A Traitor to Memory

It seems to me that the truth about James Pitchford and Katja Wolff lies between what Sarah-Jane said about James's indifference to women and what Dad said about James's besottedness with Katja. Both of them had reason to twist the facts. If Sarah-Jane had disliked Katja and wanted James for herself, she'd not be likely to admit it if the lodger had shown a preference elsewhere. And as for Dad … If he was responsible for Katja's pregnancy, he'd hardly be likely to confess that transgression to me, would he? Fathers tend not to reveal that sort of thing to their sons.

You listen to me with that expression of calm tranquility on your face, and because that expression is so calm so tranquil so unjudging so open to receive whatever it is that I choose to maunder on about, I can see what you're thinking, Dr. Rose: He's clinging to the fact of Katja Wolff 's pregnancy as the only means currently available to him to avoid …





What, Dr. Rose? And what if I'm not avoiding anything?

That could be the case precisely, Gideon. But consider that you've come up with no memory relating to your music in quite some time. You've offered very few memories of your mother. Your grandfather in your childhood has all but been deleted from your brain, as has your grandmother. And Raphael Robson—as he was in your childhood—has barely warranted a passing mention.

I can't help the way my brain is connecting the dots, can I?

Of course not. But in order to stimulate associative thoughts, one needs to be in a mental position in which the mind is free to roam. That's the point of becoming quiet, becoming restful, choosing a place to write and writing undisturbed. Actively pursuing the death of your sister and the subsequent trial—





How can I go on to something else when my mind is filled with this? I can't just clear my brain, forget about it, and pursue something else. She was murdered, Dr. Rose. I'd forgotten she was murdered. God forgive me, but I'd even forgotten she existed in the first place. I can't just set that to one side. I can't simply jot down details about playing ansiosamente as a nine-year-old when I was meant to play animato, and I can't dwell upon the psychological significance of misinterpreting a piece of music like that.

But what about the blue door, Gideon? you inquire, still reason incarnate. Considering the part that that door has played in your mental processing, would it help if you reflected upon it and wrote about it rather than what you've been told by others?

No, Dr. Rose. That door—if you will pardon the pun—is closed.

Still, why not shut your eyes for a few moments and visualise that door again? you recommend. Why not see if you can put it into a context quite apart from Wigmore Hall? As you describe it, it appears to be an exterior door to a house or a flat. Could it be possible that it has nothing to do with Wigmore Hall? Perhaps it's the colour that you might think and write about for a time and not the door itself. Perhaps it's the presence of two locks instead of one. Perhaps it's the lighting fixture above it and the entire idea of what light is used for.

Freud, Jung, and whoever else occupy the consulting room with us … And yes, yes, yes, Dr. Rose. I am a field ready for the harvest.

3 November





Libby's come home. She was gone for three days after our altercation in the square. I heard nothing from her during that time, and the silence from her flat was an accusation, asserting that I'd driven her away through cowardice and monomania. The silence claimed that my monomania was merely a useful shield behind which I could hide so that I didn't have to face my failure with Libby herself, my failure to connect with a human being who had been dropped into my lap by the Almighty for the sole purpose of allowing me to form an attachment to her.

Here she is, Gideon, the Fates or God or Karma had said to me on that day when I agreed to let the lower ground floor flat to the curly-haired courier who needed a refuge from her husband. Here's your opportunity to resolve what has plagued you since Beth left your life.

But I had allowed that singular chance for redemption to slip through my fingers. More than that, I had done everything in my power to avoid having that chance in the first place. For what better way to circumvent intimate involvement with a woman than to subvert my career, thereby giving myself an exigent focal point for all my endeavours? No time to talk about our situation, Libby darling. No time to consider the oddity of it. No time to consider why I can hold your naked body, feel your soft breasts against my chest, feel the mound of your pubis pressing against me, and experience nothing save the raging humiliation of experiencing nothing. Indeed, there is no time for anything at all but resolving this plaguing persistent pernicious question regarding my music, Libby.