A Traitor to Memory

“That was obvious. As were her feelings about your work, by the way, which is something you might want to consider should you wish to carry on with her.”





I didn't want to discuss Libby with him. He's made his attitude plain from the start. There's no point wasting energy trying to change it.

We were in the kitchen, where we'd repaired once Libby left us on the steps. She'd said to him, “Richard, stay out of my way,” and had pushed open the gate to her steps with a clang. She'd pounded down and into her flat, from where the volume of her pop music was now illustrating the state of her mind.

“We went to see Bertram Cresswell-White,” I told Dad. “Do you remember him?”





“I had a look at your garden earlier,” Dad replied, canting his head towards the back of the house. “The weeds are starting to go rampant, Gideon. If you aren't careful, they're going to choke out the rest of the plants, what few there are. You know, you can hire a Filipino if you don't like gardening. Have you considered doing that?”





From below in Libby's flat, the pop music blared. She'd opened her windows. Distorted phrases pounded up from the lower ground floor: How can your man … loves you … slow down, bay—bee …





I said, “Dad, I asked you—”





“I've brought you two camellias, by the way.” He walked to the window overlooking the garden.

… let him know … he's playing around!

It was dark outside, so there was nothing to see except Dad's own reflection and mine on the glass. His was clear; mine wavered ghostlike as if affected by either the atmosphere or my inability to manifest strongly.

“I've planted them on either side of the steps,” Dad said. “They're not quite what I want yet in the way of blooms, but I'm getting close.”





“Dad, I'm asking you—”





“I've weeded both planters, but you're going to have to see to the rest of the garden yourself.”





“Dad!” … a chance to feel … free to … the feeling grab you, bay—bee.

“Or you can always ask your American friend if she wants to make herself useful in ways other than verbally assaulting you in the street or entertaining you with her quaint choice of music.”





“God damn it, Dad. I'm asking you a question.”





He turned from the window. “I heard the question. And—”





Love him. Love him, baby. Love him.

“—if I didn't have to compete with your little American's auditory entertainment, I might actually consider answering it.”





I said loudly, “Ignore it, then. Ignore Libby as well. You're good at ignoring things you can't be bothered with, aren't you, Dad?”





The music suddenly stopped, as if I'd been heard. The silence following my question created nature's enemy, a vacuum, and I waited to see what would fill it. A moment later Libby's door banged shut. A moment after that the Suzuki fired up in the street. It roared as she angrily revved its motor. Then the sound faded as she spun out of Chalcot Square.

Dad leveled a look at me, his arms crossed. We'd arrived at dangerous territory, the two of us, and I could feel that danger, like a live wire snapping in the air between us. But he said evenly, “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do that, don't I? I ignore unpleasantness in order to get on with living.”





I side-stepped the implication behind his words. I said slowly, as if speaking to someone who did not understand English, “Do you remember Cresswell-White?”





He sighed and moved away from the window. He walked into the music room. I followed him. He sat near my stereo and racks of CDs. I remained by the door.

“What do you want to know?” he asked me.

I accepted the question as acquiescence, saying, “I've remembered seeing Katja in the garden. It was night. She was with someone, a man. They were—” I shrugged, feeling heat in my face, aware of the juvenility of that heat, which only made it seem to grow stronger. “They were together. Intimately. I can't remember who he was. I don't think I saw him clearly.”





“What's the point of this?”





“You know the point. We've been through it all. You know what she—what Dr. Rose—wants me to do.”





“So tell me, is this particular memory supposed to relate to your music in some way?”





“I'm trying to remember whatever I can. In whatever order I can. When I can. One memory seems to trigger another, and if I hook enough of them together, there's a chance I can get to whatever it is that's causing the problem with my playing.”





“There is no problem with your playing. There is no playing.”





“Why won't you just answer? Why won't you help me? Just tell me who Katja—”