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“And for you?”
He rocks his hand back and forth, yes and no. “More often for Zach.”
I say, “I do not cause problems for Zach.” Even to myself I sound petulant.
“Okay,” Oliver says, reasonably. “You do not cause problems for Zach.”
“What do you mean, I cause problems for Zach?”
“Most of the difficulties in Zach’s life will stem from a lack of information. You won’t tell him things he needs to know.”
“Like what?” I demand.
“Like . . .” Oliver’s gaze moves across the room. “All this. Your life. Zach doesn’t know what goes on in half of your life.”
I’m getting panicky. “You don’t understand, it’s to protect him. He knows about the time travel, I told him that.”
“You could hardly avoid telling him that much, you live together.” Oliver stands up. “Don’t worry, I’m not advocating telling Zach anything. I exist in the space he doesn’t know about.”
Oliver walks out of the room, and I think he’s angry with me. Then I hear the toilet flush. He returns and quite calmly takes another cigarette from the pack. “Would you like another one?” I shake my head. He lights his and stands by the fireplace smoking and looking at me. “I’m sorry, Alba. I don’t mean to criticize. And I like Zach.”
“I just . . . Who are you, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Who’s asking? To the Chinese government I’m a dissident. To my parents I was a treasure to be hidden away. To people in my own time, I’m a pianist.”
“And to me?” I ask quietly.
“To you I’m a stranger who humbly begs a bed for the night.”
“Well, sure. I mean, you sort of live here, don’t you?”
“Sort of. Yes. As much as possible.” He stands there, smoking, and the silence is filled by a train rushing past. “Play something for me, will you?”
The anxiety I feel about Oliver’s sudden presence is replaced by performance anxiety. “I don’t know—I can’t.”
“It’s all right. You’ve done it before. Play anything, and then I’ll go off to bed and you can relax.”
It is easier to do it than to argue. I go upstairs and come down again with my violin. I fuss with the bow and the tuning, intimidated by Oliver and his perfect pitch. I am flustered and angry, I am devoid of music, he ought to know better than to ask me to play. I feel as though I’m auditioning, my hands are cold and sweat runs down my back. I raise my bow and empty my mind. My grandfather used to say, When in doubt, play Paganini. I play Caprice No. 16 as fast as possible, tiny and explosive, there, done: may-I-be-excused-please?
“Brava!” says Oliver. “You did it.” He looks absurdly pleased. He knows, I think. I haven’t played for anyone but my family in a year. I place the violin in its case along with the bow and wipe my hands surreptitiously on the back of my skirt.
“Bedtime,” I say.
“Good night, Alba,” says Oliver. He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a nightcap, then gives me a little wave as he goes up the stairs. I hear him moving around up there—the door shuts with an emphatic click, the bed springs moan. I sit on the sofa, overwhelmed and homesick. I can feel a headache coming on, and soon enough I am gone again.
Sunday, December 28, 2025 (Alba is 24, Zach is 25)
Alba: It’s almost dawn when I get home. It’s snowing, and the snow is fat with water and has just begun to stick to the grass. Zach left the back door unlocked. I hurry inside, eager to get warm, to put on some clothes and have some breakfast. There’s a light on in the living room. Zach is curled on the couch, sound asleep, although the radio is quietly informing us of traffic jams on the Kennedy and a 70 percent chance of the snow turning to rain. I turn it off, and the silence wakes him.
He reaches out a hand to me. I sit next to him on the couch. He has an orange plaid blanket from our bed wrapped around him, and he gives me half. “Where have you been?” he asks.
“1964,” I tell him, and this is not a lie.
“What’s the good word from 1964?”
I shrug. “Not much going on; I was in a Sears store. I think maybe the one on Lawrence.” This is somewhat true; I started the night in Sears but left as soon as I stole some clothes.
“Hmm. Well, at least you were safe. Are you hungry?”
