The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [22]
Noel tried to fight through the sound of Mrs. Holtzberger’s rectangles, as well as the image of her snow-and-rose complexion and stop-sign-red lipstick that went well beyond the boundaries of her mouth. What was she saying? Complaints from the neighbours? They’re chronic complainers. Yes, I know she’s been wandering but that’s all in the past. Yes, she has one now, she has a Medic Alert bracelet … I know she’s not wearing it now. We’ll find it, it’s here somewhere. The house is a mess? A bit of an exaggeration, that. But she doesn’t want to live anywhere else. She wants to live at home, with me. Plus she’s getting better, she really is. Yes, I understand perfectly …
“So if you don’t mind I’ll just begin the MMSE?”
Noel stooped to turn off Scriabin’s muted trombones. “She’s had several examinations already, Mrs. Holtzberger. In fact, her doctor is a world-famous neurologist. Émile Vorta—you may have heard of him.”
“It won’t take long. Nothing to worry about. Is that all right, Mrs. Burun? And may I call you Stella?”
Mrs. Burun’s lips were pursed tightly, as if she were on the brink of helpless laughter. She was recalling that time in Spain—was it Spain?—when Noel had tricked her into laughing for a photograph by doing a demented ballet leap. What’s it called? When you cross your legs back and forth …
“Perhaps you’d like to leave us for a few minutes, Mr. Burun?”
“No, I’ll … stay if you don’t mind.” Noel walked toward the front window.
“Very well. Mrs. Burun, my first question is this: What is the year? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”
Was it Spain or … that other country? Mrs. Burun saw dark weathered bricks in a zigzag pattern, and long arcades. Turin? “Entrechat,” she murmured, smiling.
“I’m sorry? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”
Mrs. Burun gazed straight ahead. Who is this woman? She appears to be waiting for me to say something …
“The year, Stella. Do you know what year it is?”
“The year? Oh, dear me. I would say … nineteen … we’re in the nineties but I …”
Mrs. Holtzberger wrote something down with a stubby pencil. “And what is the season?”
“Fall?”
Looking out the window, Noel sighed deeply. Through the frosted pane, black trees against the banking clouds swam before his eyes.
“What is the month?”
“October?”
“And the date?”
“Sunday?”
“Where are we? What country?”
“I don’t … Canada?”
“What city?”
“Aberdeen?”
“What she means is that she was born in Aberdeen,” said Noel. “The question was confusing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burun, for the … supplementary information. But I’m afraid this test is for your mother only. Now, Mrs. Burun, what is the name of your street? Mrs. Burun?”
“Coppertree Lane?”
“I think she means that we used to live there,” said Noel. “In Babylon, Long Island. Where Rodney Dangerfield was—”
“And what room of the house are we in now, Mrs. Burun?”
“The dining room?”
Noel put his hands on the window sill, for support. He looked up at the dark winter sky and a freezing wind swept through him. She’s taking all the latest prescription drugs, he thought. State-of-the-goddamn-art. Why aren’t they working? Why is nothing working?
“I’m now going to give you three words to remember. And then I want you to repeat them to me. All right? Are you ready? Here are the three words: cucumber, lamp, nickel. Can you repeat those to me, Mrs. Burun? Cucumber, lamp, nickel.”
Stella screwed up her face in concentration. “Cucumber, lamp … I forget the rest. I’m terribly sorry. I’m not myself today, you see …”
“That’s all right, dear, you’re doing fine. I now have a rather tricky task for you. I want you to start from one hundred and count backwards, subtracting seven each time.”
A long silence unspun as the kitchen faucet dripped with a dead beat, like a clock marking off time, like a drum beating a dirge. Images of Europe returned. A funeral in … that city full of water. With blackly ribboned boats, or whatever they’re called, and someone beating a drum. She had thought of her husband as the sound grew louder, as the coffin floated by …
“Mrs. Burun?”