A Traitor to Memory

“In the kitchen.”





“Ah. The screenplay proceeds apace. She's doing The Beautiful and Damned. Have I mentioned that? Ambitious to offer another Fitzgerald to the BBC, but she's determined to prove that an American novel about Americans in America can be made palatable for the British viewing public. We shall see. And how is your own American these days?”





That's what he's taken to calling Libby. She has no name other than “your American,” although sometimes she becomes “your little American” or “your charming American.” She's particularly my charming American when she commits a social solecism of some kind, as she does with what seems like religious fervour. Libby does not stand on ceremony, and Dad has not forgiven her for referring to him by his Christian name when I first introduced them. Nor has he forgotten her immediate reaction to Jill's pregnancy: “Holy shit. You knocked up a thirty-year-old? Great going, Richard.” Jill's older than thirty, of course, but that was a small matter next to the effrontery of Libby's mentioning the great gap in their ages.

“She's fine,” I said.

“Still riding her motorcycle round London, then?”





“She's still working for the courier service, if that's what you mean.”





“And how is she liking her Tartini these days? Shaken or stirred?” He removed his glasses, crossed his arms, and studied me in that way he always does, the way that says, “Steady on or I'll sort you out.”





That look has managed to derail me on more than one occasion, and in combination with his comments about Libby, it probably should have derailed me then. But having a sister pop into my mind where there had been no sister before was enough to bolster me to face whatever attempt at obfuscation he might make. I said, “I'd forgotten Sonia. Not just how she died, but that she'd ever existed in the first place. I'd completely forgotten I ever had a sister. It's like someone took a rubber to my mind and erased her, Dad.”





“Is that why you've come, then? To ask about pictures?”





“To ask about her. Why don't you have any pictures of her?”





“You're looking for something sinister in the omission.”





“You have pictures of me. You have an entire exhibit of Granddad. You have Jill. You even have Raphael.”





“Posing with Szeryng. Raphael was secondary.”





“Yes. All right. But that begs the question. Why is there nothing of Sonia?”





He observed me for a good five seconds before he moved. And then he merely turned and began cleaning off the potting bench where he'd earlier been working. He picked up a brush and used it to sweep loose leaves and the remains of soil into a bucket, which he took from the floor. This done, he sealed the soil bag, capped a bottle of fertiliser, and returned his gardening tools to their respective cubby holes. He cleaned each tool as he put it away. Finally, he removed the heavy green apron he wore when working with his camellias, and he led the way out of the greenhouse and into the garden.

There's a bench at one side, and he made his way over to it. It sits beneath a chestnut tree, long the bane of my father's existence. “Too much God damn shade,” he always grouses. “What the hell is supposed to grow in shadow?”





Today he seemed to welcome the shade, though. He sat and winced a little, as if he had a pain in his back, which he might well have had because of his spine. But I didn't want to ask about that. He'd avoided my question for long enough.

I said, “Dad, why is there—”





He said, “This comes of that doctor, doesn't it? That woman … what's her name?”





“You know it. Dr. Rose.”





He muttered, “Shite,” and pushed himself off the bench. I thought he was going to return to the house in a temper rather than talk about a subject that he clearly didn't want to address, but he eased himself to his knees and began pulling at weeds in the flower bed that lay before us. He said, “If I had my way, residents who don't take proper care of their plots would have their plots confiscated. Just look at this muck.”





It was hardly that. True, too much water had produced mould and moss on the border stones, and weeds tangled with an enormous fuchsia that appeared to want trimming. But there was something appealing about the natural look of the plot, with its central birdbath overgrown with ivy and its stepping-stones sunk deeply into greenery. “I rather like it,” I said.

Dad gave a derisive snort. He continued pulling weeds, tossing them over his shoulder and onto the gravel path. “Have you touched the Guarnerius yet?” he asked. He objectifies the violin that way, always has done. I prefer to call it by its maker's name, but Dad has melded the maker into the instrument, as if Guarneri himself had no other life.

“No. I haven't.”