The Glass Harmonica, page 12
She was surprised to hear Berrick’s voice telling Charlie to get out of the chair. It seemed only moments had passed. She opened her eyes and watched Charlie struggle into the walker to begin his painful progress across the floor.
Erin tried to project her mind out of her own body and into her brother’s, to lend him her own strength, her energy, and especially her natural, instinctive knowledge of how it was done. You pick up your right foot. You bend your knee, you flex your ankle, your foot comes down like this, heel and toe, and your weight shifts. Now the left. Pick up, bend, flex, place. So simple. So hard.
Only the corner lamps were lit. Chrome and glass and steel gleamed softly in the dimness. It was easy to let the room fade into background, an indistinct mise en sce`ne, a setting like the vague backdrops that mask backstage chaos from concert audiences. Erin sighed, her eyes on Charlie, but not really seeing him anymore. Not seeing anything.
And there, in the gloom beyond her brother, her wraith appeared.
Erin caught her breath, held it. Though her eyes were open, the image seemed to flare in her forehead, in a receptor not fed by pupils and irises and optic nerves. Then by what? her mind cried frantically. And was the shape more distinct than usual, or was it that there was nothing to distract her from observing it?
The image wavered, trembled, black and white and gray and—what was that color? Blue? How could she know it was blue if it wasn’t her eyes perceiving it? Could she feel blue, sense it, as if it were an emotion, or an idea? The shape was graceful, a long, sweeping skirt, a cloud of black hair above a pale profile, and those slender arms . . .
It was clearly a woman, perhaps a girl, so slender, the waist so tiny. The arms were reaching, white hands turned down, fingers curled. And as Erin watched, frozen, hardly breathing, the face turned, ever so slightly, the neck bending in the shadows. A glimmer of light from a nearby full-screen caught wide eyes, a curve of cheek . . . Erin took a shuddering breath.
“Charlie . . .” she whispered.
“Quiet,” Berrick ordered. Erin’s eyes flew to him in surprise. She suddenly remembered where she was, what was happening. She found she was shaking with cold, that her stomach was quivering with sudden nausea. Despairing, reluctant, she turned back to her vision.
It was gone. The cold reflection of blank glass and white enamel machinery mocked her.
Charlie had reached his goal, unaware of Erin or anything but his legs. The tones in Erin’s earphones subsided. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself, shivering, swallowing bile. Charlie pulled off his headphones, took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned to work his way back to the chair. Erin closed her eyes, fighting her own battle.
She was crazy, that was it. She was losing her grasp on reality, unable to tell dream from substance, fiction from fact. Tears burned her eyelids. Her deepest fear rose from within her, a dark bubble rising, ascending inexorably through even darker water. Allowing it to surface, to burst in her consciousness, almost made her ill, right here in this impersonal room, hiding behind her closed eyes, ears stopped by state-of-the-art-headphones.
It was the terror that lurked in her nightmares, that stalked her when she was weakest, most vulnerable. It was the fear that made her snap answers to stupid questions, made her impatient and angry at the probing and pushing of interviewers and reporters and historians. She was afraid. She wasn’t afraid of her wraith, of ghosts or visions or manifestations. What she feared was that, like her predecessors, like the ancestral virtuosi who had first played her precious and mystical instrument, her nerves were breaking down. She was afraid she was going mad.
She hugged herself tighter, trembling and sick, not even knowing that tears were making glassy tracks down her cheeks. It was Charlie’s exclamation that brought her to awareness.
“Erin! Erin, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She opened her eyes to see Charlie, restored now to his wheelchair, rolling swiftly toward her, his hands strong on the wheels despite his fatigue. Behind him Eugene Berrick frowned.
Erin leaned forward into Charlie’s arms and buried her head in his shoulder. “Oh, Charlie! She was here, she was right here! Omigod, Charlie. I’m losing my mind!”
THE juice was salty-sweet and thick on Erin’s tongue. She was surprised to find that it banished her nausea almost immediately, that the pounding of her head subsided. She drained the glass and looked up to see Eugene Berrick’s dark face above hers. He bent over her as he had over Charlie, checking her pulse with two long fingers placed gently under her jaw. The crystal gray of his eyes had the irresistible pull of clear, moving waters.
“Better,” he said as he took away his hand. Not a question, but a statement, as if he needed no corroboration. “Better.”
He took the glass from her, and the one Charlie had emptied, and carried them to a small sink beside the fridge. Charlie reached to comb sweat-damp fronds of hair from Erin’s forehead with his fingers, and she leaned her cheek into his hand. “God, Charlie,” she whispered. “She was so clear.”
“Take it easy, E,” he said. His voice was steady, but she felt the trembling of his hand. “We’ll talk about it when you feel better.”
Berrick returned, and stood close to the two of them, peering over his glasses at Erin. “What was it?” he asked. “What did you see? You’re not surprised, are you, Charlie?”
Charlie shook his head. “She’s seen it before,” he said. “In concert. I didn’t really think—well—” He spread his hands. “You’d better tell us, I guess, E.”
She rubbed her eyes. “It’s so weird.”
Berrick said, “Let’s hear it.” His gray eyes held hers, and she wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.
She took a deep breath, and tightened her fingers on Charlie’s. “I see this—this figure. This girl—I mean, I know she’s not really there, she can’t really be there, can she? But I see her.”
“What does she look like?” Berrick asked. He seemed neither shocked nor perturbed.
“It’s—it’s hard to say. It’s mostly an outline, a silhouette, sort of. Hair piled up, long skirt, very narrow waist. Arms out—like this—” Erin put out her arms and curled her fingers, and then froze, staring at her own hands.
“What, E?” Charlie demanded.
“It’s as if she’s playing an instrument! I just realized!”
Berrick said, “How often have you had this experience?”
Erin said slowly, “Three—no, four times. Counting today.”
“When did they start?”
“Last year,” Charlie said. “Right, E?”
“Triggering event?” Berrick asked. Erin realized he was making notes on his slimscreen.
She said, blankly, “What?”
“Something happened, to start these psychic visions, right? Some event, some turning point or crisis?”
“Psychic visions? You’re saying I’m psychic?”
Berrick took off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Everybody’s psychic. Everybody has a mind, and a psyche. Some have better access, that’s all. Now, what happened?”
Erin shook her head, and looked to Charlie for help. “Well—nothing I can think of. Nothing, really.”
Charlie said, “When was the first one, E? Boston?” She nodded. “I can think of something,” he said slowly. “Two somethings.”
Now Erin stared at Charlie. Why was he so eager to give this strange man what he wanted? He behaved as if everything Eugene Berrick said was gospel.
“Think, E,” Charlie said. “Boston was the premiere of the Requiem.”
“So?” she said, more sharply than she intended. Berrick actually lifted a finger in warning to her, the same finger he had raised earlier. Erin felt her temper spark. It felt better than being afraid.
Charlie didn’t notice. His eyes were unfocused as he remembered. “It was the first performance,” he said. “And we worked so hard, going over and over it—and then, the same day of the premiere, Mal booked you to perform at the State House, at the Franklin exhibit. Same room you first saw the glass harmonica. Same instrument, actually.”
“Did something happen at the exhibit?” Berrick asked.
Charlie glanced at Erin. “They let her play the old one, the one they never let anyone play. They brought it up from Philadelphia. The man from Finkenbeiner’s cleaned it up, and oiled the treadle, and she played it, just for a moment, but the real thing, the one Franklin himself played.”
Erin remembered. It had been strange, going into the exhibit where all the old, old things were so carefully preserved. There had been a coat of Franklin’s, and some china of Deborah’s, and silver that had belonged to William Franklin and his English bride. And of course, the armonica.
Erin had been careful with it. She was unfamiliar with the archaic foot treadle, the uneven thick glass cups painted to identify the notes. Its tone had been odd, almost crude compared to the crystalline perfection of her own instrument. The glasses had revolved reluctantly, the spindle complaining against the ravages and rust of two hundred and fifty years. And touching it had been oddly painful, the nerves in her arms aching obscurely as she played. She had been relieved to step out of the exhibit area, to see them close and relock the glass doors on the controlled atmosphere that protected the artifacts. She had gone to her own gleamingly new instrument and played easily, fluently. And afterward, in the car, she had wept with fatigue and nerves.
She looked up to find Berrick and Charlie watching her. “What?” she asked shortly.
“Tell us about it,” Berrick said.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I played Franklin’s instrument—the armonica, he called it. It wasn’t called the harmonica till the Germans took it up, you know—that h just came naturally to them, I guess. I played only a few phrases. It’s fragile, and not in very good condition. Then they locked it up again, and I played a bit of Mozart and Reichardt and Zeitler on mine, and we went home to rest before the concert. That was it.”
“Erin.” Charlie squeezed her hand. “Come on. There was more than that.”
She glared at him, not wanting to reveal her weakness, her nerves, in front of Eugene Berrick. Not wanting Dr. Berrick to think she was mad.
“She was crying,” Charlie said to Berrick. “In Mother’s car, on the way home. And shaking like a leaf.”
“Why was that?” Berrick asked.
Erin gave a dramatic, wide-handed shrug. “Who knows? I was tired. Nervous about the premiere.”
Charlie laughed. “Come on, E! Nervous?”
Berrick had turned away from them, restlessly, striding back to his desk and the scan projector. He switched off the Moog and stood hipshot beside his desk, staring down at its scarred wooden surface. “Fascinating, fascinating,” he said, almost under his breath. Then, abruptly, he turned back to them and said, “Let’s try it again, see if we can repeat the event.”
“Fantastic,” Charlie said with enthusiasm.
Erin stood up, scraping her chair against the tiled floor. “No.”
Berrick was suddenly still, his glasses in his hand. “What?”
“I said, no.” She thrust her hands in her jeans pockets and stuck her chin out. “I don’t want to do it again. It’s freaky, and I don’t intend to repeat it if I can help it.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, and Erin knew Charlie was embarrassed, but she didn’t care. This man was not going to bully her into some bizarre head game. She was startled at the sincerity with which Berrick said, “But—don’t you want to know?”
She didn’t answer. She turned away to the door. “I’ll wait outside, Charlie.”
She walked with deliberate steps out through the little parlor into a misty afternoon. A weak sun was trying to pierce a thin, persistent layer of cloud. The camellia had dropped all its blossoms, and the rhododendron was afire now with pink blooms. Erin waited, pacing, feeling resentful, then confused, then just anxious. When Charlie emerged from the clinic, they set off up the hill for the monorail stop without saying a word.
Once Charlie had secured his chair in the car and it had lifted away, he smiled at her. “It’s okay, Erin. It’s no big deal.”
“Oh, right.” Her throat tightened again, and she swallowed. “So if I lose my mind, it’s no great loss?”
Charlie chuckled and patted her knee. She grabbed his hand and held it as tightly as she dared, staring out into the fog, trying not to think of anything.
14
London, January 1762
EILISH woke the day after the concert with a headache and shaking hands. When she appeared in the kitchen, pale and trembling, Cook exclaimed over her.
“Aye, dear, and you with neither tea nor supper last night! ’Tis no surprise to me you feel poorly this morning!” She set a cup of tea and a plate of thickly buttered bread before Eilish, pressing it on her. Eilish tried, but could swallow no more than half a slice of bread, and even that churned in her aching stomach like bees trying to escape their hive.
“I’m sorry, Cook,” she muttered at last, pushing away from the table. “It pains me to eat. Just the tea, I think.”
“You’re so wan, Eilish,” Cook said in a worried tone. “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Stevenson to send for the doctor.”
“No, no, please, Cook,” Eilish pleaded. “No doctors.” She knew about doctors, though she had met only Dr. Pringle. Doctors meant ghastly sharp tools and blood and screaming and pain. In Seven Dials, medical care was well known as a frequent cause of death.
“You’d best rest today, at least,” Cook said, untying her apron. “ ’Tis the best thing for you.” She hung the apron by the sink and bustled out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
Eilish leaned her head on her hand. She wanted air, and perhaps some clear water, but a great fatigue oppressed her. She laid her aching head on the table and closed her eyes. “Oh, Da,” she breathed. “ ’Tis just as ye said. Pride goeth before the fall.”
She rested so for some moments, her cheek on the clean scarred wood. Presently she began to feel a bit stronger. Above her the house was quiet, and she remembered that Franklin had been summoned to the King’s Council. The men at the concert had spoken of a second Parliamentary grant. Eilish had no idea what a Parliamentary grant was, or that there had even been a first, but there was some problem, something about money, that Mr. Franklin was worried about. She didn’t care about that either, not today. Serve him right, she thought ungratefully.
Eilish lifted her head. On the sideboard she spied the remains of a sweet seed cake, left from the refreshments of the day before. She had no doubt it would sit there, mostly uneaten, until it went stale. What a waste that would be. And how Mackie would love a bit of seed cake! A sudden urge seized her, an aching need to see the little boy, to hold him in her arms. The desire was so strong that it brought her to her feet. She moved slowly, only a bit unsteady, toward the back of the house in search of Peter.
She found him in the stableyard, on his knees between the empty hames of the carriage. The horse put his head out of his box and snuffled at her approach. Eilish stroked the long muzzle, and breathed deeply of the fresh air and the pungent smell of straw and horseflesh. The air sparkled with thin winter sunlight, cold and clear. Her nausea began to subside.
“Hi there, miss,” Peter said cheerfully. He put down the ballpeen hammer he was holding and straightened, groaning a bit as he stretched his back. “The footboard was loose,” he said. “Rattling like a pebble in a tin. Can I do aught for you?”
“Oh, aye, Peter,” Eilish said. “If you’re not too busy—would you take me to Seven Dials? To see Mackie? I haven’t seen the wee one in ever so long. Could you?”
Peter tugged his vest down over his round belly and smiled. “Seeing as how Mr. Franklin’s gone off to Whitehall with Dr. Pringle, I don’t see why not, miss. He’ll be there all the day, he said. Fetch your wrap, though. There’s a breeze, and a bit o’ fog coming off the river, though we see the sun just now.”
“Oh, ta, Peter! I’ll be no more than a minute!” She felt worlds better as she trotted upstairs for her cloak. She heard Cook’s voice in Mrs. Stevenson’s parlor as she passed. With her bonnet on and her cloak over her shoulders, she hurried down the three flights to the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she picked up a broad knife, but she tried to ignore them. She wouldn’t be playing today, in any case. She cut three thick ragged slices of cake, spreading them with sweet butter and layering them together. She wrapped the whole in a clean napkin and tucked it under her cloak. She could hardly wait to see Mackie’s pleasure as he ate them.
When she returned to the stableyard, Peter had hitched the horse to the little carriage. He tipped his hat to her, his cheeks creasing cheerfully. “At your service, milady.”
“Oh, la, Peter,” Eilish said tartly. “Me lady, indeed. Me da would’ve said you’ve been on a visit to Blarney Castle!”
He wore a heavy cape-collared overcoat and brown leather gloves. He opened the door of the carriage and held it for her. “Can’t I ride up top with you, Peter?” she begged. “Since it’s just the two of us?”
“Nay, miss. ’Tis not seemly. And too cold! In with you now, and no arguments.”
Peter was right, she found. She felt snug and warm inside the closed carriage, away from the bite of the wind. She sank into the seat, and gave in again to her weakness and fatigue. She leaned her head against the red plush as they left the stableyard and rolled up Craven Street to the Strand. Her eyes were heavy, and she slept a little. When a jolting of the carriage woke her, she saw they were already in Monmouth Street, almost to Seven Dials. They had driven into a heavy fog that obscured the leaning tops of the buildings. She sat up abruptly. How long had it been since she had seen Seven Dials? She had come to Craven Street in November, and it was now January! She hadn’t been back once in all that time.
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