Seahorse Page 15

  What distressed me was how I rarely found myself alone with Nicholas.

  The one evening I did, Myra was in the veranda, practicing on her viola. The notes rose through the bungalow, a wild wind, suddenly swelling and falling. It was a piece by Brahms, said Nicholas. “Some sonata or the other…”

  The notes stopped abruptly. In a moment, they started again, from the beginning of the composition.

  “She’s a terror, isn’t she? I finally asked her, though… she’ll be gone after Christmas.”

  We were in the study, images scattered across the table. Nicholas had spent hours at the National Museum photographing, as he called them, “Buddha’s brothers”. Exquisite sculpted faces stared up at us, enigmatic, some smiling benevolently.

  We were drinking, after ages, his favorite whisky.

  I warmed the glass with my palms, swilling slowly. As I’d been taught. Holding it up, breathing it in, my mouth slightly open. Every sip stung my throat, and leapt to my head.

  I moved closer to him. I missed his smell. Wood and musk and something else I couldn’t name. “I’ll be going home soon.”

  “And you’ll be back soon?”

  I shrugged. I wanted to draw this out a little, make it last.

  “After New Year, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps you could return… sooner.” He placed his hand on my waist. Pulling me closer.

  “I-I don’t know.” I could feel myself faltering. If I could, I wouldn’t leave at all. But it had been almost six months since I’d seen my parents; my mother was sentimental about these things.

  I could feel Nicholas against me, our fingers entwined, my hand guided to the knot around his waist.

  In the distance, the notes continued in unfailing diligence.

  Somewhere in the distance, the music stopped. A door opened, and then another. The slap of footfall, growing louder.

  By this time, I’d straightened up and moved to the other side of the table; Nicholas sat down and adjusted his clothes.

  “Darling!” Myra fumbled with the door handle, and then rushed inside the study. “I did it. I managed the allegro appassionato…” She sank into the sofa, viola in one hand, bow in the other. “It took me long enough.”

  “Splendid,” said her brother. “Can’t bear Brahms though… go play some Haydn…”

  She made a face. Then turned to me, standing there, quietly cradling my glass.

  “What have you both been up to?”

  “Nothing,” we said, too quickly, too loud.

  By the time I returned to Delhi, a little after New Year, she’d left and there were no traces of her in the bungalow. As though it had been a vaguely remembered dream.

  Apart from those three weeks, she might not have existed.

  But she was real.

  I could see her in my mind now, as clear as the image glimmering on my computer screen. It was her. Nicholas’ step-sister. Performing in a fortnight.

  Is that what he wanted then? For us to attend her concert. To meet again, that strange, unlikely trio.

  Surely I was owed more than this? More than a rendezvous at a formal social event at which we could play-pretend to be perfunctorily polite and civil, drink a glass of wine, and return home.

  Yet what was it I hoped for?

  What else did I expect?

  In the garden, I stopped next to a lady in a Victorian dress and wide-brimmed hat.

  She looked at me either in disdain or despair, it was hard to tell. I leaned against the stone base on which she’d been standing for two hundred years, gradually marked and mildewed in the wind and rain. Behind her, the lawn trailed away like a green veil, hemmed by a high stone wall. In the middle sank a rectangular pond topped by a non-functioning fountain. There weren’t many people around—a man threw a ball for his dachshund, a couple of young girls smoked on a nearby bench, a woman and her toddler played with a white balloon. I watched them, constantly expecting the balloon to burst as the little girl gripped it tight against herself.

  The far edge of the garden was once a burial ground, although the eighteenth-century tombstones were now all propped in a line against the wall. I examined them in some amusement—Thomas Gibson MD In God’s Keeping, Elizabeth Marley She Sleepeth with those She Loved, Henry L Lawson Until the Day Break and the Shadows Flee—and then wandered away, down a paved avenue, lined by oak trees. I’d read that oak trees lived for almost half a century. These ones had seen many funerals, I imagined—their trunks wider than myself many times over, their branches flickering with the color of firelight. Perhaps the wisest and most ancient had watched poor Thomas Gibson MD being laid to rest, over two hundred years ago. Nabokov said that trees were always journeying somewhere; those looked as though they’d reached their place of pilgrimage.

  I grasped the ticket in my pocket and felt that, somehow, I too had reached mine.

  Lauderdale House stood behind a row of graceful hedges and neat flowerbeds brimming with snapdragons, late-blooming carnations and purple dahlias. It was a large white structure that reminded me of the homes I’d seen in movies about America’s old South. With classically inclined pillars, well-spaced windows and an airy veranda. How odd, that this should be where we’d next meet, Nicholas and me.

  What would I ask him first?

  About the seahorses.

  Questions unfurled endlessly.

  The last time I saw Nicholas, he was lying asleep, bare except for the white sheet entwined around his legs.

  Time had done it again. Turned into itself, inverted, and dropped away all the years in between.

  What would I ask him first?

  At ten past seven, twenty minutes before the concert, I decided to head inside.

  It was cool and quiet, the large central space leading off into galleries and offices—hard to imagine this had once been a family home. Landscape paintings hung on creamy walls, smooth as the interior of an egg. Far above arched a modest octagonal dome, edged with a rococo molding of flowers and leaves.

  “In the lower chamber,” said the lady at reception, smiling and pointing toward the stairs.

  The usher at the door checked my ticket and waved me inside—a long carriage-shaped room, with rows of velvety red-backed seats. I wondered where Nicholas would be sitting. For now, the chairs on either side of mine were empty. Some people were already seated, talking, checking their phones. Gradually, more wandered in. The auditorium was small; it probably couldn’t seat more than sixty. I played with the programme. A page. Reading it over again, the words simply sitting there, lost in the space between the paper and my eyes.

  A Selection of Schönberg… String Quartet No. 1 in D minor, Op. 7, String Quartet No. 2 in F sharp minor… Andrew Drummond, Myra Templeton, Elaine Parker, Owen Lee. I’d searched for them on Google. Andrew, like Myra and Elaine, was a graduate of the Royal College of Music. He played the cello. Owen had studied at St. Andrews. Violin two. Which left Elaine with violin one. The Guardian had called them “a substantial achievement” while The Independent said Orpheus were “consistently inventive.” They’d been performing together for five years now—at concert festivals around the country, even a few times at the BBC Proms. I’d also done an image search and seen what each member looked like. A generously proportioned man with a friendly face and a bow tie, another who was taller, more melancholic, with a head of dark curly hair, a slim, wispy lady, her blonde hair falling on either side of her face like curtains. Myra seemed as beautiful, her hair the color of autumn.

  To my left now sat a middle-aged lady in a soft floral dress, while the seat on my right remained empty. Beyond that, the row had filled up. I glanced at the door, waiting for a face I’d recognize, but everyone who walked through were strangers. On the stage, carefully adjusted lights shone on an arrangement of chairs, microphones and music stands. A piano gleamed in the corner. It was half-past seven, but perhaps they were waiting a few extra minutes.

  Finally, a lady in a navy skirt and blazer, walked up to the podium. “Good
evening, ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the third of our Accomplished Concert series…”

  The musicians streamed on stage and took their places. For a moment, I forgot about the empty seat on my side. Myra. Wearing a simple black dress, scalloped around the neck, falling demurely to her knees. I didn’t remember her being this petite. Her hair now long, but pulled neatly away from her face by a silver headband that caught the light as she leaned over to the music stand.

  The lady introduced them; they bowed in turn, acknowledging the applause.

  Perhaps it’d be occupied at the interval. Nicholas hadn’t made it on time for the first half.

  The first piece, explained the programme, was unusual for being composed in a single movement. It plunged immediately into urgency, the instruments braiding in breathless agitation. The notes lifted—dramatic, but refrained from resolution, weaving into one another, continuing as an endless spool of thread. Or persistent, unanswered questions. I watched Myra, her movements suddenly familiar, bringing back memories of evenings in the bungalow. The same intent absorption on her face, though something was missing. The passion for the piece. Perhaps she didn’t love Schönberg as much as Brahms.

  Halfway through, I closed my eyes; I could see why they were taking a break after this performance—it was exhausting. It reminded me of a dream, of being followed in a dream. Schönberg had made certain there was no escape from the composition. It was contained, hemmed in by the notes, spilling here and there but never managing to flee.

  When it was over, I opened my eyes to loud applause and the quartet standing and smiling. I thought for a moment that Myra had seen me, that miraculously I’d caught her eye, but she swiftly looked away.

  “Thank you… we’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” said Elaine, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her silver-green dress looked translucent in the light.

  I stood up to have a wander, use the restroom; when I returned, I was certain, Nicholas would be there.

  I took my time, strolling upstairs to the toilets on the first floor, lingering by the refreshments counter with a coffee. Walking back slowly, down the stairs, the carpeted corridor, into the chamber that smelled of wood and musty velvet. The seat was still empty.

  Then, at the door, I stopped and turned—Myra walked on stage, followed by the others.

  My-ra.

  I made my way back to the seat.

  The next piece was written when Schönberg learned of his wife’s betrayal; she was having an affair with their friend and neighbor, a young painter. It was marked by painful clashes and sudden, plummeting drops, dark notes hovering around the edges. Sometimes, it was rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I listened numbly; I didn’t understand the purpose behind this evening.

  Why had Nicholas sent me here only to betray me again?

  A puppet. That’s what I’d always been. I wished I hadn’t danced attendance this time, that I hadn’t showed up.

  Yet, at the end of it all, I could still meet Myra. Somehow, I must speak with her. I’d wait, until the concert was over, and seek her out.

  The music finally ended. The room filled with clattering applause, extended in appreciation. The quarter stood, and bowed, smiling, and bowed again. Then they glided off stage, in a line.

  I waited, until the crowd shuffled out, the murmur of conversation falling and fading. Slowly, the chamber emptied. Myra would probably be backstage—I slipped away to the side, and no one stopped me. The quartet were packing up, putting away their instruments. A bottle of wine stood open on a table, half-filled glasses. There were other people there, acquaintances, mingling, having a word with the musicians. I waited until Myra was alone, gathering sheets of music.

  “Hello.”

  She looked at me with vacant eyes, blue as an April morning.

  “It’s me… Nem… Nehemiah…”

  “Oh.” The word stayed in her mouth, round and perfectly formed.

  Up close, I could tell the years had changed her, in small, surreptitious ways. Her face was thinner, as though time had washed away her softness. There was something about her that had hardened. Broken, and hardened, as though she’d melted and been recast.

  Now, though, I could see it seeping through her skin, her lips, her eyes. A sudden vulnerability.

  “Oh,” she repeated. She looked down at the sheets in her hand, as though she didn’t know what they were, that they’d explain why I was standing before her.

  “It was very good… the concert.”

  “Thank you.” She’d adjusted her face, a mask of composure. “This is a surprise…”

  “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  She lifted the corner of her mouth into a brief smile. “How did you… you know… happen to be here?” Her fingers fiddled with a silver bracelet on her wrist; she still wore rings, but they were discreet and more elegant.

  “Your brother…” I decided to make it sound light, airy.

  “What?”

  “He sent me a ticket for this evening… I presumed he’d be here, cheering you on… but the seat next to mine stayed empty…”

  “S-sorry… I don’t understand.” Her face had collapsed again into confusion. She glanced around the room—people still mingled around, paying us no heed.

  “Could we speak elsewhere? Shall we go upstairs?”

  She gathered her things quickly, the viola case, her handbag, a smart winter coat.

  At the bar, I ordered a whisky and, for her, a sparkling lime.

  When I finished, she stayed silent for a long while. There were fewer people around now, the bartender was on the far side, talking on his phone. A couple were hovering over their glasses of wine. According to the sign—“Opening Times”—the place would be closing soon.

  “So, where is he?”

  Myra finished her drink. The slice of lime dropped back into the bottom of the glass, amid the cubes of melting ice.

  “I don’t know.”

  I knew she’d take his side, they were siblings after all, and blood, even half-blood, ran thicker than loose decade-old connections.

  “Alright,” I said. “I’m sorry to have intruded on your time. And your brother’s… I thought…”

  Myra laughed—a deep and wholly uninhibited sound. The bartender paused his conversation, the couple glanced over, disapproval flickering on their faces.

  I felt a familiar spark of anger. Her joke, whatever it was, came at a cost—mine. I finished the whisky—the alcohol flaming in my throat-longing for another, but last orders were done.

  “I’m sorry…” she said, touching my arm. Even through my shirt I could feel the cold of her fingers. “It’s just that… well… I can’t believe… it’s just…”

  “What is it?”

  Her eyes were inky graphite, pinpoints of blue lead. “He’s not my brother.”

  I smiled, politely, saying yes, I too often expressed similar exasperations about my elder sister.

  Something softened, the lines around her mouth. She reached out, her hand on mine, like something brought in from a winter’s night. “No. He isn’t, at all.”

  If I hadn’t believed her earlier, I believed her now.

  From behind her, at the top of the stairs, emerged a figure in silver-green. “Myra,” she called. “I’m headed back…”

  Myra started gathering her things, pulling on her coat.

  “Wait,” I said. “Y-you’re leaving?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But… I have… there are…”

  She started to say something, but her words didn’t reach me. Elaine was waiting.

  “Wait… can we meet?”

  For a moment, Myra looked undecided.

  “Please…”

  “Alright… tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. At Costa in Paddington Station.”

  She picked up her viola, and joined Elaine. As they walked down the stairs, she turned, as though she’d remembered something, and then carried on.

  If we grow into our past, more than we grow out of it, we
live lives that are, in substance, acts of fiction. For memory, as it fades, must be embellished, made real by fabrication. Which is why it becomes impossible to discern borders, their lines of separation. Although the question is, would we want to?

  Strip away the narratives of our lives. These small, valiant acts of rebellion. It would leave us bereft, diminished, clasping only our meagrely cold, hard nuggets of truth.

  Did that really happen?

  Does it matter?

  One morning, at dawn, light filled the veranda, coming from no-where, and everywhere.

  A distant secret source, a sun that couldn’t yet be seen.

  We watched and waited, sitting still and silent. In the aquarium, that entire universe, the fish glided, pecking at invisible specks, chasing each other around the rocks. It might have been a little after sunrise, when the seahorses started dancing—the veranda now blazing with slanting light, new and radiant. We sat close to the aquarium, where the water trilled blue and clear. We watched the seahorses. Perched close together, their tails entwining, moving in a slow, spiral dance. They stopped, faced each other, one bowed, and then the other, swimming in a circle, moving through air.

  It’s a dream.

  I was on the divan, amid the cushions, when he swooped down in a single elegant movement and placed a finger on my mouth. His touch was cool, as though he’d just emerged from a shower, or the sea. As always, at that moment I couldn’t breathe.

  I was right; he must have been immersed in water, for the taste and texture of his skin was different. Damp, and woody, an underwater cave.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  He ran a finger down my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, the sliver of a scar. “The Japanese have a word for it… kintsukuroi. The art of repairing pottery and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.”

  From somewhere, like a long-forgotten song, a cool breeze swept through the veranda. Bringing with it a faint scent of lilies. It seemed the only sound in the world was our breathing.

  This was our aquarium.

  “What we saw this morning… the seahorses… they were moving… was that their dance?”

  “It’s what they do… a ritual… courting each other at dawn. They are strange… and beautiful.”