The Rhythm of Memory (43 page)

Salomé realized now that, no matter what happened, whether Pinochet was held accountable for his actions or not, she could never return to her native country. Her children had all found partners in Sweden and would be building families of their own here. Both her parents had died, and so, other than memories, there was nothing there for her anymore. After all these years, Salomé had finally reconciled herself to the likelihood that she would remain in Sweden for the rest of her life.

She had also become accustomed to living alone. She had grown used to the sound of her own breathing, and the gesture of her hands as they swept across her shelves and touched the
objects she had collected. Nonetheless, she had missed Octavio more and more over the past few years, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Perhaps it was the onset of old age and seeing her children grown-up and discovering their own loves. But he had remained a good friend to her over the years, someone who—Salomé gratefully realized—refused to just slip away. And sometimes now she found herself surprised by her rekindled feelings for him. Sometimes, even, late at night, she thought of him with the same ardor that she had had when she was a young girl of seventeen.

She emptied a jar of beach shells into the bathwater so that she could pretend she was bathing in the sea and put an old Calandrelli record on the Victrola.

The water smelled like a mixture of salt and sand. She wound her hair on top of her head and sunk her body in the water, careful not to cut herself on any of the edges of the shells. She closed her eyes and thought of Chile. She thought about the endless beaches of the Viña del Mar. She thought of her garden at the Casa Rosa and the time when she and Octavio had made love under the avocado tree when the maid was out and the children were at school.

It had been years since she had allowed herself to relive the good times. But many memories locked inside her brought her joy. She just had to retrieve them now and recall.

At a quarter to eight, she stepped out of her bath. The long soak had inspired her sensual side, and she unexpectedly found herself hovering over her vanity table. She sprayed herself with water steeped in gardenia petals. She lined her eyes with an old kohl pencil and rubbed her cheeks and lips with rouge. It was as if she were that nervous, giddy schoolgirl again, preparing to meet her
admirer under the stars. Though she was truly only expecting to spend the night alone.

She was surprised to hear the doorbell ring. She quickly wrapped herself in a robe and went to see who was at the door.

“Who is it?” she asked as she went to undo the latch.

“It’s me, Salomé.”

When she opened the door, she found Octavio standing in the hallway holding a bushel of field flowers.

“I want to come with you, Salomé!” he blurted out.

“What?” Salomé asked, perplexed. She shook her head. “Come inside.” She motioned him into her vestibule. She took the flowers from him and ushered him to the couch.

After she placed the flowers in a pitcher of cold water, she went into her bedroom and changed into a sweater and some slacks. She fluffed her hair and checked her makeup in the mirror.

“So, now, are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” she asked as she reappeared in the living room.

Octavio was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hands firmly planted on his knees.

“I have thought about it, Salomé. I want to come with you to England.” He stammered a bit. “I want to be by your side. I want to hear you tell your story.”

She looked at him with surprise. “Octavio, that’s really not necessary,” she said, instinctively resisting his offer. “You know me, I’ll be fine.”

“Necessity has nothing to do with it,” he said, looking into her eyes. Only seconds before, he had gazed at the objects scattered around her apartment. The broken pieces of glass and the porcelain figures with hairline fissures that marred their otherwise perfect, delicate features. It struck him then that there was little difference between Salomé and her collections. That she had been
broken and mended, and because her own tendril-like scars would never go away, she surrounded herself with things that, like her, were damaged but still retained their beauty. He felt he loved her more than ever now. For she had triumphed over her scars. She had made peace with her past.

He wished there were a poem he could recite to tell her simply and succinctly how he felt. But he also realized that they were at a place in their lives that was now beyond poetry, beyond art and beauty.

So he said to her what had been in his heart for years, but what he had never been able to vocalize.

“Fayum.” His voice trembled. “Please let me take care of you now like I should have twenty-five years ago.”

Kindness and relief filled Salomé’s eyes, for she had waited a lifetime to hear those words from him.

He had not the voice to even whisper now, so he simply mouthed the words
I love you
.

Salomé Herrera gazed upon her ex-husband with the same wet eyes she had bestowed upon him that evening when he had scattered oranges at her feet and kissed her underneath a star-studded sky. He felt her trembling fingers reaching out toward his, traveling over the cuff of his cotton sleeve.

And she did what he had been dreaming of for so many years. She took his hand in hers.

This book would not have been possible without the help and guidance of many people. Foremost, I wish to thank my Swedish family for their inspiration and unwavering support of this novel.

To my husband, who is always my first and most critical reader—I thank you for all your support and your strength. With every novel, you are there beside me, cheering me on. I could not have finished this without you.

To my readers—Antony Currie, Louisa Ermelino, Nikki Koklanaris, Shana Lory, Sara Shaoul, and my family—I thank you for your invaluable feedback and diligent efforts on my behalf. A special thank-you should be given to Rosalyn Shaoul and Ulrike Ostermeyer, who edited my first drafts and worked on perfecting the novel with me.

To my agent, Sally Wofford-Girand—thank you for your dedication and your tireless efforts on my behalf. Finally, to my original editor, Malaika Adero, and to my new editor, Kate Seaver, who saw to the reissue of this novel, I thank both of you for your sensitive eye, your love of language, and your passion and support.

R
EADERS
G
UIDE

1. How would you describe the contrast in palettes that the author used to create the South American landscape to the Scandinavian one? Could you feel the difference in color, scenery, and even culture, between those two places? Discuss the contrast of warm versus cold within the two landscapes and how the author uses color and landscape as metaphor.
   
2. Do you think Kaija’s parents made the right choice in sending her away to Finland as a war child? Would you have done the same if it were a matter of survival? If you had acted as an adoptive parent to a war child, do you think you could return the child after the war was over?
   
3. How does war touch each life in this book? What major decisions might not otherwise have been made if not put under the strain of such sacrifice? What personal relationships are tested?
   
4. Could you forgive Astrid for destroying Sirka’s letters to her daughter? Could you see the raw emotions behind her actions?
   
5. How do you feel about the author’s use of historical figures like Neruda and Allende playing direct roles in the actions of the book? Did you think this was successful?
   
6. Could you sympathize with Octavio’s passion for Allende’s politics and legacy, even as it puts his family at grave risk? Can you fault
   him for standing up for what he believes in? Why doesn’t he change his ways after the first abduction?
   
7. How difficult were the torture scenes for you to read? Do you think they were too intense, or do you think the detailed descriptions were necessary to convey the horrors of what went on there?
   
8. How does Salomé attempt to save her life in prison? What memories does she re-create for the guard to make her case? Do you think Octavio would have approved? Would you act in the same way if your life was at stake?
   
9. Why do both Octavio and Salomé refuse to speak to each other about the second abduction—and the lengths they each went in securing Salomé’s freedom and the torture she was subjected to? Do you think it would have saved their marriage? Why or why not?
   
10. Discuss the power of music in this story—as both an agent of pain and pleasure.
    
11. How do secrets destroy the relationships in the book—from Octavio and Salomé’s, to Kaija and Samuel’s?
    
12. Did your feelings for Octavio’s character change over the course of the novel? Did he redeem himself with his attempts at rescuing Salomé? Do you think he had really changed?
    
13. How does Salomé need the affair with Samuel to feel whole? Is it a lasting feeling? Do you believe that her therapy (or encounters) healed her? Do you think Samuel crossed a line in continuing to treat Salomé as a patient as his feelings grew?
    

If you enjoyed
The Rhythm of Memory
, don’t miss

Alyson Richman’s rapturous novel of
first love in a time of war.
Read on for a special preview.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

2000

He dressed deliberately for the occasion, his suit pressed and his shoes shined. While shaving, he turned each cheek carefully to the mirror to ensure he hadn’t missed a single whisker. Earlier that afternoon, he had even bought a lemon-scented pomade to smooth his few remaining curls.

He had only one grandson, one grandchild for that matter, and had been looking forward to this wedding for months now. And although he had met the bride only a few times, he liked her from the first. She was bright and charming, quick to laugh, and possessed a certain old-world elegance. He hadn’t realized what a rare quality that was until he sat there now staring at her, his grandson clasping her hand.

Even now, as he walked into the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner, he felt as though, seeing the young girl, he had been swept back into another time. He watched as some of the other guests unconsciously touched their throats because the girl’s neck, stretching out from her velvet dress, was so beautiful and long that she looked like she had been cut out from a Klimt painting. Her hair was swept up into a loose chignon, and two little jeweled butterflies with sparkling antennae rested right above her left ear, giving the appearance that these winged creatures had just landed on her red hair.

His grandson had inherited his dark, unruly curls. A study in contrast to his bride-to-be, he fidgeted nervously, while she seemed to glide into the room. He looked like he would be more comfortable with a book between his hands than holding a flute of champagne. But there was an ease that flowed between them, a balance that made them appear perfectly suited for each other. Both of them were smart, highly educated second-generation Americans. Their voices lacked even the faintest traces of the accents that had laced their grandparents’ English. The
New York Times
wedding announcement that Sunday morning would read:

At the head table, the lone living grandparent from each side was introduced to each other for the first time. Again, the groom’s grandfather felt himself being swept away by the image of the woman before him. She was decades older then her granddaughter,
but there was something familiar about her. He felt it immediately, from the moment he first saw her eyes.

“I know you from somewhere,” he finally managed to say, although he felt as though he were now speaking to a ghost, not a woman he had just met. His body was responding in some visceral manner that he didn’t quite understand. He regretted drinking that second glass of wine. His stomach was turning over on itself. He could hardly breathe.

“You must be mistaken,” she said politely. She did not want to appear rude, but she, too, had been looking forward to her granddaughter’s wedding for months and didn’t want to be distracted from the evening’s festivities. As she saw the girl navigating the crowd, the many cheeks turning to her to be kissed and the envelopes being pressed into her and Jason’s hands, she had to pinch herself to make sure that she really was still alive to witness it all.

But this old man next to her would not give up.

“I definitely think I know you from somewhere,” he repeated.

She turned and now showed her face even more clearly to him. The feathered skin. Her silver hair. Her ice-blue eyes.

But it was the shadow of something dark blue beneath the transparent material of her sleeve that caused shivers to run through his old veins.

“Your sleeve…” His finger was shaking as it reached to touch the silk.

Her face twitched as he touched her wrist, her discomfort registering over her face.

“Your sleeve, may I?” He knew he was being rude.

She looked straight at him.

“May I see your arm?” he said again. “Please.” This time his voice sounded almost desperate.

She was now staring at him, her eyes now locked to his. As if in a trance, she pushed up her sleeve. There on her forearm, next to a small brown birthmark, were six tattooed numbers.