Memory of Love (9781101603024) (20 page)

Before dinner they walk down to the beach again.

This time he goes into the water first and she sits on the slope above with the camera. She can get close, closer than ever. But she takes no pictures, she just watches. And again she feels this urge to run her hands over his skin. She puts down the camera, undresses and joins him.

When they get back he lights the barbecue. Then he walks over to the car and returns with a package wrapped in plastic. A grin on his face, he carries it like a trophy.

‘Mussels, cockles, pipis . . . two fine snapper fillets. And some oysters,' he says as he unwraps the parcel. ‘We'll have the oysters as our entrée, and then I will cook a perfect birthday paella for our main. Are you okay with that?'

She laughs and nods.

‘I am perfectly okay with that.'

‘A shame we have no champagne, but we do have this!' he says, and takes out two bottles of red wine.

‘Finest pinot noir this country can offer.'

He opens the wine and pours two glasses. She doesn't know where the glasses have come from, but they are fine and very thin.

He holds up his glass and they toast. He reaches out his empty hand and pulls her to him. She spills some wine and it runs over her hand. He bends forwards and licks it up. Then he kisses her and she can taste the wine on his tongue.

It is almost dark before the food is ready to eat. They eat slowly, allowing time to stand still.

When they have finished, she goes to fetch the birthday present. He has lit a hurricane lamp and it lights a small sphere around them, leaving the rest of the world in complete darkness.

Carefully, he opens the small package and takes out the CD.

‘It won't mean anything in particular to you, that music, but I have a lot of memories connected with it. Good memories,' she says. ‘I thought that you might come to like it too. That it might come to mean something to you.'

He looks at her, and in the light of the lamp his eyes are almost black.

‘It already does,' he says. ‘And when we get back to civilisation, we can listen to it together. You can share your memories with me, while we create new ones.'

They have spread a blanket in front of the tent and they lie close together, her head resting on his chest. The moon is rising, veiled tonight, as if seen through gauze. The wind has died and all they can hear is the strange, all-permeating sound of invisible cicadas.

It is much later. He is asleep but she is awake, lying behind him in the tent with her hands on his back.

Even before her fingers touch the spot, inside the fold between his back and his left arm, it is as if they know what they are searching for. As if they have known all along, just been biding their time. Allowing them a little time. Perhaps her eyes have known too, but chosen not to acknowledge what they have seen. Given her another day.

Well before her brain registers, her fingers have already felt the thin scar that runs into his left armpit. A half-moon-shaped scar. So very small, so insignificant. So easily missed.

But her fingers have felt it. There is nothing that she can do to change that. Nothing at all.

She falls headlong into absolute nothingness. It is as if the world has dissolved.

Her hand still rests on his back, but she is no longer there.

She is nowhere, has nowhere to go.

I started when I heard George knock quietly on the door. He stood on the doorstep watching me.

‘Sorry, did I frighten you?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I was just lost in my thoughts.'

‘Well, we were wondering where you were,' he said with an embarrassed smile.

‘I'm sorry, I was sitting here thinking, and I lost track of time. Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed.'

On my way to the bedroom I called back for him to help himself to a glass of wine.

What is it with this man? I thought to myself when we were in the car on our way to his house. Why does he never ask anything? He must have questions . . .

I couldn't understand why he had said he was a bad cook. He had put together a proper feast. A barbecued butterflied leg of lamb, so tender and tasty that it must have been carefully marinated. How long had he been planning this meal? Baked kumara, salad. And bread that I suspected was home-made. When I praised the food he stood up and began to clear the table, as if he found it difficult to accept the compliment. Ika helped and I watched him as he darted around the kitchen. He seemed right at home here, knew his way around the drawers and cupboards, and the two of them seemed to co-operate almost intuitively.

Did I feel another stab of envy? And if so, why? Which of the two did I envy?

After dinner we sat in the lounge. I looked around. It was a spacious and cosy room, but now I saw it a little differently. I thought I could see that it looked untouched somehow. As if lost in time. There was a grand piano but it was closed. On it stood a portrait of a young woman. I thought she looked beautiful, but I didn't want to make a point of staring at her, and averted my eyes.

But George must have caught my glance because as he sat down he nodded towards the portrait.

‘My wife was a pianist,' he said. ‘A very talented concert pianist. But she had an accident and broke her wrist. It didn't heal properly, and, well, it was the end of her career. I think I was more devastated than she was. Lidia was . . .' He searched for the word. ‘She was a very positive person. Always able to see possibilities where I saw problems. It was her idea to come here. To begin a new, different life.'

He held out a plate of small biscuits and I helped myself.

‘And it did turn out differently. Not a different life. Just different. Lidia died in a car accident. I was left here.'

‘What made you stay?' I asked, instantly regretting the question.

He sat with his hands gripped between his knees, looking down.

‘Where would I have gone?' he said, and lifted his gaze.

I nodded. There was no answer to that question and it lingered between us for a while.

Then George stood and walked over to the piano.

‘I have just had it tuned but it will never really be a good piano again. It's a little like it is with people – you can't leave them alone without care for too long. They will never be the same again.'

He removed the portrait and opened the lid. Then he turned and waved to Ika to come and sit on the stool while he returned to the sofa.

Ika played what seemed to me like improvised little pieces. He seemed quite engrossed in the music and one piece followed another seamlessly. I sat back against the cushions, listening. George served coffee. Then he disappeared back into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses.

‘Calvados,' he said, and held up the bottle. ‘Would you like some?'

I didn't really know what it was, but at that stage I would have accepted anything just to have the evening stretch out a little longer. So I nodded and George poured.

We sat in comfortable silence listening to the music, until Ika suddenly stood up.

‘Finished?' I asked.

He nodded, and turned and disappeared.

After a while he returned and stood in the doorway, at a safe distance from us. He was in his pyjamas, and I noticed they were new. He gave us a vague wave and turned, and we said goodnight to his back.

‘I used to go with him to the sleepout,' George said, ‘but I soon realised he prefers to be on his own. He takes his torch and disappears out there when he has had enough of my company.'

George gestured for me to follow him over to the window.

We watched Ika run across the back lawn, a small dark figure trailing the beam of a torch. We waited until he had disappeared into his little house and we could see a faint light through the window.

We sat back down on the sofa.

‘A drop more?' George asked, and when I nodded he poured us both a little.

We talked about Ika, of course. George expected to hear from CYF the following day. He seemed much more hopeful than I was. Perhaps he knew something I didn't. Also, his relationship with Ika was different from mine. I really didn't know this man at all. I had no idea what he was thinking. He had told me he had become fond of Ika, but what did that mean? How serious and how long-term was his commitment?

We were silent for a moment and I felt as if he might have read my mind. For the first time the silence felt a little uncomfortable.

But I was completely wrong.

‘I couldn't help seeing the magazine in your bedroom,' he said suddenly. ‘It's you, isn't it? On the cover.'

I looked at him, and the silence lasted an eternity.

Then I nodded.

‘I just thought it was such a beautiful picture. I didn't mean to pry.'

I felt my eyes fill with tears and I hoped he wouldn't notice.

‘Yes, it's a very beautiful picture,' I said and took a sip from my glass. The alcohol burned my tongue, making my tears plausible, I hoped.

And then the silence was no longer awkward. I felt that George expected nothing further. He sat back, resting against the cushions, contemplating the contents of his glass.

‘Time for me to leave, I think,' I said.

‘I'll drive you home.'

‘I'd rather walk,' I said.

‘If you'd like company, I'd be happy to come along.'

I shook my head.

‘I need to clear my head, and the walk will do me good,' I said.

We said goodbye on the deck, embraced lightly and allowed our cheeks to touch. Then I turned and entered the dark night. When I looked over my shoulder a little later he was still there, a black silhouette in the doorway.

She sees herself as if from a distance. Her body is still there, just as a moment earlier, with her palms on his back and her cheek pressed against his skin. Everything is as it was a moment earlier.

But nothing will ever be as before. When this night is over, there will be nothing. Absolutely nothing. Ever again.

She can't imagine how she will manage. But she has to leave. Walk away, one step at a time, towards nothing.

Her fingertips run gently over the scar. Though her eyes are closed, she can see it. She buries her nose in his hair and inhales the scent. Allows it to merge with the memory that she has avoided for so long.

All the signs – how is it possible that she has not seen them? Surely at some level she must have realised? His birthday – shouldn't she have known when she heard the date? When she saw his bare back where those small drops of sweat glistened along the spine? Had her eyes not run over the thin line that disappeared into the left armpit? Had she simply refused to see? Been unable to stop herself?

This is what she is thinking, hovering now above the two of them.

She doesn't weep. She lies very still so as not to wake him. All night she lies still, close to him, her arms around him. She closes her eyes and thinks that it could all end right now, like this. Just slowly fade away until they were no longer visible.

Together.

But inexorably the morning arrives. The light seeps through the red canvas and flows over everything inside like thin blood. When she notices him waking, she turns away and closes her eyes. She can hear him move about softly and eventually crawl outside, as if not to disturb her. As soon as he has gone, she turns and lies back down on the warmth that lingers where his body has been.

She stays there till there is no warmth left.

Then she stretches out her hand, opens his backpack and quietly pulls out his passport.

Mikael Daniel Frohman.

Born 12 February 1966.

In Engelbrekt parish, Stockholm, Sweden.

She returns the passport.

From above, where she hovers, she watches herself lying there. She wonders how she will ever be able to get up. How she will get through this day. And all the days following.