A Traitor to Memory

He leaned back on his heels. “That's brilliant, then. That's bloody brilliant. That's the great plan come to nothing, isn't it? Tell me, what's this gaining us? What exact advantage are you being blessed with as you and the good doctor take your shovels to the past? It's the present where our problem is, Gideon. I wouldn't think you'd need reminding of that.”





“She's calling it psychogenic amnesia. She says that—”





“Bollocks. You had a case of nerves. You still have a case of nerves. It happens. Ask anyone. Good God. How many years did Rubinstein not play? Ten? Twelve? And d'you think he spent that time scribbling in a notebook? I expect not.”





“He didn't lose the playing,” I explained to my father. “He feared the playing.”





“You don't know that you've lost it, do you? If you haven't picked up the Guarnerius yet, you don't know what you've lost and what you're just afraid that you've lost. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would tell you that what you're experiencing is cowardice: plain and simple. And the fact that this doctor hasn't brought herself round to mentioning the word …” He went back to his weeding. “Bollocks.”





“You wanted me to see her,” I reminded him. “When Raphael suggested it, you seconded the idea.”





“I thought you'd be learning to cope with your fear. I thought that's what she'd be giving you. And if, by the way, I'd known it was going to be a flaming she in that doctor's chair, I would have thought twice about carting you round there to weep on her shoulder in the first place.”





“I'm not—”





“This is what comes of that girl, that bloody blasted God damn girl.” And on the last word, he tugged a particularly entangled weed from the plot and uprooted one of the dormant lilies in the process. He swore and began to pound the earth round the plant in an attempt to undo the damage. “This is how Americans think, Gideon, and I hope you see that,” he informed me. “This is what comes of coddling an entire generation of layabouts who've had everything handed to them on a platter. They know nothing but leisure so they use that leisure to blame their anomie on their parents. She's encouraged this fault-finding in you, boy. Next, she'll be promoting chat shows as a venue for airing what ails you.”





“That's not fair on Libby. She's nothing to do with this.”





“You were bloody all right till she came along.”





“Nothing's happened between us to cause this problem.”





“Sleeping with her, are you?”





“Dad—”





“Shagging her properly?” He looked over his shoulder as he asked this last question, and he must have seen what I preferred to keep hidden. Seeing it, he said ironically, “Ah. Yes. But she is not the root of your problem. I see. So tell me, exactly what does Dr. Rose consider the appropriate moment for you to pick up the violin again?”





“We haven't talked about that.”





He shoved himself to his feet. “That's bloody rich. You've seen her … what? … three times a week for how many weeks? Three? Four? But you haven't yet got round to talking about the problem? See anything singular in that state of affairs?”





“The violin—the playing—”





“You mean the not playing.”





“All right. Yes. Not playing the violin. It's a symptom, Dad. It's not the disease.”





“Tell that to Paris, Munich, and Rome.”





“I'll make the concerts.”





“Not the way you're going at it now.”





“I thought you wanted me to see her. You asked Raphael—”





“I asked Raphael for help. Help to get you back on your feet. Help to put the violin in your hands. Help to get you back in the concert hall. Tell me—just tell me, swear to it, reassure me, anything —that that's what you're getting from this doctor. Because I'm on your side in this, son. I am on your side.”





“I can't swear to it,” I said, and I know that my voice reflected all the defeat I felt. “I don't know what I'm getting from her, Dad.”





He wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans. I heard him curse in a low tone that seemed tinctured with anguish. He said, “Come with me.”