stepped in and locked the door behind me. Then it happened: the event that, the accident aside, was the most significant of my whole life.
It happened like this. I was standing in the bathroom with the door locked behind me. I’d used the toilet and was washing my hands in the sink, looking away from the mirror above it—because I don’t like mirrors generally—at this crack that ran down the wall. David Simpson, or perhaps the last owner, had stripped the walls, so there was only plaster on them, plus some daubs of different types of paint where David had been experimenting to see how the room would look in various colours. I was standing by the sink looking at this crack in the plaster when I had a sudden sense of déjà vu.
The sense of déjà vu was very strong. I’d been in a space like this before, a place just like this, looking at the crack, a crack that had jutted and meandered in the same way as the one beside the mirror. There’d been that same crack, and a bathtub also, and a window directly above the taps just like there was in this room—only the window had been slightly bigger and the taps older, different. Out of the window there’d been roofs with cats on them. Red roofs, black cats. It had been high up, much higher than I was now: the fifth or sixth or maybe even seventh floor of an old tenement-style building, a large block. People had been packed into the building: neighbours beneath me and around me and on the floor above. The smell of liver cooking in a pan had been wafting to me from the floor below—the sound too, the spit and sizzle.
I remembered all this very clearly. There’d been liver cooking on the floor below—the smell, the spit and sizzle—and then two floors below that there’d been piano music. Not recorded music playing on a CD or the radio, but real, live music, being played on a piano by the man who lived there, a musician. I remembered how it had sounded, its rhythms. Sometimes he’d paused, whenever he’d hit a wrong note or lost his place. He’d paused and started the passage again, running through it slowly, slowing right down as he approached the bit he’d got wrong. Then he’d played it several times correctly, running through it again, speeding it up again till he was able to play it back at speed without fluffing it up. I remembered all this clearly—crystal-clear, as clear as in a vision.
I remembered it all, but I couldn’t remember where I’d been in this place, this flat, this bathroom. Or when. At first I thought I was remembering a flat in Paris. Not the one I’d stayed in when I did my course—that hadn’t looked anything like the one unfolding in my memory, inside or outside: there’d been no cats on roofs, no liver and no piano music, no similar bathroom with an identical crack on the wall—but perhaps someone else’s: Catherine’s, or someone we’d both known, another student. But we hadn’t visited any of the other students’ places. No: it wasn’t Paris. I searched back further in my past, right back to when I’d been a child. No use. I couldn’t place this memory at all.
And yet it was growing, minute by minute as I stood there in the bathroom, this remembered building, spreading outwards from the crack. The neighbour who’d cooked liver on the floor below me had been an old woman. I’d passed her on the stairs most days. I had a memory of passing her outside her flat’s door as she placed her rubbish on the landing. She’d say something to me; I’d say something back, then carry on past her. She’d been putting out her rubbish for the concierge to pick up. The building that I was remembering had had a concierge, just like Parisian apartment buildings have. The staircase had had iron banisters and worn marble or fake marble floors with patterns in them. I remembered what it had been like to walk across them: how my shoes had sounded on their surface, what the banisters had felt like to the touch. I remembered how it had felt
It happened like this. I was standing in the bathroom with the door locked behind me. I’d used the toilet and was washing my hands in the sink, looking away from the mirror above it—because I don’t like mirrors generally—at this crack that ran down the wall. David Simpson, or perhaps the last owner, had stripped the walls, so there was only plaster on them, plus some daubs of different types of paint where David had been experimenting to see how the room would look in various colours. I was standing by the sink looking at this crack in the plaster when I had a sudden sense of déjà vu.
The sense of déjà vu was very strong. I’d been in a space like this before, a place just like this, looking at the crack, a crack that had jutted and meandered in the same way as the one beside the mirror. There’d been that same crack, and a bathtub also, and a window directly above the taps just like there was in this room—only the window had been slightly bigger and the taps older, different. Out of the window there’d been roofs with cats on them. Red roofs, black cats. It had been high up, much higher than I was now: the fifth or sixth or maybe even seventh floor of an old tenement-style building, a large block. People had been packed into the building: neighbours beneath me and around me and on the floor above. The smell of liver cooking in a pan had been wafting to me from the floor below—the sound too, the spit and sizzle.
I remembered all this very clearly. There’d been liver cooking on the floor below—the smell, the spit and sizzle—and then two floors below that there’d been piano music. Not recorded music playing on a CD or the radio, but real, live music, being played on a piano by the man who lived there, a musician. I remembered how it had sounded, its rhythms. Sometimes he’d paused, whenever he’d hit a wrong note or lost his place. He’d paused and started the passage again, running through it slowly, slowing right down as he approached the bit he’d got wrong. Then he’d played it several times correctly, running through it again, speeding it up again till he was able to play it back at speed without fluffing it up. I remembered all this clearly—crystal-clear, as clear as in a vision.
I remembered it all, but I couldn’t remember where I’d been in this place, this flat, this bathroom. Or when. At first I thought I was remembering a flat in Paris. Not the one I’d stayed in when I did my course—that hadn’t looked anything like the one unfolding in my memory, inside or outside: there’d been no cats on roofs, no liver and no piano music, no similar bathroom with an identical crack on the wall—but perhaps someone else’s: Catherine’s, or someone we’d both known, another student. But we hadn’t visited any of the other students’ places. No: it wasn’t Paris. I searched back further in my past, right back to when I’d been a child. No use. I couldn’t place this memory at all.
And yet it was growing, minute by minute as I stood there in the bathroom, this remembered building, spreading outwards from the crack. The neighbour who’d cooked liver on the floor below me had been an old woman. I’d passed her on the stairs most days. I had a memory of passing her outside her flat’s door as she placed her rubbish on the landing. She’d say something to me; I’d say something back, then carry on past her. She’d been putting out her rubbish for the concierge to pick up. The building that I was remembering had had a concierge, just like Parisian apartment buildings have. The staircase had had iron banisters and worn marble or fake marble floors with patterns in them. I remembered what it had been like to walk across them: how my shoes had sounded on their surface, what the banisters had felt like to the touch. I remembered how it had felt
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