Free Memory of Love (9781101603024) by Linda Olsson Page A

accepted without hesitation.
    I realised he would come to need better teachers than I could ever be, but for a start, I could give him what I had to offer.
    Since that first day he had gathered a strange repertoire. Initially I thought he just had an uncanny ability for memorising and copying. But there was more to his talent than that. He developed his own sound and his own interpretations. Always distinct, and utterly fascinating. And he had his own taste, unpredictable and diverse. I allowed it to meander, find its own way forwards. Often it felt like an adventure trail. We never knew where each piece would take us, to what new musical experience it would lead.
    And here he was, again seated by the piano. I had no idea what he was thinking.
    To allow me to collect myself I suggested that he play for a while. I went into the kitchen where I stood leaning against the bench trying to decide what to do. Suddenly I heard him begin to play. I recognised the music. One of the first that we had discovered together: Philip Glass’s ‘Mad Rush’. I sank down on one of the kitchen chairs and listened. He played slowly, slower than I had ever heard the piece played before. And after a while I realised he was improvising large sections. The pulse increased gradually and I was hypnotically pulled into the music. I had never heard him play like this before. In part, it was painful to listen to, but it was also breathtakingly beautiful. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose to stave off my tears.
    When the music stopped I went back into the room. Ika sat on the piano stool, slowly closing the lid. As he placed his hands on the closed lid and bent forwards I could see the dark bruises around his neck.
    â€˜Here is what I think we should do,’ I said. ‘I will call Mr Brendel. You remember him, don’t you? The farmer who lives up the hill on the other side of the road?’
    Ika nodded with his eyes on his hands.
    â€˜I will ask him to drive us to your home. I will come too, of course. And I’ll talk to your grandmother. Then we’ll decide what is the best thing to do.’
    No response.
    â€˜Is that okay?’ I asked.
    He kept his head bowed, but after a moment he shrugged his shoulders. I longed to hold him, find a way of comforting him and make him believe I could help him. And convince myself as well. All I could think of saying was: ‘It will all come right. I promise you it will all come right.’
    I listened to my own words. They sounded hollow and I didn’t think they sounded comforting at all.
    I went and rang George.

10.
    I don’t know what I expected. I had never really given any thought to Ika’s family or homelife. To me he had seemed like a solitaire with no connection to anything or anyone. Stupidly, I had never asked. And he had never volunteered any information.
    The small weatherboard house sat on a piece of flat land covered in yellowed grass. It looked abandoned; there were no signs of life. No washing on the clothesline that slowly turned in the breeze. No flowers. No curtains: the windows were black holes. The section was unfenced, marked only by a shallow ditch along the unsealed road and a low hedge of dead macrocarpa on one side. I could see no other houses and no animals, so perhaps fences were superfluous here. George drove up and parked on the dry yellow grass near the house, beside half a dozen car carcasses in varying stages of decay. Two large mongrel dogs came running towards the car, furiously barking. We stayed in the car with the doors closed, waiting.
    The woman who eventually emerged through the open front door was small and very thin. From where I was I couldn’t judge her age, but she walked with a slight limp, or perhaps with exaggerated caution, as if she were in pain. She called the dogs and they withdrew reluctantly, whimpering.
    â€˜How about you and I take a little drive? Leave the ladies to themselves for a little