Free Memory of Love (9781101603024) by Linda Olsson

and ask him to take us back to your home. He knows your grandmother.’ Ika jumped and turned his face towards me, but as always without looking me in the eye. He said nothing.
    â€˜I will talk to your grandmother and we will see what to do,’ I said, having no idea what I meant. What could be done, if anything.
    Ika turned on the stool and put his hands on the keys.
    I had discovered his musicality by chance. One Thursday I had sat down to play while I was waiting for him. My piano was never particularly good, and the humid and salty air in a house that was always more or less open to the elements had not been good for it. But it matched my ability rather well and I never had an audience. Or so I thought.
    I had been listening to Bill Evans again. It had been a long time, and it wasn’t until recently when I had finally mastered downloading music from the internet that I had found myself returning to music I used to love. I listened, and I was trying to teach myself to play some. But I ignored the echoes of the past that the music evoked.
    That Thursday it was ‘Peace Piece’. I was lost in the music, and hadn’t noticed the hands on the windowsill outside. Suddenly a minute stirring caught my eye. I tried to keep my fingers moving over the keys and not break the atmosphere while I turned my head to see what he was doing. His dirty little hands were hanging on to the windowsill with such force that the nails shone white against the skin. I could only see a glimpse of the top of his head but I could see his hands. And that was when I first noticed that the third and fourth fingers on both hands were webbed. A fine, almost translucent film connected the two fingers from the base to the first joint. I hadn’t noticed it before, but here the two hands were spread out in order to provide maximum support. My instant impression was of something exquisite and fragile. A mayfly’s wings. Fins of a veil tail fish. Then my professional self took over, and I wondered if it was medically significant. I wracked my brain for information. Vague memories of various syndromes stirred, but I let them go, and focused on my playing again. When I finished and looked up the hands were no longer there.
    â€˜Come inside,’ I called, still playing. ‘Let’s try the piano together.’
    A moment later he appeared, and tentatively approached the piano.
    I went to get another chair and indicated to him to sit on the piano stool. He did and I adjusted the height a little. I sensed that he thought that I was too close and I pulled my chair back a touch before I sat down.
    â€˜Have you seen a piano before?’ I asked. He shook his head.
    â€˜Okay,’ I said. ‘Let me play some scales. It’s a little bit like letting your fingers run up and down all the keys. Like this.’
    Ika sat absolutely still watching my hands.
    When I finished he tentatively put his own hands on the keys. He played the same scales, a little uncertainly, but hitting the right key almost every time. When he made the odd mistake he immediately corrected himself. Whatever I played, he played.
    â€˜Are you sure you have never seen a piano before?’ I asked.
    He shook his head, his eyes still focused on the keys.
    I was utterly fascinated. In fact I was so moved I felt tears brimming in my eyes. I swallowed and leaned back on the chair.
    And then he played ‘Peace Piece’.
    He had only heard me play it of course. So he played with my intonation, my hesitation. He stumbled here and there and he played with childish simplicity, but as I listened, I realised that he had corrected some of my mistakes. I wondered how long he had been hanging on the windowsill, and how many times before. I sat breathless, stunned.
    After he finished we sat in silence for a moment. It felt as if our relationship had changed. As if we had all at once become closer. I also felt as if I had been given a new responsibility, one that I