The Memorist

Chapter 34

Live so that thou mayest desire to live again-that is thy duty-for in any case thou wilt live again!

– Friedrich Nietzsche

Monday, April 28^th-1:25 p.m.

“This is where the Memorists have been meeting since they formed in late 1809,” Jeremy said as the intercom buzzed and he opened the heavy door. Holding it, he waited for her to precede him but she didn’t make any move to go inside. Shivering, tasting metal, she was aware the buildings on either side of her were becoming translucent.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She tried to make her voice sound as normal as she could as she fought back the dreads.

“What’s wrong?”

With a burst of effort, Meer stepped over the doorstep and into the anteroom. Behind her, the door closed and the loud click echoed in the antechamber. Her legs felt as if they were weighted down and each step was a terrible effort but she followed her father across the black-and-white marble-tiled floor, through the doorway under the middle arch and into the Society’s main room.

Last night, while she’d been standing on the street, she’d imagined all of this: the elaborate ceiling with its tiny mirrors that appeared to be twinkling, the extravagant decorations, the stone Buddhas.

Despite a lifetime of trying to remember, despite being hypnotized dozens of times and learning different meditation techniques, she couldn’t grasp how she’d apparently seen across the years to the inside of this building and a time long gone.

An imposing silver-haired man who walked with a slight limp approached and Jeremy introduced Meer and Fremont Brecht to each other.

“I’m so sorry for the trouble you’ve had since arriving in Vienna,” Fremont apologized in a cultured, slightly accented voice. Regardless of his girth, he was extremely well groomed and dignified. He indicated a grouping of cordovan leather club chairs and they sat down. “Did you have any time to examine the gaming box before it was taken?” he asked her, not bothering with any small talk.

“A few minutes.”

“Was there anything that struck you as unusual in its appearance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you have a reaction of any kind to it?”

How many people had her father told about her affinity for the box? Who else besides Sebastian and Fremont? Had they all sat around playing a guessing game about whether or not it would trigger past life memories for her? She looked over at Jeremy but either he couldn’t read the accusation in her eyes or chose not to.

“Everything happened too quickly,” she said to Fremont.

He asked her something else but she wasn’t listening. The longer she sat there the worse she felt. Meer couldn’t get enough air in her lungs and she was so cold. Noting her discomfort, he stopped midsentence and apologized. “What’s wrong with me, this has been a trying morning for you, and here I am putting you on the stand and demanding you give me your testimony. Would you like some lunch?”

“No, thank you-”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, yes,” she said. Maybe having something hot to drink would help her stay centered.

“And for you too, yes, Jeremy?” Fremont asked.

“You look very troubled,” Jeremy said to Meer after Fremont left for the kitchen.

Meer laughed sourly. “As if there’s no reason to be troubled? Please stop taking my emotional temperature, Dad.”

Being here was so disturbing…the room was familiar but at the same time so many things were wrong. Like in Beethoven’s apartment, the lighting here was far too bright. And she couldn’t smell the paraffin or Cassia incense. Worst of all was the sadness and an ineffable longing that overwhelmed her. This was Caspar’s world.

“Meer, tell me what’s happening.”

She didn’t know how to explain, so she said nothing.

“Forget the tea, you need some water right now.”

Meer put her hand out, about to ask her father not to leave her alone, except she knew that would open her up to more questions and she didn’t have any answers. She let it flutter back into her lap. Whatever was happening, Malachai had taught her how to deal with it. Moving her fingers on an invisible keyboard in her lap she tried to play a complicated section of Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini” that had no emotional memory for her. Usually this exercise required so much concentration it broke any anxiety surge. But not this afternoon. Meer couldn’t stay with it because the other music demanded her attention and exacerbated her sadness. Old music…familiar music…and just when it seemed as if she might capture it finally…it flitted away, remaining just out of reach.

“Here’s your tea,” Fremont said, offering her a steaming mug.