A Traitor to Memory

“But there wasn't the money, was there?” I concluded grimly. And just for a moment, oddly enough, I felt it again, that searing disappointment bordering on fury to know as an eight-year-old that Juilliard was not and would never be available to me because of money, because in our lives there never was nearly enough money to live.

Raphael's next words surprised me, then. “Money was never the issue. We would have come up with it eventually. I was always certain of that. And they'd offered a scholarship for your tuition. But your father wouldn't hear of your going. He didn't want to separate the family. I assumed his main concern was leaving his parents, and I offered to take you to New York on my own, allowing everyone else to remain here in London, but he wouldn't accept that solution either.”





“So it wasn't financial? Because I'd thought—”





“No. Ultimately, it wasn't financial.”





I must have looked either confused or betrayed by this information, because Raphael continued, saying quickly, “Your father believed you didn't need Juilliard, Gideon. It's a compliment to us both, I suppose. He thought you could get the instruction you needed right here in London, and he believed you'd succeed without a move to New York. And time proved him right. Look where you are today.”





“Yes. Just look,” I said ironically, as Raphael fell into the same trap that I'd fallen into myself, Dr. Rose.

Look where I am today, huddled pathetically into the window seat in my music room where the last thing made in the room is the music that defines my life. I'm scribbling random thoughts in an effort that I don't quite believe in, trying to recall details that my subconscious has judged as better forgotten. And now I'm discovering that even some of the details that I do dredge up out of my memory—like the invitation to Juilliard and what prevented me from accepting it—are not accurate. If that's the case, what can I rely on, Dr. Rose?

You'll know, you answer quietly.

But I ask how you can be so sure. The facts of my past seem more and more like moving targets to me, and they're scurrying past a background of faces that I haven't seen in years. So are they actual facts, Dr. Rose, or are they merely what I wish the facts to be?

I said to Raphael, “Tell me what happened when Sonia drowned. That night. That afternoon. What happened? Getting Dad to talk about it …” I shook my head. The waitress returned with our tea and tea cakes spread across a plastic tray that, in keeping with the overall theme of the zoo, was painted to look like something else, in this case wood. She arranged cups, saucers, plates, and pots to her liking, and I waited till she was gone before I went on. “Dad won't say much. If I want to talk about music, the violin, that's fine. That looks like progress. If I want to go in another direction … He'll go, but it's hell for him. I can see that much.”





“It was hell for everyone.”





“Katja Wolff included?”





“Her hell came afterwards, I dare say. She couldn't have been anticipating the judge recommending she serve twenty years before parole.”





“Is that why at the trial … I read that she jumped up and tried to make a statement once he'd passed sentence.”





“Did she?” he asked. “I didn't know. I wasn't there on the day of the verdict. I'd had enough at that point.”





“You went with her to the police station, though. In the beginning. There was that picture of the two of you coming out.”





“I expect that was coincidence. The police had everyone down for questioning at one time or another. Most of us more than once.”





“Sarah-Jane Beckett as well?”





“I expect so. Why?”





“I need to see her.”





Raphael had buttered his tea cake and raised it to his mouth, but he didn't take a bite. Instead, he watched me over the top of it. “What's that going to accomplish, Gideon?”





“It's just the direction I think I should go. And that's what Dr. Rose suggested, following my instincts, looking for connections, trying to find anything that will jar loose memories.”





“Your father's not going to be pleased.”





“So take your telephone off the hook.”





Raphael took a substantial bite of the tea cake, no doubt covering his chagrin at having been found out. But what else would he expect me to assume other than that he and Dad are having daily conversations about my progress or lack thereof? They are, after all, the two people most involved with what has happened to me, and aside from Libby and you, Dr. Rose, they are the only two who know the extent of my troubles.

“What do you expect to gain from seeing Sarah-Jane Beckett, assuming you can even find her?”





“She's in Cheltenham,” I told him. “She's been there for years. I get a card from her on my birthday and at Christmas. Don't you?”





“All right. She's in Cheltenham,” he said, ignoring my question. “How can she help?”





“I don't know. Maybe she can tell me why Katja Wolff wouldn't talk about what happened.”