The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [88]
“Come in, sorry. Here, let me take that … Sorry, Sam, I was just … in the clouds. As usual.”
“JJ made them for you. Brain food.” Samira set the tray down, kissed Noel on both cheeks, giving him a gentle hug in the process.
The contact, only the fleetest touch of skin and hair, aroused Noel from his catatonia like a branding iron. “Thanks. I mean, not for the … I mean for that too, but, you know …” He nodded at the plate of salmon sandwiches encircled by walnuts, carrots and grape tomatoes. “I appreciate it …” He could still feel her kiss-prints burning on his flesh. And especially the … well, keeping my mom company.”
“That’s JJ’s department, not mine, I have to admit. I haven’t been around much these past few days. It’s crunch time at school.”
Noel took a breath, his first in a while. “I understand.” He lifted his gaze from the tray to her face. She was radiant, a vision of beauty. The way she used to look!
“What a great lab this is! JJ gave me the grand tour the other day, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You’re … welcome to come down. Anytime you want.”
“Thanks.” Samira looked away, at the rows of chemicals, trying to conceal her shock at how awful Noel looked. Pallor of a corpse, JJ was right. “Well, bon appétit. I’ll let you eat in peace. And then maybe you should … you know, take a break. I mean, after you’ve done what you have to do …”
“I’ve finished. For the day. My mind’s shot. I don’t suppose … no, never mind.”
“What?”
“You … you wouldn’t like a drink, would you?”
“I’d love one.”
“Really? Great. Here, sit down. No, this chair’s more comfortable. I’ve got something that JJ distilled. A Newfoundland recipe.”
Samira laughed as she sat down. “Screech? Thank God for JJ.”
“Amen.” Noel opened the bottom drawer of a battered wooden filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle with a skull and crossbones on the label. He filled two beakers to the halfway point, held out one to Samira.
“Thanks. Health and happiness.” She clinked her beaker against his then took a sip. “Hey, that’s not … as bad as I thought it would be.”
Noel laughed. And then grimaced as the rum and God knows what else burned down his chest like lava.
It was Samira’s turn to laugh. “The last time we had a drink I ended up falling asleep on your bed. Which I forgot to apologise for.”
“My fault entirely. I was … away much too long.”
“When you left, I think it was my turn to ask some personal questions.”
“You’ve got a good memory.” Noel took another sip, cautiously. “Fire away.”
“I wanted to ask you about …” Samira paused as she noticed the books on the table. “Is this … The Thousand and One Nights?” She picked up one of the volumes and opened it. “A really old edition. Beautiful.” She smiled. “So is this what you’ve been up to all day?”
“No, I … just … wanted to check something out.” He took the book from her. “So what did you want to ask me about?”
She took another sip from her beaker. “About the colours in your head, your synaesthesia. I never knew it existed until I met you, or rather until Norval told me about it. I mean, I know what it is in poetry because we studied it at school. But what is it … you know, what happens inside your brain? Do a lot of people have it?”
Noel reached for his glass. The sensations he had felt not five minutes before—numbness, fogginess, sluggishness—were all converted into their opposites. His mental horizon was clear, cloudless; he was floating in something close to pure happiness. And it wasn’t only from the bathtub rum. He smiled, something he hadn’t done in a while. “It depends on who you talk to. Some researchers put it at one in two thousand, others at one in twenty thousand. But we all have it—we’re all synaesthetes for the first three months of our lives. But we forget this, of course. Infantile amnesia.”
“Norval says you can remember your natal hour.”
“Norval would say something like that. If it’s sounds good he’ll say it.”
“He also predicts you’ll be a great artist one day.