The blackberries were fattening once more in the hedgerows, but Otto waited his moment to begin their gathering. He circled them at distance for a day or two, choosing instead to focus on the flower beds. Once these were done, he raked and replenished the compost heap in a corner of the garden, barely glancing over at the ripening harvest in the hedgerows. From the top of the heap of sweet-smelling compost, he stood and gazed at the milky haze over the lake. Splinters of light illuminated the distant vineyards. He seemed to forget for an instant where he was. Such moments aside, however, his mental faculties had grown no worse in the year or so since leaving hospital in London. If anything, they seemed to have slightly improved.
One day, while Anika was out shopping in town, he decided that the blackberries could wait no longer. They might rot or burst if left ungathered. Anika always encouraged him to wear gloves when working in the garden, but the battered old pair he usually wore lay discarded down by the rose bushes. This happened when she was not around to keep an eye on him. Otto didn’t mind the thorns and brambles pricking his fingertips. They made him feel strangely alive.
Having reached a decision, he made his way to the bottom of the garden with the help of his wooden cane. He had regained some strength in the fifteen months since his last episode of surgery, and carried the walking stick as a precaution, these days, rather than from necessity. Once he was close enough to properly view the hedgerows, he noted how abundant the blackberries were this year. Setting aside the cane and reaching upwards, he plucked one of them and tasted it cautiously, wondering if the memories would assail him. But nothing came. Instead he found himself savouring an intense sweetness.
‘They’re just blackberries,’ he said, with a lick of his fingers, settling down on his haunches to begin work.
He had filled two plastic bags when he heard the distant trilling of the telephone from the villa. Anika had turned up the volume on the handset before heading into town, one of countless small acts of thoughtfulness she performed on any given day. By the time Otto had raised himself to his feet and made his way up to the villa, the ringing had stopped. He pressed the playback button on the answering machine, which was also turned up to maximum volume, and listened to the message as he went through to the kitchen. There he washed the juice from his fingers and dried his hands on his old corduroy trousers. He kept forgetting, these days, that there were things called towels.
Returning to the living room, he picked up the receiver and dialled ‘return’.
‘Daniel? It’s your father.’
‘Hello, Dad. I thought you’d be out with Anika at your Pilates class.’
‘No, that’s on Wednesday … every other Wednesday, to be precise. This new health regime she has devised for me is more merciful than I had feared.’
‘I’m glad I caught you at home, anyway. I thought I should let you know the sad news. The demolition of Marlowe House began as planned this morning. We did all that we could … I’m sorry.’
Otto paused a second before replying with a note of resignation.
‘It’s a great shame, but the news isn’t exactly unexpected.’
‘There are some disappointed people in the profession today. I heard Jorge on the radio just now and he was railing against the decision. Wanted to know why one of our finest living architects wasn’t receiving the respect he deserved.’
‘Jorge said that? Clearly he’s mellowed with age. The last time I saw him – must be ten years ago now – he called me a prick to my face.’
Daniel smiled, despite himself.
‘He’s by no means the only one who feels that way. Many others are echoing his sentiments. An important building is an important building, whatever the prevailing Zeitgeist. It’s frustrating that we couldn’t get the authorities to see this.’
‘You’re kind, but I suspect the disappointment is far from universal. Plenty of people will welcome the decision, I’m sure. The real shame is that some of the residents wanted to stay in their homes. I wish we could have done something more, for their sakes.’
Otto was keen to know what had happened to the tenants he met during his stay there. Mrs Pham, he had heard from; they wrote to each other, occasionally. A few months earlier, she had returned to Ho Chi Minh City, to live with the eldest of her sons. She was readjusting well to life in Vietnam, she had told him.
But what about the others, he wondered – Joe and Roz, Ravi and the young lad Mikey?
‘Did you manage to make any of those enquiries I mentioned?’ he asked.
‘I did, but I’m afraid I drew a blank.’
‘Blast. I should have asked you to look into it much earlier. Everything I do is behind the pace, nowadays.’
‘I spoke to someone from the local authority, who confirmed they had all moved on some time ago. But nobody was able to give any indication where.’
‘Thanks for trying. I imagine they will be okay. It would have been nice to know for certain, that’s all.’
Otto reflected for a moment.
‘And they never even broadcast the documentary.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, Dad. I spoke to Chloe about it a short while back.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She was embarrassed, naturally, and very apologetic. She tried to persuade her producers to treat it more kindly, but they said the footage was less exciting than they had hoped. “Nothing much happened on camera,” they told her. “The old boy didn’t give much away.” And so they decided to shelve the film altogether. Ran something on a new comedy festival instead.’
‘Oh well,’ said Otto. ‘I never was a great fan of television … although Anika, as you can guess, was none too happy about their decision. Nevertheless, all things considered, it was a more productive experience than I’d anticipated.’
Daniel, at this point, seemed to read his father’s thoughts.
‘That reminds me. Suzie asked me to confirm it with you. We’re still planning to make it over with the children for half-term, if that’s okay?’
‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’re both looking forward to it greatly.’
Once the call had finished, Otto returned to the kitchen and emptied the blackberries into several airtight containers, colour-coded according to their degree of ripeness. He was following Anika’s instructions to the letter.
‘I think I’ll make us a nice pie this weekend,’ he said aloud.
Walking slowly down the corridor to his study, and leaning on his cane a little more lightly than was once the case, he pushed open the door and took his seat at the desk beside the window to study the trees. The soft morning light gave them an autumnal sheen. The forest had shaken off summer’s uniformity and wore its multicoloured garb with some style.
Otto paused to observe the orange-yellow patterning of the leaves.
She used to wear bright dresses dyed with henna.
Balancing his spectacles on the tip of his nose, he searched out some notepaper in the drawer, unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and settled down to begin writing. One elbow rested on the surface of the desk, his fingers touching gently to his temple. His other hand moved across the page in long and sweeping strokes, sketching out the music of his thoughts.