The Memory Painter: A Novel Read online

  THREE

  DAY 1—FEBRUARY 6, 1982

  The reversal of our patients’ symptoms has been staggering. I do not want to present our findings until we have drawn absolutely conclusive results, but we are on the precipice of obtaining a cure for Alzheimer’s. Each patient shows a complete reversal of plaque formation as well as synaptic regeneration at levels far beyond our projections. However, it is the synaptic and glial cell activity that has been the most surprising.

  One of the strangest side effects is that patients are recalling memories from early childhood and infancy. These are memories they had no recollection of, even prior to their illness. Are these memories real, and if so, why couldn’t they be accessed until now?

  We find ourselves in uncharted territory and I cannot help but ask the question: if the drug is this effective on a damaged mind, what would be its effect on a healthy one?

  This question consumes me and my impulse to try the drug has become too great. I have become my own case study and have taken several doses, reassuring myself that I am not the first scientist in history willing to use his body in an experiment.

  I have not discussed what I have done with the team yet, let alone Diana. I am worried they will think I’ve lost my mind. I plan to tell them tomorrow and perform a series of sleep studies on myself.

  I’ve decided to keep a journal of results with as much transparency as possible, to leave a trail behind so I can remember where I started and why I began. What’s happening to me now presents a truly unforeseen and confounding variable. My experiences are taking me beyond the scope of my imagination. I do not have answers. I am not even sure what the questions are.

  MB

  FOUR

  Bryan stared at the chessboard and laughed. He had just met the most amazing woman—a woman who had gone to war with him for two hours and almost won—and he hadn’t even asked her name. Somehow it hadn’t felt necessary.

  Her weakness, he could tell, was that she calculated to extremes instead of trusting her intuition. It didn’t matter if she could see twenty moves ahead if she couldn’t follow the thread in the game. Maybe one day he would talk her into playing blindfolded. Then she might be able to beat him.

  He realized he was already assuming a future where they would meet again—because they would. He was sure of it.

  Bryan had only been at the museum for a few minutes when he saw her. When he did, it was as if his world had stopped and then started again. He had taken those steps toward her involuntarily, needing to dissolve the space between them.

  He had stood beside her, feigning interest in whatever she was looking at, waiting for her to notice him while his artist’s eye memorized every detail about her. She was tall, her body frail and delicate like a dancer, the blond flyaway curls on her head careless and fresh. On some level he felt as if he already knew her, and yet he didn’t know what to say. She was too lovely.

  When she had looked at him, he had stared into her eyes, unable to look away as he recognized lifetimes hidden within them. And meeting her now, he knew without a doubt that the visions he had suffered since childhood were in fact memories. It was something he had tried to convince himself of all his life: that somehow his dreams were pieces of a past that belonged to his soul. Clinging to that belief had somehow helped him feel less insane. The people in his visions had actually lived, and he had found their lives chartered in history, but still he had always wondered if he was deluding himself—until now, because he couldn’t shake his sense of certainty that she had shared those lives with him.

  Bryan had been too stunned to speak to her, so he’d left, or pretended to.

  His only course had been to follow her, although he had felt like a fool, lurking thirty feet behind. What would he say if she turned around and noticed him? How could he explain his actions?

  He had almost lost her on the T, but had relaxed after he realized her destination was Harvard Square. Now he had an excuse to be there.

  Ever since he had returned to Boston three months ago, he found himself at Harvard Square playing chess at least once a week. His love for the game had come after he had remembered the life of Pedro Damiano, a Portuguese chess master who lived in the fifteen hundreds. Pedro had written the first manual on chess strategy to be embraced by the Western world, and after Bryan had remembered Damiano’s life, he had also inherited the man’s expertise for the game—including his joy for playing blindfolded.

  Those memories had come five years ago; and wherever Bryan had lived since, he had always sought out a park where players congregated to play. Within a month of moving back to Boston, he knew all the regulars at Harvard Square. Only two were good enough for him to bother playing, although they could never beat him. They were both men, and the man she had played today was one of them. Bryan had observed the pair from afar and whistled softly to himself when she had won.

  Now as he watched her head back to the T, he stood up, feeling rejuvenated. His decision to move back to his hometown was taking on a whole new dimension, and for the first time in ages he couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

  Whistling a silly tune, he strolled for hours with no destination in mind, the cool breeze of Boston’s autumn enjoyment in itself. The wind danced and caught him, making him walk farther than he had planned, until he found himself standing across the street from the gallery that was hosting his show. He waited for the crosswalk to turn green. I’ll go to the opening this evening, he thought, just for a few minutes. It’ll be fine.

  He glanced at his watch and grimaced. The show was still a few hours away. Maybe he would grab a coffee and go browse the bookstore down the street. Then he could head to the gallery just as the doors were opening at five-thirty. He would pay the owners dutiful compliments about how wonderful the showroom looked, say hello to whoever happened to stop by early, and then be on his way. He assured himself the plan was sound. He could handle conversing with a handful of art lovers. People usually didn’t start turning up at these things until eight or nine.

  As he prepared to step into the street, he felt a searing pain behind his temple.

  He hissed in shock and gripped his forehead. The woman waiting to cross next to him asked if he was all right.

  Bryan closed his eyes, fighting the onset of a vision. Usually they came while he slept and days apart from one another, so to have two within twenty-four hours—and with no trigger in sight—stunned him. He needed to get home before he lost consciousness.

  Muttering, “just a headache,” he raced off, knowing he only had minutes before his mind took him somewhere else.

  FIVE

  THE BLACK RIVER, SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  JANUARY 27, 1837

  Alexander stared out the carriage window and thought that if his life were a book and God had a pen, then George d’Anthès had been written to play the antagonist. Or perhaps the devil held the pen, for there was no doubt an evil heart hid behind the Frenchman’s handsome looks and charming manner. Why else would Alexander find himself in a carriage at dawn on his way to duel with the man?

  He only wished that he had the power to write today’s outcome. It had been years since he had challenged anyone, let alone wielded a pistol. At thirty-seven, Alexander’s world revolved around his wife, their four children, his writing, and whatever money could be earned by it. Yet he longed for the simple solace of his study to write his Peter the Great novel … perhaps his best work yet, if he could ever finish the damned thing.

  With a heavy sigh, Alexander reached out to feel the pistol box. Perhaps it was folly to duel, but he refused to live out his days with the knowledge that he had done nothing to defend his wife’s honor and his manhood. Ever since George d’Anthès had arrived in the city, he had robbed them of both. D’Anthès’ ceaseless and open pursuit of Natalia could not be borne.

  Hailed the beauty of Russia, Natalia outshone every woman at court. Such exquisiteness came with a price and he had been paying it for years, both mentally and financially. His wife
was the belle of every party, and every party required a lovely gown and jewels. They had been living beyond their means and Alexander could not write fast enough to pay his debtors.

  But money was the least of his worries at the moment; he hoped he would not shoot himself or create some other embarrassment, for he knew this contest would be talked about. He was not an egotistical man, but he acknowledged himself as a public figure. His writing had resounded with his countrymen—at least what had not been censored or denied publication.

  The truth was, he wrote as he breathed and could not have stopped the words if he had wanted to. Even now he felt the beginning of a poem swirling among his dark thoughts.

  He had forgotten his talisman today while getting dressed, a turquoise ring given to him by his good friend Nashchokin to protect him against harm. And he had to return to the house to get his coat. Even though he knew it would be terrible luck to retrace his steps, his feet had moved on their own accord.

  These bad omens had started him thinking about the mechanics of destiny, and like an expert engineer, he had taken that notion and begun to craft a poem. If he had not been running late, he would have ordered the driver to pull over then and there so his pen could have free rein. He felt the words forming and only hoped to remember them later.

  The carriage came to a stop and Alexander looked up with surprise. Here so soon—the time had vanished. He had hoped d’Anthès would be late so that he could have more time to gather his thoughts. But upon seeing his rival, the words dancing in his mind faded at once.

  D’Anthès eyed him with a derisive sneer and bowed his head. “I thought you weren’t coming. Old men don’t do well in the morning.”

  Ignoring him, Alexander got out of the carriage and prepared his weapon. He breathed in the cold, marveling at how the snow-covered countryside resembled the one he had imagined for Onegin and Lensky when he had written their duel. Would he die just as his fictional poet Lensky had?

  “Ten paces,” he heard himself insist.

  D’Anthès frowned. “But that’s point-blank range.”

  Alexander nodded and stared at his challenger’s face. Something in d’Anthès’ eyes pulled at him, making him feel that they had played this part before—known hatred for one another before. Had their novel already been written? He felt the lines were there, destined to be enacted. And now here they both were. The ten paces felt like an eternity.

  Turning to face the man who would kill him, Alexander knew his fate. It was as if he had left his lucky turquoise ring behind deliberately—as if somehow he had known in his heart’s darkest chasm that nothing could protect him on this day.

  D’Anthès’ gun fired. Alexander felt the bullet flame in his stomach and dropped to his knees. As pain fogged his mind, he stared at the blood blooming in the snow and thought: I am a winter rose.

  He saw that the bullet had hit exactly where Natalia had forgotten to sew a button back onto his coat and the realization brought his mind back to his duty. “My shot,” he insisted, though his voice sounded faint.

  D’Anthès stood still, but with a slight tremor. Though mortally wounded, Alexander still had the right to shoot. He aimed as straight as his shaking limbs would allow and fired. He saw d’Anthès drop to the ground.

  Alexander fell back. The deed was done. He stared at the sky above him and waited for elation to take hold, but felt only emptiness. “Strange,” he murmured to the clouds, “I thought I would be pleased.”

  * * *

  Alexander floated in and out of consciousness until Natalia’s screams roused him, and he knew he was back home.

  He opened his eyes to find her crying on his chest, and tried to offer her comfort through his pain. “Do not shed tears, my love. It is over.”

  He stroked her hair, feeling her sobs against his body. The public—or the mob, as he liked to call them—had called her cold and selfish and questioned her devotion to him time and time again. But he did not have to explain their love; it filled his heart.

  During the days that followed, he stayed lucid, but only for pockets of time, as eight doctors—including the Tsar’s personal physician—visited his bedside in an attempt to save him. They all knew he was dying. His spirit lingered only because of Alexander’s determination to leave this life without debt so his family would be free.

  In the moments when he was awake, he dictated a list detailing his liabilities, along with a letter to the Tsar asking to be absolved of his obligations. The reply came within a day. Alexander smiled when he read it. The Tsar, who had clipped his wings and prevented him from going abroad, prevented his work from being published—prevented so many things—had freed him in the end.

  He laid his head back on his pillow and stared at his library, where the books he had written sat next to others like old friends. He would miss this life, but he felt happy to leave behind his writing. They were the pages that contained his heart.

  He heard Natalia enter the room. “We don’t have cloudberries,” she said, “but we have cloudberry jam.”

  Alexander held out his hand. “Feed it to me?” She sat beside him. He opened his mouth, feeling the spoon slip inside. The jam tasted like ambrosia. He swallowed it and said, “I want you to remarry.” Natalia held the next spoonful midair, her lip quivering. Though Alexander did not want to continue, he did. “Mourn me and then let my memory go. Find a good man, someone who will provide for you better than I have.”

  Natalia broke down. “A good man? You are the only good man.” She clenched her hand into a fist. “I wish I had been born a man. As God is my witness, if I were a man I would hunt down d’Anthès and kill him.”

  Alexander tried to calm her, but she continued to work herself into a state. “I should have been a man, then I could make him pay for what he’s done!”

  Alexander closed his eyes, unable to stop a smile, imagining his Natalia out for vengeance. How he would miss her. He had known innumerable women in his life, but he had wanted none of them for his own until Natalia. He loved her beauty, her charm, and her girlishness—how polar opposite they were, but how well they understood each other. No one could drive him madder or soothe his spirit more.

  He hoped the world would be kind to her. She was not to blame for this fiasco. His friends had told him d’Anthès still lived, having only suffered a wounded arm. Just as well, he thought. He did not want to have the man’s death on his conscience. Perhaps he was the lucky one. D’Anthès would have his death marked on his soul, a blemish surely impossible to erase.

  Alexander’s mind took him back to his poem. Two days had passed since the duel and he had not yet written it. Perhaps he should ask Natalia for his pen.

  He tried to form the words on his lips, but became distracted as a light drew near, growing brighter with its warmth. The figure of a woman stood shining within it, holding out her hand for him.

  Alexander gazed at her in wonder, knowing he must be dreaming. Lada herself, the ancient goddess of beauty and love, had sprung from a favorite folktale and come for him.

  But her hair was black as night, her eyes a wondrous indigo. Jeweled bands spiraled up her arms and around her neck, and a golden headdress graced the crown of her head like an Egyptian queen. She spoke to him with her eyes, and somehow Alexander heard the words, All that you are will be remembered.

  His entire being filled with peace as his spirit reached out to take her hand. With a last fleeting thought about the poem, he assured himself, I will write it when I wake.

  * * *

  Bryan opened his eyes and saw the painting of Natalia before him. She was lovely even in her grief, clutching her husband’s hand as he took his final breath: He had just painted the moment of Alexander Pushkin’s death.

  Unable to fight the tide of memories, Bryan heard the Russian words pour from him as he cried for Natalia, for their children, for a life now irrevocably gone.

  His rational mind tried to gain control. He forced his breathing to slow and whispered his mantra. “I am her
e now, I’m here now, I’m here now, I’m here now…”

  But the words weren’t working. Overcome by the urge to write, he found a pen and scribbled line after line. After ten minutes he stared at the paper—the writing was in Russian. And Pushkin’s last poem, the one the world never saw, now rested in his hands.

  Bryan ripped the paper to shreds. He didn’t want Alexander Pushkin’s memories. He had not yet recovered from remembering the lifetime of the priest in ancient Rome. Now he had the life of Russia’s greatest, most prolific poet in his head too, all within the span of a few days. He felt besieged.

  Unable to stop himself, he grabbed the nearest paint tubes and started to defile the painting, yelling obscenities in Russian. He didn’t want to see Natalia, to love her, to feel her loss.

  Repeated knocking at the door jarred Bryan from his rampage and saved him from destroying more paintings in the studio. He threw down the paint tubes, stormed over to the door, and whipped it open—screaming in Russian at the poor man standing there.

  The pizza delivery guy took a step back. “Dude. Sorry, you order a pizza?”

  Bryan stood there frozen, his mind blank.

  The pizza guy tried again. “You order pizza? Speak-a-English? This number 401?”

  Bryan shook his head in a daze. “Next door,” he whispered and closed the door.

  He walked back into his studio, becoming aware of his surroundings. The shredded poem littered the floor. His hands and clothes were streaked with paint.

  He picked up the scraps of paper, grabbed the painting and his keys. He needed to get out.

  Outside his building, he passed by the dumpster, threw the painting and the poem into it, and kept going. God, he needed some normality. The past week had been intense. Sometimes the visions came in fragments, like reliving chapters from an autobiography, and other times a life came all at once like a tidal wave. Alexander Pushkin and Origenes Adamantius had both been tidal waves. It felt like drowning.