Memory of Love (9781101603024) (7 page)

At this instant she spots him in the water. And she is as cold as he must be. Shivering, she stares at his head, a dot on the still, leaden water.

And she knows it is too late.

She is so very cold, but she is no longer filled with the familiar paralysing dread. Instead, she is filled with the acute awareness that it is all over.

But this time the dream ends differently. It doesn't stop here.

No, this time she stands on the cliff and she feels the pain dissolve. It falls from her shoulders like a discarded garment.

Because she realises that she can let herself fall down the cliff too. And slowly she begins to walk towards the edge.

8.

The rapid tapping of the feet of a possum across the metal roof woke me. It was still dark. There were no sounds from the bedroom. I lay still, thinking. I had hoped to wake with a clear idea of what to do. I needed to talk to the grandmother, but of course this was likely to complicate things. I didn't know what to tell Ika, either. Nothing had cleared overnight.

I needn't have worried. It didn't really matter what decisions I made. What plans I might have. A chain of events had already been set in motion. And mostly the process was taking place inside me. Regardless of my conscious deliberations, my subconscious was already hard at work. It had its own strategy, as I would soon discover.

I must have been dozing again and I wasn't sure what woke me up this time because his steps were soundless. It was the awareness of his presence rather than a sound. I opened my eyes and my gaze landed on the small shape by the window. He stood there with his back to me, a silhouette against the cold morning light outside. He looked like a little tent with the folds of the blanket falling from his shoulders to the floor. When he heard me stir he walked slowly across the room, the blanket dragging behind him. He sat down on the floor near the sofa but so far away that I could not reach him. I waited for him to speak. He didn't.

‘I'm glad you are here,' I said finally. Again, he said nothing.

‘Are you warm?' He nodded. He had the blanket pulled tightly around his neck.

‘Hungry?' He nodded.

So I got out of bed, pulled my woollen jersey over my nightgown and went to the kitchen.

‘Soup okay?' I asked over my shoulder. I heard no response but then he appeared beside me at the bench, still holding on to the blanket with both hands. He remained there, silent, while I heated the soup and set the table.

We sat down. He struggled with the blanket while getting up onto the chair. It kept sliding down his shoulders. I made no attempt at helping, just tried to keep my eyes away from his neck. I served the soup and sliced bread. Poured a glass of milk. Holding on to the blanket with one hand, he began to eat. I watched as he finished the first bowl, and then served him a second.

When he had finally finished he leaned back on the chair, adjusting the blanket so that it reached his ears. It was as if he needed it as some kind of protection. Perhaps a shield against my probing eyes.

‘Ika, I have to ask you a few things,' I said. He looked past me out the window and said nothing. It looked as if he shrank a little. And I felt moved to tears again. I didn't want to have this conversation, if it could be called that. I knew he would contribute precious little.

‘What were you doing in the sea yesterday?' As I expected, he didn't respond. I was at a loss to know what to do. How to continue.

‘It was Thursday and you knew I was here waiting for you,' I said, wincing at the sound of my words. I didn't want him to feel I was putting pressure on him. That his Thursday visits were an obligation. But there was no reaction, spoken or otherwise. He sat staring into space, immobile. I stood up and started to clear the table.

‘If you don't tell me anything, I can't help you,' I said. I kept my back to him and my eyes on my hands as I cleared the last few pieces from the table and wiped it with a cloth.

‘I think you need help. Everybody does from time to time. Some things are just too hard to deal with without help.'

I sat down at the table again. I couldn't help looking at him. I swallowed and began again.

‘When I was about your age I thought I could manage by myself. But sometimes that just isn't possible. Some things are too hard for children to sort out.'

He still said nothing and refused to make eye contact.

‘Can I ask you a few questions, Ika? You don't need to answer, just nod or shake your head. Okay?'

Nothing.

‘Is that okay?' I repeated and bent forwards. He sat back, maintaining the distance between us. But I thought I could discern the slightest little nod. Or perhaps he just let his head sink lower to avoid my gaze.

‘What were you doing in the sea yesterday? It's winter. The water is very cold.'

Nothing.

‘Did you go into the sea because you were sad?'

A small shake of his head.

‘Because you were scared?'

A nod. Possibly – it was hard to be sure.

‘Did someone hurt you yesterday?'

A nod. A definite nod.

‘Okay. You don't need to tell me what happened. But I would like to come with you to your home.'

Suddenly he looked up, not quite at me, but I could see his eyes widening, as if he were frightened. Terrified, in fact.

Vigorous shake of the head.

Did it mean he didn't want to go home? Or did it mean he didn't want me to accompany him?

I needed time to think. I had to take him home, or I had to report my suspicions. Possibly both. But it could not be done behind his back. I needed to try to explain something that was still muddled in my own head. So I bought us some time.

‘Okay, let's think about it while we take showers and get dressed,' I said.

Which is what we did. We both showered, and I think we both thought.

I also thought about another little boy.

‘Grow up!' she whispers. ‘Please, grow up soon.'

She pushes down on the metal frame of the baby seat and lets it go. The little body bounces lightly against the soiled denim as the metal springs forwards, but the baby makes no sound. His unsmiling eyes stare back at her and he keeps sucking the first two fingers on his left hand as he rocks back and forth.

She presses down with more effort and lets go again, watching as he bounces a little harder, then slowly comes to rest. She bends forwards and puts her ear to his chest and feels a hushed, wheezy sound deep inside. It sounds like a fish sucking for air, she thinks. She knows how that sounds because she has been fishing with Grandfather. Before. Although that time is getting harder to see. She has to close her eyes to make the pictures appear and each time they seem a little duller. Smaller, too, as if watched from an ever-growing distance. She knows she needs them, though she tries not to think about them. Just occasionally to make sure they are still there. And each time she remembers she feels a rush of relief. She remembers. She remembers how the mouths of the fish looked. No lips, nothing like a mouth really, just white bony edges that kept opening and closing, while the round eyes stared at the sky. The gills that made no sound as they opened and closed in vain, exposing the strange blood-red membranes that slowly dried in the sun. Then a final sigh as the neck was snapped in Grandfather's hands. After that no sound, just the odd silent spasm until all was still. She does remember.

She bends forwards again and whispers into the soft ear that looks like a velvet shell.

‘Grow up, please.' She pulls the baby fingers out of his mouth and waits, her eyes intently staring into his baby black ones. His eyes lock with hers, and he smiles and stretches a wet hand towards her.

‘I love you,' she whispers, and takes the outstretched hand and sticks the pink little fingers into her own mouth.

9.

Ika came out of the bathroom wearing his shorts and T-shirt. I had put them to dry the night before but hadn't had time to wash them and they looked stiff and uncomfortable, saturated with dried salt. He walked over and sat down on the piano stool, his back to the piano, and stared into space.

‘Ika, here is what I think we should do,' I said, trying to sound confident and hopeful.

‘I think we should call Mr Brendel over the road and ask him to take us back to your home. He knows your grandmother.' Ika jumped and turned his face towards me, but as always without looking me in the eye. He said nothing.

‘I will talk to your grandmother and we will see what to do,' I said, having no idea what I meant. What could be done, if anything.

Ika turned on the stool and put his hands on the keys.

I had discovered his musicality by chance. One Thursday I had sat down to play while I was waiting for him. My piano was never particularly good, and the humid and salty air in a house that was always more or less open to the elements had not been good for it. But it matched my ability rather well and I never had an audience. Or so I thought.

I had been listening to Bill Evans again. It had been a long time, and it wasn't until recently when I had finally mastered downloading music from the internet that I had found myself returning to music I used to love. I listened, and I was trying to teach myself to play some. But I ignored the echoes of the past that the music evoked.

That Thursday it was ‘Peace Piece'. I was lost in the music, and hadn't noticed the hands on the windowsill outside. Suddenly a minute stirring caught my eye. I tried to keep my fingers moving over the keys and not break the atmosphere while I turned my head to see what he was doing. His dirty little hands were hanging on to the windowsill with such force that the nails shone white against the skin. I could only see a glimpse of the top of his head but I could see his hands. And that was when I first noticed that the third and fourth fingers on both hands were webbed. A fine, almost translucent film connected the two fingers from the base to the first joint. I hadn't noticed it before, but here the two hands were spread out in order to provide maximum support. My instant impression was of something exquisite and fragile. A mayfly's wings. Fins of a veil tail fish. Then my professional self took over, and I wondered if it was medically significant. I wracked my brain for information. Vague memories of various syndromes stirred, but I let them go, and focused on my playing again. When I finished and looked up the hands were no longer there.

‘Come inside,' I called, still playing. ‘Let's try the piano together.'

A moment later he appeared, and tentatively approached the piano.

I went to get another chair and indicated to him to sit on the piano stool. He did and I adjusted the height a little. I sensed that he thought that I was too close and I pulled my chair back a touch before I sat down.

‘Have you seen a piano before?' I asked. He shook his head.

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Let me play some scales. It's a little bit like letting your fingers run up and down all the keys. Like this.'

Ika sat absolutely still watching my hands.

When I finished he tentatively put his own hands on the keys. He played the same scales, a little uncertainly, but hitting the right key almost every time. When he made the odd mistake he immediately corrected himself. Whatever I played, he played.

‘Are you sure you have never seen a piano before?' I asked.

He shook his head, his eyes still focused on the keys.

I was utterly fascinated. In fact I was so moved I felt tears brimming in my eyes. I swallowed and leaned back on the chair.

And then he played ‘Peace Piece'.

He had only heard me play it of course. So he played with my intonation, my hesitation. He stumbled here and there and he played with childish simplicity, but as I listened, I realised that he had corrected some of my mistakes. I wondered how long he had been hanging on the windowsill, and how many times before. I sat breathless, stunned.

After he finished we sat in silence for a moment. It felt as if our relationship had changed. As if we had all at once become closer. I also felt as if I had been given a new responsibility, one that I accepted without hesitation.

I realised he would come to need better teachers than I could ever be, but for a start, I could give him what I had to offer.

Since that first day he had gathered a strange repertoire. Initially I thought he just had an uncanny ability for memorising and copying. But there was more to his talent than that. He developed his own sound and his own interpretations. Always distinct, and utterly fascinating. And he had his own taste, unpredictable and diverse. I allowed it to meander, find its own way forwards. Often it felt like an adventure trail. We never knew where each piece would take us, to what new musical experience it would lead.

And here he was, again seated by the piano. I had no idea what he was thinking.

To allow me to collect myself I suggested that he play for a while. I went into the kitchen where I stood leaning against the bench trying to decide what to do. Suddenly I heard him begin to play. I recognised the music. One of the first that we had discovered together: Philip Glass's ‘Mad Rush'. I sank down on one of the kitchen chairs and listened. He played slowly, slower than I had ever heard the piece played before. And after a while I realised he was improvising large sections. The pulse increased gradually and I was hypnotically pulled into the music. I had never heard him play like this before. In part, it was painful to listen to, but it was also breathtakingly beautiful. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose to stave off my tears.

When the music stopped I went back into the room. Ika sat on the piano stool, slowly closing the lid. As he placed his hands on the closed lid and bent forwards I could see the dark bruises around his neck.

‘Here is what I think we should do,' I said. ‘I will call Mr Brendel. You remember him, don't you? The farmer who lives up the hill on the other side of the road?'

Ika nodded with his eyes on his hands.

‘I will ask him to drive us to your home. I will come too, of course. And I'll talk to your grandmother. Then we'll decide what is the best thing to do.'

No response.

‘Is that okay?' I asked.

He kept his head bowed, but after a moment he shrugged his shoulders. I longed to hold him, find a way of comforting him and make him believe I could help him. And convince myself as well. All I could think of saying was: ‘It will all come right. I promise you it will all come right.'

I listened to my own words. They sounded hollow and I didn't think they sounded comforting at all.

I went and rang George.