I was tossing a salad in the kitchen and Jenny was practising her violin in the living room when I heard three sombre notes, followed by six or seven rapid ones. And Sarah turned to me and asked me when she had learned them.
I took her to music today, remember?
But that’s Bach, she said, from the cello suites.
You sure?
I played them yesterday, from the Casals CD.
She hears everything, I said.
And the playing stopped now and Jenny appeared in the doorway.
Where did you learn that? Sarah asked.
From the cellist, she said.
What cellist?
On the way to music. She was playing.
You heard a street musician?
I couldn’t see her. Only heard her.
And you worked out how to play it?
I can hear it, she said. So can Jessica.
Ah. Your imaginary friend.
Yes, she said. She’s helping me to learn.
And she moved her fingers over an invisible neck.
Do you think it’s healthy, she asked, as we lay in the midnight heat on the bed without covers, these imaginary friends?
Maybe she should see the therapist too, I murmured.
Stop it, she said, and moved her body towards me. I could feel the perspiration on my stomach meeting hers.
Can’t we just get back to loving each other?
We can try, I said.
I never stopped, she said. During, before or after.
Enough, I said, and I put my arms around her and the slow thing began.
Come on, she said, come on, you can do better than that.
Certainly, I said, and it was like the old times for a while, familiar and easeful, and she gave a long and satisfied sigh.
I bought the book, she said.
What book? I asked.
The book about the nine suitcases. I read about how they made it through. They were in separate camps. They tried to stop loving each other. It would have made it easier. But they didn’t succeed.
So they failed too.
Yes. They couldn’t stop. Can we stop, do you think?
Shall we try?
I’m not sure, she said, and placed her nose in my armpit.
You smell different.
But she didn’t. She smelt just like she always did, in the heat, after the event.