One Station Away by Olaf Olafsson

Author:Olaf Olafsson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-10-09T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

I have put off recalling certain events that might clarify my relationship with Simone. Not that I am trying to avoid it—not intentionally, at any rate. I started reflecting on those incidents again as part of my attempt to understand some of the things Malena said during those final months, because I still seem to be uncovering clues which, for whatever reason, I couldn’t grasp at the time.

Malena and I had known each other for maybe a month when Simone first cropped up in conversation. I don’t remember what the subject was, and it doesn’t matter. I might have been discussing my research, or perhaps we were reminiscing about the evening we met at the Delacorte Theater. What I do remember is that we were sitting out on my balcony watching night descend over the city, the birds disappearing among the leaves on the trees in the back garden, heads under their wings. We had finished eating, and were sitting over our wineglasses; she was leaning back in her chair, her feet on my lap. A half-moon was visible between the towers of the Eldorado on Central Park West, and we made a quick bet on which direction it was moving: she said south, I said north.

We watched it silently drift behind a cloud as I stroked the soles of her feet. It was then that she said, out of the blue:

“She’s in love with you.”

“Pardon?”

“Simone. You know she’s in love with you.”

“Nonsense,” I said.

She smiled.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“There’s never been anything between us,” I said.

“You have to be kind to her,” she said.

Fortunately, the moon brought the conversation to an end as it emerged from behind the cloud, now touching the southern tower.

“You see,” she said. “You lost.”

I was careful to mention Simone as little as possible after that, and Malena saw no reason to bring up her theory again. I’m sure I realized there was some truth in what she said, but I decided not to think about it. They got along well on the few occasions they met, and Malena was friendly and considerate toward her, for example, at hospital get-togethers where she would make sure Simone sat at our table, and always managed to get her to laugh or talk about her interests.

After our trip to Iceland, she brought up Simone’s name more frequently. She did it cleverly so the context always seemed natural and I never suspected anything. Only later—when Malena was dead—did it suddenly all become clear.

Still, it would be wrong of me to use Malena’s words as an excuse, even if they were a desperate attempt on her part to prevent me from being alone after she was gone. She was looking ahead, although she probably knew there was little chance that Simone and I would get together, even with her blessing.

We were staying in Liège. It was about six weeks since Malena had died. I should never have gone on that trip, but somehow I had convinced myself it would do me good.

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