The Memorist

Chapter 70

My life often seemed to me like a story that has no beginning and no end. I had the feeling that I was an historical fragment, an excerpt for which the preceding and succeeding text was missing. I could well imagine that I might have lived in former centuries and there encountered questions I was not yet able to answer; that I had been born again because I had not fulfilled the task given to me.

– Carl Jung

Thursday, May 1^st-8:00 a.m.

“Good morning.”

The sound of his voice split the silence open, startling her and she jerked up into a sitting position.

It was just Sebastian.

“What time is it?” she asked. “I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. We’re still here. So’s that.” He pointed to the flute. “It’s eight. The electricity’s back on-would you like coffee? Something to eat? You barely ate last night.”

“Does the hotel have room service?”

“They have a buffet downstairs, but I can ask them to bring up something. What would you like?”

“Coffee. Toast. Some honey for the toast. If they have eggs, I’d like some and juice too.”

When he came back from ordering he told her the manager was going to send someone up with the food right away. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“I need to call my father and find out if he’s all right. And Malachai.”

“All taken care of,” Sebastian said. “While you were sleeping I checked on Nicolas from the pay phone down the street, then called both Malachai and Jeremy. Your father was still sleeping. The nurse said he was resting comfortably and that his fever had dropped during the night. I asked her to tell him you’d be there later this morning. I assume that’s fine?”

“Yes, thanks. How’s Nicolas?”

“Improving. Well, the pneumonia is improving.”

When the food came Meer plucked the juice off the cart while Sebastian signed the bill. After the waiter left, Sebastian double-locked the door behind him, the precaution bringing back the edge of nervousness that her sleep had smoothed out.

“That’s great news about your son.”

“Yes…yes…but he’s still in so much danger. Every day that he remains lost inside his head is exponentially worse.” Sebastian poured himself coffee. “I’m sorry. I’m just so frustrated. I phoned Rebecca, too, but if she was there she wouldn’t take my call. Why is she doing this? I never abused him, never hurt him. When nothing else works, why not try an alternative?”

“I remember how angry my mother was when my father first took me to Malachai.”

“He told me he didn’t have an easy time of it.”

“None of us had an easy time of it.” Meer picked up the toast and took a bite. She’d been ravenous a few minutes ago but now the food held no interest for her. A surfeit of memories-ones she wished had faded-flared: the bickering behind their bedroom door at night, the hushed arguments, the icy stillness in the house that kept them all separated and isolated during that last winter. What would have happened if she hadn’t told them about the dreads? Would they have stayed together?

“All I know is she’s stopping me from trying to do everything I can for my son and I am not going to let her.” He stood. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Once the door closed behind him she was sorry she hadn’t told him the amazing news that she’d uncovered the memory song. Wasn’t he the reason she’d worked so hard last night? To find the song so he could play it for his son and help him the way no one had been able to help her? Yes. Of course, but after so many years of searching for the music through the fog of endless dreams and half-waking nightmares, she wasn’t quite ready to give it up and give it over. She needed to hear it just once by herself. Last night she couldn’t play it for fear she’d wake him up, but he wouldn’t be able to hear her now over the sound of the shower.

Holding the ancient piece of bone gingerly in her hand Meer waited to hear the water’s steady pounding and only then put the crudely crafted instrument to her lips and arranged her fingers.

Covering one of the holes she blew air into the cylinder and played a C, a G and then a D. The notes sounded rough, a primitive call brought up from the earth, a tone that contained rain and smoke and fire and cold that filled the room and then slipped outside and encircled the city and the country and then the planet, going wide into the galaxy. So disturbing and complicated were the first three notes, Meer put the crude flute down. Throughout history people had played those same notes on a wide variety of instruments. So it wasn’t just the notes but these particular vibrations that were different. She could still feel them in the room and how they were taking a longer time than was usual to dissipate. Were these the binaural beats her father had talked about?

The steady shower reminded her that she had a limited amount of time.

She had to do this now.

Trying again, she blew with more confidence, holding the C note longer, and then played the second note, this new sound mingling with the restive tone already lingering in the air and the third and the fourth. The beats of the blended music verged on difficult and unqualified noise.

She stopped playing. This wasn’t a game. Not a theory on paper. Beethoven was right. She played the next two notes and the next. An unholy blackness settled on her. A treacherous miasma. An awful preamble but she had to do this…get it over with once and for all.

Meer started at the beginning of the song and blew out the first note again, and then the second and then-

“What are you doing?” Sebastian asked.