a glass.

“Cheers, Fiza—to life and better days.” He watched her study, smell and swirl the grappa. “Best to sip it slowly.”

“Is that your best toast?”

“No, my best is ‘Here’s to us. Wha’s like us? Damn few—and they’re all dead.’ It was a Gaelic toast popular among Scottish airmen in the Battle of Britain.”

“I see. Well … cheers.”

MacNeice drank his in one gulp, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. His attention was on the trees but he was aware of her gaze. “I can make you tea or coffee, if you’d prefer,” he said.

“No, this is perfect. I’m just savouring the moment.” With that she tasted it, held it in her mouth, then swallowed, wincing slightly.

“Too strong, I guess. Let me—” He leaned forward as if he was going to get out of the chair.

“It’s just a new sensation. I like it. I think I like it a lot. I was expecting something that burned more, but this is just warming me up.”

“There are many grappas that burn, but this isn’t one of them.”

They sat in silence looking out into the forest. Every so often their heads would turn, like people at a tennis match, when a bird flew by. “What was that last one?” she asked.

“A chickadee. They’ll eat seeds out of your hand if you go out there.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh yes, I am. They’ll land on your arm, your head or your shoulder, make their way to your hand, pick up some seeds and fly off. Then they’ll come back for more, often with friends.” They sat watching the chickadees for some time before he
added, “After they get to know you, they follow you, waiting to see if you’re going to feed them.”

Within minutes of finishing her grappa, Fiza had slid down in the chair so she could put her feet up on the radiator under the window. The conversation slowed, then stopped, and soon she was asleep.

MacNeice cleared away the grappa glasses and the untouched water, then returned to the window. Fiza’s head had tipped sideways. He helped her up and over to the sofa. Laying her head on a cushion, he lifted her legs and took off her shoes. He took the Glock from her belt and placed it on the coffee table, then lifted the soft grey throw from the back of the sofa and draped it over her. She nodded slightly and smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. MacNeice closed the curtains.

When she woke, she found a folded note on the coffee table.
Gone to get some provisions. I’ll make dinner. Back in one hour
. She loved notes. Notes like this one, which gave a return time but no departure time, especially amused her. Sitting up, she took in the room for the first time. Though she’d been fascinated by every detail as she came into the house, the moment the curtains were drawn back, her attention had been focused on the view outside.

On the desk she noticed shreds of poems scribbled on pads or tucked into the books like bookmarks, some several stanzas long, others just a line or two. Scanning the bookshelves, she saw volumes on birds, art, architecture, photography, poetry, gardening, cooking, history and biography.
The Complete Diaries of Samuel Pepys
, books on John Donne, John Aubrey and John Evelyn, anthologies of music from jazz to classical, but no books on criminology and no crime novels. There were more photographs, some framed, others just lying neatly in
stacks. The subject matter varied but most were from nature: close-ups of trees, several of tree trunks carved with messages, still others of telephone poles riddled with rusting staples, shot so the sun made them seem golden and beautiful—and they were beautiful. There were studies of flowers in their full-bloom glory, but more glorious by far, she thought, were those of the same flowers dying.

Fiza pulled the curtains open and sat down in her chair. The light had changed while she’d been asleep, and she wondered for a moment what the view was like in the morning, in autumn, in winter, under a foot of snow. She felt utterly at home here, safe and comfortable, even though she had no real idea where she was, other than in his house. She realized then that the source of the comfort was MacNeice himself.

Her thoughts returned to the hotel—the chaos, the smashed glass, the spectacular, unnecessary death of a young man. On her pant leg were several narrow blood splatters, now almost black on the grey fabric. Holding out her blouse so she could see it, she noticed mascara tracks from her earlier tears. Suddenly needing to pee, she pulled herself out of the chair and went in search of the bathroom, which she found by tracking a spill of light from the master bedroom.

Sitting on the toilet, Aziz scanned the room. With the skylight over the granite shower stall and the window beside her that looked out to a row of mature cedars, it felt as if the bathroom were part of the forest. Flushing, she stood and stepped out of her pants, then slipped off her panties and reached into the stall to turn on the shower. Without undoing her blouse, she slid it up and over her head, shrugged off her bra and stepped in.

Placing her hands flat on the back of the stall, she leaned in, her head under the flow. The heat and force of the water
seemed to wash away more than dirt and tears. If she stayed there long enough she might be able to wash away the memory. When her breathing slowed, she picked up the soap, turned it over, saw how the original form had melted away—and marvelled at the intimacy of taking a shower in someone else’s bathroom. This soap had been formed by his hand and his body, like a river stone smoothed by the current. She rubbed it slowly over her arm, imagining his arm, slowly over her stomach, imagining his—and then she laughed out loud, shoved the idea out of her mind and soaped herself down.

When she got out, she looked in the mirror and noticed a large bruise on her hip. She must have got it when MacNeice pushed her out of the way of the falling Marcus and the glass. Aziz picked up her panties and put them on, then put on her bra. Staring down at the heap of clothing on the floor, the pant leg flecked with dried blood, she lifted the clothes, folded each piece and went into the bedroom, turning on the light. Inside the closet everything was hung neatly, jackets and trousers together—mostly grey or black—and shirts to the right. She took out a pale blue cotton shirt and slipped it on, rolling up the sleeves and buttoning it. She stood in front of the mirror that ran the length of the wooden chest of drawers, ran her fingers through her hair and thought,
What is it about a man’s shirt on a woman? Now there’s a question for Bo
. She leaned closer to look at her face. In her dark eyes she saw the pooled sadness, and turned away.

There were photographs in this room too, mostly, she assumed, of his parents. Two were of himself, one as a teen—diving off a dock, caught in mid-air, his long, slender body captured beautifully against the black stillness of the lake. In the other he was a toddler wearing a white knit top; his smile was
wide in a way she couldn’t remember ever seeing. Maybe that joy had been beaten out of him and would appear no more, lost to a life of observation.

She could tell which side of the bed he slept on by the wrinkles in the pillow and what was on the night table. The telephone sat next to a small reading lamp beside two books,
The Kilvert Diaries
and
The Collected Works of John Keats
. On the wall behind the headboard was a large painting, a mountain scene reduced to form and colour. Beside the bed was an engraving of a horse’s head with its mouth open, but whether it was laughing or screaming like the one in
Guernica
, she couldn’t tell. In her current state she assumed the latter.

She carried her neatly folded clothes out to the living room and placed them on a chair. In the kitchen she retrieved the tumbler of water he’d poured for her. She squeezed the lime into it and went back to the living room. She looked at the bookcases again, and up to the top of the shelves, where a stack of objects stood alone. A cream-coloured vinyl zippered envelope, like those used by accountants or insurance agents, sat on top of two photo albums. Aziz knew instinctively that this was where he kept Kate, on the periphery, almost out of sight but not out of mind. She stood on her toes and took one of the albums down, then, leaning against bookcase, opened it to the first page. It revealed a close-up of Kate playing the violin in concert, her bobbed dark hair slightly out of focus. The orchestra was also out of focus, and only the baton and hand of the conductor were visible. It was the expression on her face that made the deepest impression on Aziz: her eyes were almost closed, her eyebrows arching, and her mouth turned upward in a sublime smile. It was an image of pure joy. She suddenly felt ashamed to be snooping, and without turning another page, slid the album back in place.

She heard the unmistakable rumbling of the overpowered Chevy. She smiled for a moment at her agitation about being discovered in her underwear and wearing his shirt. She fluffed out her hair, still wet from the shower. Still somewhat fearful that he might be offended, she was considering making a run for the bathroom to put her soiled clothes back on when the door opened and MacNeice appeared, carrying several bags of groceries. As he stood there on the threshold, his jaw dropped slightly, but then he smiled.

“I’m sorry, Mac. I woke up and looked at myself.… I hope you don’t mind, but I took a shower and hunted around for something clean to wear.”

“I don’t mind. But if you’re uncomfortable, I can find you a pair of sweatpants.”

“I’m not uncomfortable, Mac … though perhaps I should be.”

“Well, I have to say that seeing you in front of that window brings more beauty to the scenery than I’ve experienced in a long time. I need to put these groceries away. Come and sit in the kitchen—I’ve got a real treat for you.” She followed him, perching on a barstool while he dropped the bags on the counter.

“What are you going to feed me?”

“Mrs. Provenzano, the matriarch of Provenzano’s, has made her gnocchi with ricotta—light as a feather.” He lifted out a tinfoil dish carefully, as if it were precious metal, then a bunch of greens. “Sage. A bit of garlic, olive oil, a sprinkle of Parmesan and Italian parsley, and you’ll think you’re somewhere else.”

He doled out equal portions onto two plates, set them on the table and put half a baguette in the middle. Aziz climbed off the barstool and sat down as MacNeice poured two glasses
of white wine and took his place opposite her. They had just begun eating when his cellphone rang. It was Swetsky. In the silence Aziz could hear him clearly.

“Just checkin’ in, boss. I was up at the marina and went through the tuck shop office—the records were all there. Thompson, the mechanic, knew where the cashbox was and where Gibbs kept the key. There was a marina envelope underneath all the paid invoices and so on. It had thirty-five hundred dollars in it in fifty-dollar bills. Thompson couldn’t account for it, said he didn’t think the old man had ever seen that amount of cash in his life, since the marina is a cheque and credit card business.”

“Did he offer any ideas about why the old man went berserk?” MacNeice had put down his fork and pushed his plate away.

“Yeah. Apparently he was always a handful, but his wife kept him in check and kept the business going. When she died, Gibbs seemed to get much worse—going off at kids and their moms, snapping for no reason at all. Thompson thought he was doing drugs of some kind but never actually caught him doing it, though he did say that Ronnie Ruvola hung around a lot. The house is being torn apart now, so we may find out what he was into.”

“Were there any records of the rentals?”

“No, and Thompson said that was weird. The wife and even Gibbs always kept records of their boat rentals. But he couldn’t find any receipts on the two boats. I think the money in that envelop was a payoff to Gibbs to keep those rentals off the books. The only thing he hadn’t counted on was the boats not coming back.”