Page 136
“Well, yes. Shall I play for you?”
“Would you like that, Oliver?” Madeline asks.
He nods. I stand up. Madeline says, “Is that my raincoat you’re wearing?”
“It would be extremely helpful if you could keep some clothing here for me. Even a pair of jeans and a jumper or a T-shirt in my size would be useful.”
“All right.” Madeline leads the way downstairs. Gwen is startled to see us, and I nearly trip over her in the dark. She exits the music room, complaining. Madeline turns on the floor lamp next to the piano, and the warm light makes the scene almost normal, less like a home invasion and more like a party. I seat myself at the piano. My young self and Madeline sit together on the sofa, not touching but close. The room is chilly, and Madeline arranges the quilt from her armchair over them both. “Try not to wake the neighbors if you can help it,” she says. “No Beethoven, please.”
I’ve been rehearsing the Goldberg Variations for this occasion. It’s music I dearly love, and it is a bit startling as well; it is intricate, beautiful, demanding. I mean to reassure my young self, and to beguile Madeline—it is her favorite. As I begin the aria and she realizes what I’m playing, I sense her curiosity turn to anticipation. To see the two of them, I would have to turn my head, but I remember being thirteen, sitting next to Madeline, warm under the quilt, watching, listening. I remember my surprise as I understood that while my teacher was an excellent player, my older self was brilliant. That I could be this man, playing this music. That I would be. Now I am.
In the coming years, I will fall in love with music, and I will practice hard to make up for all the lost time. Madeline will be like a parent to me. When my parents die in prison, under circumstances that are still unknown to me, Madeline will comfort me. When I am accepted into the Royal Academy, I will continue to live here, with her, even though that wasn’t the plan. My uncle will visit occasionally, then seldom, then not at all. Madeline is the constant, the theme: my friend. She made her home my home.
There is an old story, which I hope is true, that Bach was commissioned to write these variations by an insomniac, Count von Keyserling, so that his harpsichordist, Johann Gottlieb Goldberg, could play for him at night when he couldn’t sleep. It is night music. I love to imagine the count and the musician working through the thirty variations again, by candlelight, on a night not unlike this one, three hundred years ago. I feel that we are an echo of those original nights, as though the variations never end, only return home and begin again.
First Kiss
Sunday, November 22, 1998 (Alba is 40, Oliver is 17)
Oliver: Today is Alba’s birthday! Or, rather, in her own time, it is Alba’s birthday. Her husband Zach is preparing a surprise party for her because she is turning forty.
“Is forty an auspicious birthday in America?” I ask.
“No, not especially. Is it in China?”
“For men, no. We stay thirty-nine for two years. Then we are forty-one.”
“That’s a good system.”
“If the party is a surprise,” I ask her, “why do you know about it?”
“You told me about it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I spoiled the surprise.”
“Don’t worry, Oliver. I appreciated it. It’s not good to be too surprised.” Alba doesn’t look as though she’s excited about her birthday party.
“Don’t you like birthdays?” I ask. We are washing the dishes. It’s half past four in the afternoon, and I am not sure whether we ate lunch late, or dinner early.
“Birthdays are fine,” she says. “I’ve had a lot more of them than you have, and after a while, it doesn’t feel as special as it used to. Today, I feel old.”
“You aren’t old at all,” I say. Alba is very beautiful today. Her black hair is interspersed with silver. She is in a quiet mood, but I have caught her smiling at me when she didn’t think I would see.
“You are just flirting with me to make me feel better,” she says.
“No—yes? Am I flirting with you?”
“I think you are, Oliver.” She smiles and hands me a wet plate to dry.
“You should flirt back to me, then.” I stand there holding the plate, looking down at her, hoping. She looks up at me, then she touches my face with her wet, soapy hand, and kisses me.
It is a strange thing, being kissed. Alba’s lips are touching mine: it is as though she is asking a question: Would you like to kiss me back? I am not sure how to answer, so I try to imitate her. She pulls back and says, “Breathe, Oliver,” and I realize that I haven’t been. I put the plate on the dish rack. She dries her hands. Alba says, “You don’t have to do anything. Let me.” She takes my hands and puts them around her waist, then she puts her arms around me and steps close to me. I lean down to her. She tilts her head; I tilt mine the opposite way. She presses her lips to mine, and this time, I breathe, and we kiss.
First Kiss
Thursday, May 30, 1996 (Alba is 25, Oliver is 30)
Alba: I run into the Yellow House at top speed, through the back porch (I try to lock the door but the lock is old and won’t align), the kitchen (I manage to lock that door), the dining room and up the stairs, into my bedroom, throw open the closet and begin to dress as quickly as possible, my hands fumbling with the catch on my bra, the zipper of my jeans. When I am wearing enough clothing I stop and stand panting barefoot next to the bed, watching the door. From below I hear a man’s voice and my heart races. Someone is coming up the stairs.
