The Memory Book (7 page)

EIGHT

A parade of days passed, with muffled drums, not at all dissimilar to the days I’ve just described. The only difference was that the days, however long they seemed at the time, appeared to blend in to one another and get lost. The days dragged themselves through weeks that flew. Today might be clear and in focus, but yesterday is the distant past. Almost an abstraction. I could no longer remember whether I had had visits from my doctor, from my parents, or from my police friends yesterday morning. Or was it the Saturday before?

“Will you be eating your dinner in your room tonight as usual, Mr. Cooperman, or would you like to join the others in the dining room?” It was the silent nurse who always called me by name.

“I think I’ll try the dining room. How will I know when they’re serving?”

“You’ll see the others pass your doorway, Mr. Cooperman. If you miss them, we’ll come and collect you.” Something to look forward to.

I tried to keep track of the days of the week, as posted in large letters and figures in the dining room, but the days seemed to scatter like those montage sequences in
old movies where the leaves blow off the calendar to show the passage of time. It had been three weeks since I “woke up.” Or maybe it was six. Or longer. I had no strong belief in any of my opinions. People kept telling me that it was longer. I wasn’t counting the time I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even imagine it. What was it that Englishman wrote in his book about intrigue in a stately home before the First World War? “The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there.” Something like that. I was looking at time through the wrong end of a telescope.

I soon became regular in my attendance at meals. The dining room was a large, well-lighted room across the hall from the nursing station. Some of us arrived at the tables long before the food reached the fifth floor in the elevator. It came out the sliding doors with a metallic clatter and puffs of steam. The servers quickly emptied the noisy carts into the dining room. It was a sound of joy to the newcomers, whose first out-of-room meal this was, and an occasion for complete indifference to old-timers, who had learned to limit their expectations.

Among the most enthusiastic of the old-timers were the three Belgians, who had struck up quite a friendship since their strokes had flung them together. One was a retired engineer, who now had trouble remembering numbers; another was a former mover-and-shaker in the sublime upper reaches of financial policy for the World Bank; and the third was the curator, now retired, of a major art gallery. He did not say which one, but from his
conversation, I could tell that he had seen them all. These three entertained one another and those nearby, since they always spoke English, with stories about the best meals they had eaten in the best restaurants around the globe. They argued about whether this or that great table had maintained its standards in the last few years, or whether everything had gone downhill after Madam or Maître Charles had died.

There were women on this floor too, of course, only I didn’t get to know many of them. There was the real estate broker who was something of a celebrity since she had returned to this floor with her second stroke. And there was the older woman who argued with the people on the TV screen.

My scant acquaintance with the great tables of Europe tended to limit my contributions to the conversation. Not only did I not know much about the favourite eateries in Paris, London, Brussels, and Rome, I didn’t know much about the fancy dishes they were talking about. I had heard of foie gras and frogs’ legs, but I couldn’t really keep up with their repertoire. And when they turned to the great wines of the world and were joined by a former United Nations representative from Prague, I decided that listening and keeping quiet was the better part of valour.

“Not far from Chopin’s little retreat at Nohant, near La Châtre in Berri, there’s a village called Vic. Best lunch I ever had in Europe. For simplicity, for originality …”

“Come now!”

“It’s true! I insist! Such care! Such attention to detail! Ah, I grow weak just thinking about it.”

“My dear friend, you haven’t lived until you have eaten at Chez Georges not a block from the unjustly celebrated Coq d’Or in Nîmes.”

“Unjustly celebrated? Ah, but you didn’t know it when the old man was still alive. Big as a mountain, he was, and he kept that kitchen in order, I’ll tell you. Never have I eaten such chicken. And his salads! Cyrano’s friend, Ragueneau, the pastry chef in the play, could have written sonnets praising his sauces alone.” And so on. The conversation was as animated as though we were sitting in a five-star restaurant, surrounded by the greatest living chefs. Sitting among this group of world travellers were patients who commented with looks and shrugs across the table. One of these, I think, was a former judge, another was a trial lawyer, famous in stories my father told. Meanwhile, just so you don’t get the idea that this was some sort of gourmets’ retreat, the rest of the patients stared into their bowls without uttering a word, or if they did, it was about something they were watching on the television screen which, as far as I could see, had no off switch.

“So
here
you are, you sly old fox!” It was the nurse who spelled off the one whose name I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember her name either. “You didn’t tell us you were married.”

“I didn’t tell you I was married because I’m not. Do you mean my friend, Anna? Anna’s as close as I get to a
wife.” A cloud ran across the nurse’s eyes, as if the joke she had been about to make had melted in her mouth. My companions leaned in closer.

“Are you saying you
aren’t
married?” asked the nurse.

“Not now and never have been, so help me.”

“Well, that’s odd.”

“What’s so odd? It’s not bothered me much. Has it become compulsory?”

“I was talking to Erna Pyke. You know, she runs the desk when Libby’s off. Anyway, she told me that a week or so ago you had a visit from your wife. She said she lived in Grantham and everything.”

“And it wasn’t Anna Abraham? My friend, Anna Abraham?”

“Not according to Libby. And she knows Dr. Abraham.”

“I’ve never heard of a Dr. Abraham.” This was the contribution of one of the gourmets. I explained that Anna was an academic friend of mine. She had been more than a friend for a long time, but we’d retreated from that advanced position some time ago. He didn’t have to know about that. He shrugged his indifference.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up at the table, Mr. Cooperman. I’m sorry.”

“See if you can find out what my wife is supposed to have looked like. Maybe she was just trying to get in?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I’m intrigued but not embarrassed. I’d like to know more. Like when this happened and what did she look like.”

“I’ll see what I can do. And … I’m
really
sorry.”

“What was that all about? Are you married or not?” asked the retired engineer to my right.

“If it’s any of our business,” added the diplomat.

“Right,” said the banker. “We don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s just as much of a mystery to me as it is to you.” I didn’t tell them what I was thinking. Was it someone trying to finish the job started in the Dumpster, or was a new character in this tangled tale making a dramatic entrance? I wanted to find out. But I didn’t know where to begin.

NINE

I missed Anna Abraham. All the talk about my mysterious “wife” made me wish Anna would come to see me. I understood from the nurses that Anna had sometimes come up to the fifth floor, but that I had been off in cloud-cuckoo-land. One of the young cleaners, who, I gathered, had encountered Anna while mopping my room, shook his head at me, saying, “I hope I’m never
that
tired.”

On the question of visitors I was insatiable. Professional visitors as well as personal ones—I couldn’t get enough of them. When company was in short supply, I became greedy for more. I became a company junkie; I wanted a line of visitors at the door. But it seemed to me that my neighbour, Jerry, saw more visitors than I did.

Then it hit me that I might be under police protection. What if the Dumpster Gang came back to finish the job. Could anybody walk in to see me? Would the nurses opposite the elevator give anybody my room number? My “wife” didn’t seem to have had much trouble.

One day, I followed one of the nurses into the elevator and pushed the button for the main floor. Not a word was said. No one lifted a hand to bar my way. I felt proud of
myself as I stood in my dressing gown facing the unrestricted front door.

* * *

“Are you busy?” It was Anna Abraham, my sometime girlfriend, whom I hadn’t seen since I don’t remember when.

“Anna! God, I’m glad to see you! How did you find me?” Anna took a breath, as though I’d just asked an impossible question. “Oh, I know all about your secret life. I watch at keyholes, tap phones, read tea leaves, interpret bumps and warts. For weeks I’ve been studying your face in repose.”

“I know that,” I said. “How did you
first
hear?”

“There was a piece in the paper. The
Beacon.
Besides, I have my spies. You’re not the only one who can dig up the facts. Remember, I’m a trained researcher as well as a professor. How are you feeling?”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m not that easy to dump, Benny. I stick like burrs to your pant leg.”

“I missed you.” It was true. It seemed like a thousand years since I’d gazed at the wonderful structure of her cheekbones. And yet I retained the shadow of a memory of an earlier visit. Had she been here, or was it only in my dreams?

“You told me so last week when I was here.”

“You were here to see me? My head’s a bit thick, Anna. Humour me.” Sometime the bread you cast upon
the waters washes back with the first wave; she gave me a big kiss.

“I’ve been in and out a few times. You just don’t remember, that’s all. It’s not your fault. Besides, I sometimes catch you having a nap. I like watching you sleep. It’s very restful. Did I say that before? Sorry. I’ve been missing your peculiar bachelor ways: rolled socks in the bread box, trousers under the mattress.” Her voice was brittle, like glass.

“If you give me a minute, I’ll put my pants on and we can go for a walk,” I said. She grinned as I rolled free of my hospital corners. While I was busy finding my trousers and getting into them, a thought crossed my mind: was Anna holding something back? The clue was in her bright banter. Something more than bedside manner. It reminded me of my conversations with my brother Sam and Staff-Sergeant Sykes. Something was off balance and it wasn’t just me.

In ten minutes, we were sitting in the café in the hospital. I had my Memory Book beside me; I felt secure. Anna was at the counter buying coffee and talking to a tall stranger with a summer hat in his hands. I held our table against all comers. And there were a few. I was beginning to wonder at my growing passivity; why wasn’t I collecting the drinks and paying the shot?

Anna put a tray on the table. “Fellow up there wanted to know if I wished to make ten thousand dollars,” she said.

“Sounds like a good scam. Did you take him up on it?”

“No. I told him I was more interested in spiritual values. I got him involved in a long religious discussion. That stopped him.” She unloaded the coffee and two oatmeal cookies. After getting rid of the tray, she sat down across from me and leaned forward. “Now,” she said. “Tell me what’s new.”

As briefly as I could, I brought her up to date on the treatment I was having to get over the trauma. I told her about my newly imposed regimen. I was now being shunted around the hospital to classes in three kinds of therapy. In physical therapy I had to walk on an irregular ramp to test my balance, climb up and down a flight of stairs, and spend twenty minutes riding a stationary bicycle. Occupational therapy tested me with games to see how deep my brain damage went.

“The third class is in reading,” I explained. “Here the teacher, a Miss … Sorry, her name escapes me. Anyway, she tries to re-educate my poor bruised brain to recognize the letters of the alphabet again and the words they could be organized to form. I’m slow at this; the letters keep changing shape on me,
r
’s becoming
p
’s without warning and
j
’s turning into
h
’s.” I could find no sense in this. If the
d
’s suddenly became
b
’s, or the
p
’s,
q
’s, I could see the dyslexic logic of my degeneration. Maybe I was foolish to look for method in my confusion. My disorganized head treated all letters equally; my affliction was at least democratic.

I also told Anna how anxious I was to get back on the street again. I even included what I could remember of the more upbeat of the comments that had been made by doctors and nurses in passing. When I had finished, she sat back hard in her chair.

“Wow! Poor bunny, you really have been raked over the broken glass, haven’t you? Everything but wild dogs chasing you over frozen ice floes.”

“Hell, no! I’m just a member of the walking wounded. My floor is full of people who can’t walk or talk or put a spoon in their mouth. I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m so fit they may be getting rid of me before too long.”

“But your reading? Your memory?”

“Neither will be cured by bedrest here on the fifth floor. There are people here who can’t even pull the bell cord to call a nurse if they need one.”

“Whoever attacked you can claim ‘by way of mitigation’ that he could have hit you harder.”

“We have to catch him first. Do you know the university residence at the corner of Wessex and Spadina?”

“The building with the crazy O dangling over traffic? Sure.”

“Could you nose around the Dumpster and see if the perpetrator left his name and address anywhere?”

“Benny! Two things: you’re forgetting how long ago this attack on you occurred, and I’m a lecturer in English literature, not Susanna of the Mounties. I wouldn’t even know what to look for.”

“You’re right. I keep forgetting you’re not Batgirl. Besides, aren’t there students waiting for you to show up at Secord?”