The Memory Painter: A Novel (14 page)

Linz clicked on every one of Van Eyck’s paintings … his style felt quite similar to Bryan’s, though the subject matter varied dramatically. She would love to compare Bryan’s portrait to the original up close. She had a feeling they would be hard to tell apart.

Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was well after midnight. She knew she should go to sleep, but she felt restless and reached for the book by her nightstand: Aristotle’s
First Philosophy
, later translated into Latin and coined
Metaphysics
. She had been reading the original version in ancient Greek every night instead of raking in her sand garden.

She also had been reading the treatises and dialogues of Aristotle’s mentor Plato, who had written much about his own mentor Socrates. In college she had taken a philosophy class and honestly had been a bit bored by their interpretations of consciousness and the purpose of life. But now that she could understand their native language, the trinity of philosophers who had created the foundation of Western thought had never felt more accessible.

According to Plato, Socrates believed all knowledge came from a divine state, but humans had forgotten it. Most lived in a cave of ignorance, but one could become enlightened by climbing out of the darkness and understanding the divide between the spiritual and material planes.

Had Linz tapped into some divine state, or was she still in a cave, preferring its dark solace to whatever waited for her outside?

Her eyelids drooped and the Greek symbols started to swim as sleep enveloped her. Her last thought before she sank into a wave of oblivion was that she would go to Harvard Square tomorrow. She had to see Bryan again.

EIGHTEEN

DAY 23—FEBRUARY 28, 1982

Diana has remembered a lifetime from the early fourteen hundreds—a Flemish woman, Margaret Van Eyck, who was married to the painter Jan Van Eyck. She insists that Van Eyck was me, though I have no memory of him. She also woke fluent in Dutch.

Finn has had several recalls, the first an aboriginal boy from Australia. The boy died young from drowning, and Finn has had a difficult time assimilating the memory. He is also complaining of migraines and sensitivity to light and has started wearing sunglasses. Yesterday Diana teased him, telling him he looked like a hungover rock star, and he bit her head off. Even their friendship is feeling the strain of what’s been happening. Conrad is the only one who has not been affected by the drug, and he doesn’t understand the challenges of trying to assimilate someone else’s life while living your own. I don’t think he would even be taking Renovo if it weren’t for the fact that I know so many languages.

Both Finn and Diana think we should include our experiences in the clinical trial, but Conrad remains adamantly against it. He thinks our careers will be destroyed if we divulge what we are doing. I understand both sides. I just need more time to decide the best course of action.

In the meantime, I’ve become obsessed with reading about the history of ancient Egypt and its rulers, hoping to learn something about the Egyptian woman. She has the bearing of a leader, and I can’t help but think she had been of noble birth. Perhaps she was some sort of a princess, if she even existed at all.

I do not know if the memories I am reliving are real, so the legitimacy of these people’s dreams is even more doubtful. But whatever the answer, this woman is becoming a constant in the equation. She visited both Lord Asano and Alexander Pushkin near the end of their lives. Were their minds more receptive to her at the time of their deaths?

I admit that I’ve been waiting for her to materialize in my own dreams. Lately, I have begun to wonder if my death is near.

NINETEEN

The chess pieces moved themselves. Linz had given up focusing on the game and was trying to let her hand make spontaneous plays. It was the only way she could beat him.

They had been playing for hours now, and she was mentally exhausted. Each game was more like several, with multiple paths that a player could choose from, and she had yet to penetrate Bryan’s “brainbox” and grasp his strategy.

“How are you so good?” she asked him, resigned to the fact that he would continue to win.

He gave her a sheepish look and shrugged.

She suddenly stopped playing. Her mouth became an O. “Because of a dream?” she asked, and then quickly added, “Don’t answer that.”

They played in silence for a bit until he spoke. “You know, I want to apologize for last night … making you sit and stare at that painting.”

“That’s nice of you,” she said, a bit sardonically. “So no more forcing me to stare at paintings and imagine that they’re me?”

“Promise.” He flashed her an innocent smile and made his move. “Checkmate.”

She studied the board. He was still six moves ahead from taking her king, but it was clear he would win. “Okay. That was humiliating. I think I’m done for the day.”

“I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it.”

“Thanks but I’ve got plans.” She saw his crestfallen look. “The symphony,” she added.

“A date?”

“With myself.” She admitted, trying not to be embarrassed. “I go alone.”

“You go alone to the symphony?” He looked at her like she had just sprouted an extra head.

“I love it.” Linz knew she probably sounded a bit odd, or even worse, lonely. But it had always felt natural to go alone. In fact, she had gotten into the habit of buying a season subscription for not one but three seats just so she could sit by herself.

In reality, so many things felt natural for her to do alone that Linz sometimes wondered if she were emotionally stunted. Maybe if her mother had been there for her when she was growing up, she could have helped her come out of her shell. Or maybe not. She had always been introverted. She hated small talk, and she rarely let loose or did anything that could be remotely categorized as silly.

She had brought a date to the symphony once, and it had been a complete disaster. The guy had wanted to hold hands, caress her shoulder, and whisper in her ear, when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and listen to the music. She had sworn she would never bring anyone again.

“I love music too,” Bryan said. “All kinds of music,” he added, and surprised her by pulling out a small wooden pan flute from his pocket.

She laughed.

“What?” Bryan asked, pretending to look offended.

“You just carry that thing around?”

He shrugged, a bit shyly. “For special occasions.”

She hesitated, not wanting to dwell on what that could mean. “It’s beautiful,” she said, touching it. “What’s it made of?”

“Cane. From Asia.” His expression made it seem like there was a story behind it.

“Can you play?” she asked, a strange sense of anticipation building inside of her.

“Yes, but only for you,” he said and brought the flute to his lips.

He stunned her completely by launching into an exquisite song. The notes swirled and changed with incredible speed as the flute sang. Pedestrians gathered to listen, and other chess players stopped their games. But Bryan didn’t seem to notice.

Linz could feel goose bumps on her arms, and she told herself it was from the wind. Everyone clapped when Bryan finally stopped playing. He stood up and gave a bow. Someone offered him money, but he shook his head and sat back down.

“That was amazing,” she gushed.

“Thank you.” He gave her a fleeting smile, but his eyes suddenly seemed wistful.

She found herself offering, “You know, you can come to the symphony with me if you want to.”

“I’d love to,” Bryan said as he put the flute away.

She watched it disappear back into his pocket and wondered what other surprises he had in store.

*   *   *

Their seats were on the first balcony toward the left side, where they could see the conductor’s face. Linz had been eagerly anticipating tonight’s performance: Anne Akiko Meyers was going to be the guest violinist and would be playing her famous
Vieuxtemps
Guarneri del Gesù violin, one of the most treasured in the world.

“It’s reportedly worth over eighteen million dollars,” Linz explained to Bryan while they waited for the concert to start. “An anonymous buyer purchased it and granted her lifetime use as a gift.”

Bryan looked suitably impressed. “So it’s like a Stradivarius?”

“Yes and no.” She hedged his question. “You see, Stradivari and Guarneri were both from Cremona. They lived at the same time, only Stradivari was highly successful and died at ninety-three, which is pretty incredible considering it was the seventeen hundreds.” Bryan nodded, encouraging her to go on. “He made countless violins for rich and powerful patrons. But Guarneri … he died when he was only forty-six. He worked alone and had humbler clients. Still, his violins—they’re each called a ‘del Gesù’—definitely rival Stradivari’s.” Linz knew she was rambling but she couldn’t stop. “It was Paganini who kept Guarneri from being lost to history. He was given a del Gesù and after that he wouldn’t play anything else. He called it his Canon.”

“Sounds like you like Guarneri more.”

Now that she thought about it, it was true that Guarneri held a more romantic appeal to her. She shrugged. “Stradivari and Guarneri were both geniuses. The world has never seen anyone else like them.”

Bryan teased. “So I take it you like the violin?”

She playfully rolled her eyes.

The lights dimmed, and as the concert began, Bryan grew still. He didn’t reach for her hand in the dark or try to distract her. He was riveted.

The orchestra looked majestic and when Anne Akiko Meyers took the stage everyone burst into applause. The
Vieuxtemps
gleamed in the light, emanating an energy all its own. Even though it was over three hundred years old, the instrument had remained unblemished by time—it was as perfect as the day Guarneri carved it.

Soaring music filled the hall. Tucked under the chin of a master, the violin shared the stories of every hand who had played her.

Linz felt a quiver run through her body as the sound swept her away, and she forgot that Bryan was even there until just before the intermission. When she looked over at him, she could see a hint of tears in his eyes. And in that moment he stole her heart.

*   *   *

After the symphony, they were both quiet as they strolled down Massachusetts Avenue toward the St. Botolph neighborhood. The concert had affected Bryan more than he had expected.

“I can see why you go alone,” he finally said. “Thank you for letting me tag along.” Bryan reached out and took her hand, neither needed to say a word.

They meandered through the historic neighborhood until they reached Back Bay. He escorted her to her door and stood there, reluctant to go.

Something had happened tonight that had changed everything. It was as if Guarneri’s
Vieuxtemps
had put them in tune with each other.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“Yes. But I won’t.” He took her hand and brought it to his chest. Somehow this was more intimate than a kiss.

“I’m glad you liked the symphony.” She sounded breathless.

He finally let go of her and stepped away. “Sweet dreams.”

She nodded, giving him a little smile, and unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Bryan walked home slowly, his heart full, and he hummed a quiet tune along the way—it was the melody Guarneri often sang to himself in his workroom when he was happy.

TWENTY

After the symphony, Bryan had come home and finished going through the storage boxes, unpacked Michael and Diana’s Super 8 home movies and watched them on their projector all night long. The celluloid was almost better than the dreams: it captured their world.

He lost count of how many times he had viewed the wedding reel. Like an addict, he rewound it again and again, drawing the blinds and shutting out the sunrise to see the image projected on the wall.

The phone rang just as Diana was walking down the aisle. Bryan felt goose bumps cover his arms as he answered the phone. “Linz?”

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, laughing.

“Wild guess.”

“What are you doing right now?”

Bryan could hear one of Beethoven’s Late String Quartets playing in the background. “Watching home movies.”

“You have home movies?” She sounded surprised. When he didn’t answer, she hurried on, “So I can’t believe I’m asking this, but would you like to go to a party with me tomorrow night? My company is having their annual shindig, free food, dancing…”

Bryan smiled. She sounded like a high schooler pitching the prom. He watched Michael and Diana kiss. The wedding party clapped as they left the chapel, now husband and wife.

“Bryan, you there?”

The film ended. “Yes. I’d love to, yes.”

“Great. It’s kind of formal, so suit and tie if you have one. I’ll pick you up at six. Gotta go.”

She hung up before he could say anything more. Bryan played back the conversation in his head and frowned. “Suit and tie.”

He rummaged through Michael’s old clothes, dusted off a suit jacket, and tried it on. Linz had never seen him dressed up and he wanted to impress her. He went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. Diana had always loved this suit.

The only problem now was that he had thirty-four hours to kill until he saw Linz again—practically an eternity. He thought about the portrait of the Egyptian queen he had put back in the closet. He got it out again, and for the first time ever, he hung it on the wall of his studio. Maybe returning to the Great Pyramid exhibit would shed some light on her. Michael clearly had shared his fascination. He could even go today.

But the first order of business was to take Michael’s suit to the cleaners. The musty smell nauseated him.

*   *   *

Twelve hours later, Bryan sat up in bed, relieved to discover that his migraine had finally receded to a dull throb. He thought about how his plans had gone totally awry and grimaced.