Somewhere There’s Music
Sonja says my eyebrows are like two caterpillars that have fallen in love and spent the last three decades growing closer and closer, eventually having become completely inseparable. I’ve thought about plucking the hairs in between them, but I can’t bring myself to ruin their fun. And no-one seems to think less of me for having a ‘monobrow’ (which is what the kids call it). It’s half past six. I’ve just put on the fancy shirt I bought when we went to Oz last year for our thirtieth anniversary; I’ve brushed my teeth and I have to say, the bloke in the mirror is doing alright for fifty-eight. Still got all my hair, not too wrinkly; maybe a bit on the heavy side, but what does it matter? I enjoy a good steak, a pint or two, and when’s that ever done any harm? Anyway, it runs in the family. I comb my hair back, do up the cufflinks I only ever wear with this shirt, and wander out of the bathroom to see if Sonja’s ready.
“How do I look, hon’?” She does a playful little twirl and smiles, but looks at me searchingly. I do my old trick: the fake double-take, sink to my knees, arms held out, palms up, a rapt expression.
“My God…You’re exquisite…I’ve seen perfection! Now I can die a happy man-”
“Okay! Okay!” she laughs. “I get it! Get up, Norm, you big faker.“ I love it how she still blushes. She tugs at my arm until I stand up.
“I’m not faking – everyone at the restaurant’s gonna be thinking “look at that fat old joker out with his trophy wife”.
Actually, I am faking just a little. Sonja looks a bit tired, and if tonight wasn’t so important, I’d suggest we stayed home.
“Trophy wife! So that’s all I am to you!”
“That’s right – hanging around you makes me look better, and if I can manage to keep my trap shut, people might think I’m as smart as you are, Mrs. PhD”.
“Ha! If there’s one thing I don’t need a doctorate to figure out, Norman Harris, it’s that there’s nothing that can keep you quiet for long.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling all and sundry how proud I am of you. You’ve worked away at this for so many years, and now you’re finally there”.
Sonja has invited her supervisor, the head of the English department, another doctorate student she’s worked with and their partners. Funnily enough, I haven’t met any of them before – up until a few months ago, I was working fifty or more hours a week and loving it – I was born to be a bank manager.
“Well, you can tell them, if you like,” she smiles, “but we’d better get a move on. I told everyone we’d be there at seven”.
She parks the car on Colombo Street and we walk around the corner. The restaurant is Sonja’s favourite – we first came here before we were married. It’s had a couple of name changes and renovations since, but it’s still a restaurant and every time we come back, it still brings back those memories. The place is pretty popular, but it’s a weeknight and we don’t have to wait long before we’re seated. It looks like we’re the first ones here. Sonja puts on her rectangular reading glasses that I think make her look like a sexy librarian, and takes a look at the menu. She’s short and slender; her hair has gone grey early, but she doesn’t dye it. She doesn’t need to – she wears it short and sophisticated, and it frames her face in a silvery halo. She’s wearing the moon-shaped earrings I gave her on our tenth anniversary, which are a reminder of ‘our’ song:
It was the first time we came to this restaurant, in 1975. We’d been going steady for a few months by then. I was working as a pretty low-level clerk at the bank; I’d been saving my measly wage and this night I could afford to take Sonja out somewhere special. She’s always had much more refined tastes than me; she was keen on jazz, and knew the difference between various types of wine, that sort of thing. This restaurant had a dance floor back then, and it was one of the few places that played her sort of music. She’d been casually mentioning it for ages. I hadn’t told her where we were going that night – in fact, I’d convinced her to wear a blindfold until we got there. I can tell you, I got a few funny looks from people as I led her by the hand down Colombo Street and ’round the corner of Hereford Street, up to the entrance of the restaurant. I took off the blindfold with a flourish.
“Voila!”
“Norm! How did you know?”
“I can take a hint,” I laughed.
We sat, ate and drank, talked and laughed for ages. At one point, a new record started playing over the restaurant speakers – a few tinkly piano notes by way of introduction, and then a woman’s voice, low and smooth and powerful, singing the opening line:
Somewhere there’s music…
“Ooh, this is Ella Fitzgerald. I love her,” Sonja said. She shut her eyes and leaned back in her chair, listening intently.
Somewhere there’s music
How faint the tune
Somewhere there’s heaven
How high the moon
There is no moon above
When love is far away too
Till it comes true
That you love me as I love you
Somewhere there’s music
How near, how far
Somewhere there’s heaven
It’s where you are
The darkest night would shine
If you would come to me soon
Until you will, how still my heart
How high the moon
I reached over and touched her arm.
“Did you want to dance?”
She smiled.
“Sure, Norm, I’d love to.” So we did. Though I’m big, I’ve always been light on my feet, and I can dance passably. I thought the words to the song were a bit wussy really, but Sonja seemed to like them, and I certainly didn’t mind that she wanted to dance with me, with her head resting on my shoulder and a strange half-smile when she looked up at me. And in the years since, I suppose I’ve got over myself a bit, and my opinion of the song’s changed. It’s simple, but it does describe how we feel when we have to be apart.
As a matter of fact, since that first dance thirty years ago, we’ve hardly ever been apart longer than a few days. When we left the restaurant and walked to my car, Sonja looked up at me, all nervous, and said,
“You know, Norm…my flatmates are away all weekend…If you want, you could stay…”
Much later that night, she slept curled up against me, her head pillowed on my shoulder again. The curtains weren’t shut properly, and moonlight was flooding in. I lay awake for hours, hardly breathing, watching the light moving over the pale curves of her body; it was that memory, more than the song, that I was thinking about when I bought the earrings. It’s still one of my favourite memories of her – one I hope I’ll never forget.
“Are you there, Norm? People are just arriving”.
I blink, look around. I think I did drift off for a minute there. I look over towards the door – a tall, skinny man about my age, wearing one of those jackets with the leather elbow-patches, is looking around at the tables. He sees Sonja, nods and strides over to us.
“Norm, this is Stanley Petherton, the head of English,” Sonja says.
I shake his bony hand.
“Norm Harris. Pleased to meet you, Stan”.
“Yes, and I you,” he says. “Ah – but it’s Stanley, please. I do detest contractions”
“Sure, mate,” I say. “Have a seat.” He sits down, and the waitress comes to take drink orders. I ask for a Steinlager, Sonja gets a glass of gewürztraminer and Professor Petherton a whisky and ginger ale.
We make polite conversation for a few minutes, then the rest of the party arrive all at once. Sonja introduces me to her supervisor, a large and friendly young woman named Janet, and her husband Dave; last of all I meet the other doctorate student, a slightly bland lad called James, and his girlfriend Marie. Everyone takes their seats, and before long, they’re all chatting like old friends – talking about Sonja’s thesis on Sargeson, discussing the latest news about budget cuts and changes to the Arts faculty structure…Though it’s all foreign to me, I’d usually dive into the conversation regardless, but I’m starting to feel a bit crook. Sort of tired and irritable, and not my usual outgoing self. I think maybe it was a bad idea to go out tonight – why did we decide to go out, anyway? I’m getting dizzy.
All of a sudden, I’m not sure where I am, or even what year it is. Who are these people at our table?
“Norm?” I look in Sonja’s direction, and see her concerned expression. She’s wearing moon-shaped earrings, which remind me of something…I can hear a woman singing, low and smooth and powerful, and that voice calms me down and reminds me why I’m here – this is Sonja’s favourite restaurant. They’re playing our song.
Somewhere there’s music
How near, how far…
“Sonja, they’re playing our song! Ella Fitzgerald, you remember? Come on, let’s have a dance!” I stand up, reach over and tug her arm, knocking over someone’s wine glass.
“Darling, what are you talking about? I don’t hear anything. There’s no dance floor here anymore – Norm, what’s the matter?”
I suddenly realise that something is very wrong. I don’t hear the music anymore. I’m back in the present, but disoriented. Scared. Sonja is holding me up, keeping me from falling. I’m blubbering like a little kid, and I’m not even sure why. I lean heavily on Sonja. Her thin arms are wrapped around me, patting me on the back. I don’t want to look at her friends. I hear her address them:
“Everyone – look, I’m very sorry about all this. You’ve all been so supportive over the last few months since Norm’s diagnosis. I really wanted you to meet Norm – he’s been so encouraging to me – I don’t know if I would even have gone back to university without him pushing me to follow my ambition. I just didn’t expect it would turn out like this, but, well, I guess we’re still getting used to dealing with his lapses…”
“Hey, Sonja, don’t worry about it,” I hear someone say. Janet, I think. “It’s okay. Really. You guys go on home, have a rest – we can still celebrate your acheivement in your absence – right, everyone?
There are murmurs of agreement. I turn my head to look at the table. The tall, skinny man – Stanley – is fastidiously dabbing at his wine-soaked shirtsleeve with a napkin. I want to say something to them, explain that I’m not normally like this – I’m Norm Harris, everyone’s best mate, one of the top bank managers in Christchurch – but Sonja has my arm, is leading me toward the door.
As we head to the front desk, I’m starting to come to my senses. I scribble down my signature, and the waiter hands my credit card back to me. He looks like he wants to say something, but I glare at him and he thinks again. I turn to Sonja.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve embarassed you”.
“Norm! Yes, you have, but that doesn’t matter! Come on, we need to get you home”.
Sonja drives home in total silence, focusing completely on her driving. Her small hands are clamped around the steering wheel, knuckles white. Neither of us feels like talking. I’m sinking into depression, cursing myself for how I behaved, but freaking out because these outbursts are getting harder and harder to control, and soon I won’t be able to control myself at all. The doctor says, though not in these words, that I’ve probably got less than a decade before I’m a complete vegetable. I’ve just taken early retirement from the bank because I don’t want to waste a minute of the time I’ve got left – already I’m finding myself forgetting people’s names, having to be reminded where I put things…one night a couple of weeks ago I started cooking our dinner, then wandered off to do something else, completely forgot I’d left the stove on, and nearly burned down the kitchen.
We park the car and go inside, and she still hasn’t said anything. I head to the bedroom and hang my jacket up, and when I turn around, she’s standing in the doorway watching me, tears welling up in her green eyes. She takes a step toward me.
“I feel pretty bad about tonight,” I say. “How I acted – you know I didn’t mean it. That wasn’t me. But hey,” I lighten my tone a bit, “in a couple of days, maybe I’ll have forgotten all about it!”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Sonja didn’t cry when we got the diagnosis. That was five months ago. I bawled my guts out right there in the specialist’s office, but she just sat quietly and squeezed my hand. I guess she’s been holding it all back since then, trying to be strong for me, and now she’s letting it out. She drops her purse and falls face-first onto the bed, sobbing like I’ve never seen her do before, like she just can’t control it. I sit next to her, scoop my hand over her shoulder to turn her over, but she hits my arm away. So I sit there for a good five minutes and watch her shake and listen as her sobs give way to a low, hoarse groan. Slowly, she turns her head to look up at me.
“Norm-” Another wave of sobbing washes over her, and I lie down and carefully rub my big hand up and down her back until she’s able to speak again.
“Hey, It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m still here”.
“No…I’m…losing you, Norm – you’re being taken away from me, piece by piece, and – and soon, maybe a couple of years, maybe ten, you won’t know who I am! Norm, I can’t stand it!”
She’s calming down now, getting control of her breathing, wiping her nose. It’s not like me to be lost for words. But I can’t think of anything to say that’ll make Sonja feel better. I wish I had something, even a lie that would let her forget about this for a while…But it’s a death sentence I’ve got, and you can’t put a spin on that. I think she’d kill me right now if I made another joke about it.
“Sonja, it’s a hell of a thing to happen. It’s not fair. But look, I still think I’m a lucky bloke. I’m so lucky. ‘Cause out of all the guys that were after you, you picked me. And look at what we’ve had – more than thirty years together…”
I’m starting to get a bit teary myself. I brush Sonja’s hair back and look her in the eye.
“One of these days, I’m going to start to forget all of that. I’ll need you to remind me. I’m counting on you to keep reminding me – because I want to hold on to all our memories as long as I can. I don’t want you to lose me either…”
Now we’re both crying, and it seems the best thing to do is just stay here, clinging to each other like we could stop the passing of time through the fading strength of my arms; through Sonja’s fingers digging painfully into my back.
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