Page 55 of Life Out of Order

“Well, it was actually the perfect thing to say. If you had said anything complicated I might not have understood you. It held the promise of something, an adventure, a secret. I had been obedient until then. My parents had always been strict about it, no time travel allowed.”

“Can you control it?”

“Not completely. Better than you can, though.”

“Were your parents . . . ?”

Oliver shakes his head. “No. They were normal people. Not time travelers. Just poets.” He sighs. “I think I need another drink. You?”

I nod. He extracts himself from the sofa and pads into the kitchen, returning after a few minutes with two glasses of Scotch, one with ice. He sits next to me, as close as he dares.

“So you came here?” I ask. “What happened then?”

Oliver says, “I’ve already told you more than I meant to. You’ll get there soon, I think. No need to spoil it.” He offers me his enormous hand. My own hands aren’t small, but when I place my hand in his I feel engulfed. I can feel his wedding ring against my palm.

“Who are you married to?”

He looks uncomfortable and lets go of my hand. “I’m fucking this up, Alba. Let’s talk about it another time.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “One of those things. You just got married yourself, didn’t you? A few months ago?”

“Yeah. It was in August . . .” I catch his eye and stop. Danger. Do not proceed. I wonder what we can talk about painlessly. “Play something for me?”

“Of course.” Oliver stands up and stretches, tries to loosen his neck and shoulders. He sits at the piano. “Anything in particular?”

“That étude. The Chopin.”

He laughs. “It’s been a while. I don’t know . . .” I stand at his side, slightly behind him. He rests his fingers on the keys. Then he plays.

His hands move together in waves, up and down the keyboard, generating tempests of sound. I have not heard the piece played this way before; it is familiar and not, as though the architecture of the melody has subtly changed. It sounds darker, sadder than I remember. He plays very fast, gathers everything into a gigantic momentum, back and forth, up and down, his body following his hands, back and forth, until it all ceases, over before I know it. The chords reverberate in the almost bare room. In all the years the piano has been there I’ve never heard it really played. The étude has enervated my body, leaving me with a kind of languid, open feeling.

Oliver frowns. “This thing needs to be tuned.”

“Well, yeah. Do you know any piano tuners in the early 1960s?”

“Of course.” He smiles. “One of the best, Mike Pearl, is still working, we’ll call him.” He begins to play “The Alcotts” by Charles Ives. Then he stops. “I wonder if it’s too late to call him tonight?”

“It’s after midnight.”

“But this is an emergency.” The piano does sound like it’s in pain. Oliver is sort of joking but not quite.

I say, “That bothers you very much?”

He shrugs. “If I could do it myself I’d stay up and tune it. I’ll be thinking about it all night otherwise. Maybe that’s a good idea, I could train as a piano tuner? It would be a good skill to have, if I’m trapped in some random time with an out-of-tune piano . . .”

I laugh. But he’s considering it. “Do you have perfect pitch?” I ask him.

“Yes,” Oliver says. “But that isn’t why I’m so fixated on this, I’d be the same if the toaster were broken or the roof was leaking. I need order. I need things to be as functional as possible.” He regards me, smiles. “I get all the chaos I need from you.”

“Me? I’m pretty tidy.”

“You’re a dangerous maniac.”

I am strangely flattered. “I am?”

“Don’t look so pleased about it.” Oliver is still smiling. “You cause problems for yourself.”