The Memory Painter: A Novel (20 page)

He had done one painting, but for the first time in his life his art felt like a distraction. An urgency had been building inside him ever since he’d remembered Bjarni’s life—there was something in those memories that he needed to find.

Frustrated, Bryan had left his loft to go for a walk. The ghostly history seeping from the nooks and corners of Boston’s streets usually managed to calm him and help him connect to a past he knew was alive and breathing. But not that night.

He had walked for hours until he’d looked up and found himself on Commonwealth Street. It was no accident. There, erected in a circular garden, was a life-size bronze statue of Leif Erikson, commemorating his explorations. Leif had found the new land just as Bjarni had instructed him and had created a settlement called “Vinland,” what was now Canada. Some had thought that Leif had explored even farther, reaching Massachusetts hundred of years before the Pilgrims.

Bryan had stared at the statue of his old friend and been filled with a profound feeling of kinship. Leif had done it: he had reached the new land with the
Gata
. When Bryan had looked down at the turquoise ring on his finger, he had known he would not find the answers he sought without taking a leap of faith. Without questioning the impulse, he had gone home and booked a flight to the one place that Bjarni had wanted to go but never did.

Now here he was on a plane. Bryan reclined his chair and stared at the seat in front of him. Was he wrong to leave Linz alone with Conrad? After all, Michael had questioned Conrad’s motives and his honesty, and the situation was even more entangled now that he knew Linz was Conrad’s daughter. Bryan would have rested easier if Linz were with him. He had even debated trying to talk her into going, but he knew the idea would have sounded insane to her. Things had been easier before, when he was the only one wondering if he was crazy.

He stared at the airphone and tried to ease his anxiety—he should at least leave a message. Picking up the handset, he swiped his credit card again. Dialing the number from memory, he counted the rings, already assuming she wouldn’t pick up. “Linz, it’s Bryan. Just wanted you to know I’m on my way to Newfoundland … Canada … to paint.… I know it’s last minute. Sorry for what happened. Maybe the time apart will be a good breather … for you, like you said. Let’s talk when I’m back … take care.”

He hung up, frustrated. His message hadn’t conveyed any of the things he’d wanted to say.

The plane started to descend an hour later. Bryan’s pulse quickened as he looked out the window. Bjarni’s new land lay beneath him.

*   *   *

Linz sat waiting at the Bay Tower Room’s best table. She had been there for twenty minutes, sipping a glass of their finest chardonnay. But the wine, along with the incredible view of Boston’s skyline, was wasted on her. She listened to Bryan’s voice mail for the third time, kicking herself for missing his call. She couldn’t believe that he’d just flown off to Canada. It brought home all of the things she didn’t know about him—what if he was seeing someone else on the side? Maybe they were on the plane together or she was waiting for him at the airport. What were Newfoundland girls even like, nature enthusiasts? Linz shook her head at herself, knowing she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t control the jealousy that was welling up inside. She deserved more than a call from an airphone after what they had been through. Why on earth had Bryan dropped everything to go there?

“Sorry I’m late.” Her father startled her, planting a kiss on her head before he sat down. “I’m famished.” He signaled their customary waiter, who instantly appeared at their table.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jacobs.”

“Thank you, Richard. We’ll have the lobster bisque, Caesar salad, and the prime rib. Medium-well for the lady. My usual wine.”

“Very good, sir.” Richard took the menu away and turned to Linz. Conrad gave Linz an expectant smile. She was about to change their order.

Linz didn’t even glance at the menu. “Let’s make that the sea bass, steam the vegetables, and I suppose we’ll let him have the wine.”

Their little ritual finished, Richard took her menu and left them alone.

Linz got right to the point. “Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Michael Backer?”

Conrad lips thinned to an angry line. He took his time unfolding his napkin, and put it in his lap before he spoke. “Where did you get that information?”

“I spoke with Dr. Parker, who’s been trying to convince you to let him look at the Renovo project, and you won’t let him. What’s going on?”

Conrad leaned forward and lowered his voice. “As far as the NIA’s concerned, that project was terminated after the director blew up his lab—killing himself and his wife. I refuse to let my company be associated with an experiment conducted thirty years ago that was just plain bad science. And as my daughter and the next in line to run the company, you should be more discreet about what you discuss with fellow directors.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“Which you seem to be doing a lot of lately.”

Linz couldn’t meet his eyes. She had just been scolded like a three-year-old and her father wasn’t finished.

“I find it disturbing that all this started when you met your new boyfriend, who seems to be doing nothing short of investigating me—”

“He’s not my boyfriend and he’s not investigating you—”

“—because the company’s worth a fortune,” he continued, “and so are you.”

“You think he’s going to try to blackmail you? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Anyone on the Internet can find out who we are and what we’re worth.”

Linz looked away. Bryan had logged his fair share of hours online. And she had seen the results.

Conrad took out a file from his briefcase and put it on the table between them. “I had personnel run a background check on him. It was all done confidentially.”

Linz tried to keep her voice down. “Do you want to know how mad I am at you right now?”

“You can be as mad as you like, but did
you
know he grew up in a string of mental institutions?”

“No, he lived with his parents. His mother is a shrink—”

“—who admitted him into every psychiatric hospital on the East Coast,” he insisted.

“That’s not true.” She glanced at the file.

“Your friend is an unstable man. One doctor diagnosed him schizophrenic. Go on, read it.” He slid the file toward her.

“I don’t want to read it. You don’t even know him.”

“Do you?” he countered.

Linz rubbed her forehead, feeling another headache settling in. The whole situation had gotten out of control. “Can we just forget about Bryan for a minute? I want to know about Michael and Diana. Please.”

“Why do you want to know about these people?”

“Just tell me and I will read the file. Okay?”

Conrad shook his head in resignation. He looked weary. “Michael was like a brother to me. Diana was the sister I never had. We became close friends in med school. Renovo was our dream. Losing them, abandoning the study … I had to start all over again.”

He fought to keep his composure. Linz felt horrible. Why was she pushing him so hard to talk about something so painful?

But she had to know if her connection to Michael and Diana was as real as her connection to Origenes and Juliana. Bryan believed it was, and now she had to decide whether or not to believe him. She just wished her father would stop laying on the guilt.

“Why do I have to bring that pain back to the surface after all this time? Because some painter found a home movie in his father’s attic? Can’t you understand why I’m upset? Now, I am done with this conversation, and you are never to ask me about them again. Read the file, and you’ll understand my concern.”

Feeling like a traitor, Linz took the file and put it into her own briefcase. She stood up. “I’m not hungry. Have them cancel my order.”

Conrad reached out for her hand, but she pulled away. “I love you, Stormy. I’m just being a father,” he said.

“I know.” But for the first time in her life, Linz didn’t say the words back.

TWENTY-SIX

DAY 26—MARCH 3, 1982

We visited Finn. He was too distraught to talk at first and stayed in his bedroom. His apartment was shocking, a complete disaster. Dishes were dirty, things were broken. Diana sent me to the store for groceries while she cleaned. The smell of her homemade chicken soup finally brought Finn out.

He wasn’t ready to talk about his recalls and said he needed time, which I understand. It doesn’t help that his debilitating migraines won’t stop. After his third bowl of soup and a second beer, he finally opened up. He had made eye contact with Conrad when he had him pinned against the wall, and he had recognized in him people from his previous lives. He refused to go into detail, but Diana pressed until he told her. My stomach clenched with dread as he said the names: Septimus, Tarr, d’Anthès … men who had tried to kill me. I couldn’t speak. My body felt hollow. I know Diana felt the same alarm.

Finn believes that Conrad is feigning ignorance to hide his true intentions from us and his identities. I am beginning to agree. If Conrad is lying about not remembering, then we are all in danger. I am going to ask him to leave the group.

To make matters worse, after the visit with Finn, Diana remembered her life as Juliana. It was more traumatic for her than I could have imagined. I have done what I can to comfort her, but she must now learn to live with the unthinkable memory of being burned alive. I can only watch her struggle with the pain, and I can’t help but feel responsible. If I had never set out on this path, no one would have followed. In hindsight, I’ve realized that our minds shield us from memories that are meant to stay buried. The brain is its own galaxy, with more cells than stars in the Milky Way. The most powerful organ in the body, it rivals any supercomputer, processing 90,000 to 150,000 thoughts a day through billions of neurons and trillions of synaptic connections. Now that we have found a pathway to retrieving memories that before were inaccessible, we are perfecting its function too quickly.

When I awoke to Diana’s screams, I had to hold her to keep her from hurting herself as she remembered Juliana’s death. Every cry was a knife in my heart, and I knew I had to sabotage my own study. I will present Renovo as a failed drug and destroy our research. It is the only course left to take. The world is not ready for this. It would end our sense of time, ourselves, and the linear world as we know it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The first thing Bryan did when he arrived at St. John’s was rent a boat. He had no trouble handling it. Bjarni’s expertise and passion for the sea now lived inside of him.

The Hunter Vision 32 sailboat was perfect for his needs and the owner had rigged it for single-handed use. Bryan had easily maneuvered it through the Narrows and caught a swift wind that would take him north. He was planning on sailing up the coast, into the bay, and then sighting the new land just as Bjarni had done a thousand years ago.

The last two nights he had slept on deck just like every Viking had before him. This was not the first time that Bryan had roughed it. As he sailed, he remembered previous lifetimes when there had been no electricity, no running water, no modern medicine.… Hardship only existed if one knew differently.

Modern conveniences had always felt less necessary to him after he’d experienced a recall. It was because Bryan felt no need for modern comforts that he was able to survive those first years after he had left home—or run away, as his mother liked to say. The day after his eighteenth birthday, he had packed his backpack and vanished in the middle of the night, leaving his parents only a letter saying that he had to go find himself and his place in the world, alone.

For the first year, he had called once a month to let them know he was all right, if only to ease his guilt. After that, he’d limited his contact to an occasional phone call or postcard. A true nomad, he backpacked all over the world, camping for months on end in the wilderness. He spent a lot of time in Europe—so many places there resonated with him. He would camp in a forest and then wander into a nearby city to do street art or play music to earn money.

He traveled across the continent with the money he made, freely tapping into his language skills and speaking whatever was required. Because he could play unusual instruments like the lute, zither, and pan pipe, he’d often join groups of bohemian musicians. If there was a girl in the group, she would usually offer him a place to stay for however long he wanted it, though those relationships never lasted long. Either he’d have an episode and need to move on, or he would recognize someone from a vision. His recalls inevitably complicated things. He’d found out the hard way that only painting and being on his own could keep him sane.

His life changed the year he went to Avignon, where he joined a band of sidewalk artists there and painted with chalk on a street corner. By the end of the week, he could recognize all the regulars who passed by.

He would leave a hat out and listen to coins clank inside it while he worked. There would often be bills too, and one woman always left a large one, every day. Bryan could tell from her designer suits and purses that she came from money. On the seventh day, she finally stopped and asked if he spoke French, and they had a long conversation about technique. She was a collector and asked if he did canvases. Bryan wasn’t surprised when he recognized her as Philip the Good, Jan Van Eyck’s most powerful patron. It seemed he had found him again.

Her name was Therese Montague. Her husband was the president of a cosmetics company, and she was wealthy in her own right. She offered him supplies and a space to work in if he agreed to do three paintings for her.

He slept on the floor of the art studio and worked on the canvases for several months, feeling as if he was back in Jan’s workshop in Bruges. The completed trio exceeded Therese’s expectations. She was highly connected to the French art scene, and before Bryan knew it, he had an offer to show in Paris. That was the moment he decided to make a name for himself as an artist, on the chance that the paintings would be the compass that would guide anyone with similar dreams toward him. But as his fame grew, he began to lose hope that anyone would ever understand his world—until he met Linz.