The Memory Key: A Commissario Alec Blume Novel Page 30

  ‘Zoo.’

  ‘Good. So instead of a zero, you picture a Zoo.’

  ‘When do I do this?’

  ‘When you are trying to remember a long number. I am not responsible for this. It is an ancient system.’ Blume pulled out his notebook and pointed to a page where he had copied out the numbers 0 to 9 and the letters to which they corresponded. ‘The number 1 is a D or a T. Make a word. You can put the vowels before or after or both.’

  ‘Eto’o. The footballer.’

  ‘Excellent. I never thought of using names,’ said Blume. ‘So next time you see a 1 that you need to remember, convert it into a picture of him. This will help you in cards, too, by the way. Now a 2 is the letter N. Add a vowel.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What – oh, I get it. Very funny. But your word has to be something you can see, that you can turn into a picture. You can’t picture a “no” so easily.’

  ‘Anna. No, that’s got two n’s.’

  ‘No problem. As long as there is nothing between them. See how it works? But Anna is no good unless you have an image of a particular Anna.’

  ‘There is one in my office. She’s pretty hard to forget. Most beautiful woman alive as it happens.’

  ‘OK. From now on, think of your beautiful Anna instead of number 2. The number 3 is represented by the letter M.’

  ‘Amo, Ama, Oma Mao . . .’

  ‘All right, when you find a word with an image, choose it. The number 4 is an R. Five is an L, 6 is a SH, a J, or a soft G, 7 is a K or a hard C, 8 is a V or an F, and 9 is a B or a P.’

  ‘OK.’

  Blume spun his notebook round. ‘So, say you want to remember the number 27, what would you do?’

  Paolo looked blank.

  ‘You would find a word that has the letter N, for the 2 and then a C or K for the 7. Throw in some vowels between them. Come on, think of a word.’

  ‘NOCS. The Carabinieri special forces.’

  ‘I know what it is, but that would be 270 N-C-S. The S is a zero. But you have the hang of it. See how it works? You need to remember 270, you see Carabinieri in balaclavas. Apparently it can be very useful when gambling.’

  Paolo was frowning at the page, evidently interested, but Blume turned over the leaf and tapped an email address written in the middle. ‘See that? That is Marco’s email address. Marco_08@hotmail.com OK? Name, and what you imagine is the year he signed up.’

  ‘Yeah. He uses this address.’

  ‘Convert 08 back into letters.’ Blume flicked the page back.

  ‘Zero is S or Z and the 8 is F or V,’ said Paolo eventually.

  ‘Let’s use S and F,’ said Blume. ‘Throw in some vowels – any name suggest itself to you?’

  Paolo looked blank again, then it dawned on him. ‘Sofia. I get it. But that’s just sheer coincidence.’

  Blume leaned over and flicked his notebook forward a few pages. ‘I would tend to agree with you, except, look, there. That’s Sofia’s address: Sofia_347@hotmail.com. Now reverse those numbers back into letters – the system was designed to go the other way, but . . . go on, humour me. The 3 is an M.’

  ‘M,’ said Paolo. ‘. . . R . . . C or K.’

  ‘MRC,’ said Blume. ‘Put in two vowels and you get Marco. That is no longer a coincidence. Your brother called himself Marco-Sofia, and she called herself Sofia-Marco. A little lover’s game, see? And now Sofia is dead.’

  Paolo suddenly slapped the table causing the knife to jump. Blume leaned back, slowly.

  ‘Little shit,’ said Paolo. ‘Two-timing . . . stronzetto.’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Marco, meanwhile, seems angry with you, even if you are driving round, following policemen who might suspect him. Why would that be?’

  ‘Because I give Olivia what he can’t. That’s why!’ Paolo stood up. ‘And instead of . . . he sneaks off . . .’ He spun round and looked fiercely at Blume. ‘Did that little fucker kill Sofia?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blume sadly. ‘I was hoping you might tell me.’

  ‘Little bastard’s a good shot. Better than me.’

  ‘If Olivia found out Marco was cheating with Sofia?’

  ‘She’d murder them both,’ said Paolo immediately.

  ‘Or maybe get Marco to kill Sofia?’

  Paolo looked shocked. ‘No. I was kidding. He’s a good shot, but he’s no killer.’

  ‘Thing is, Marco is hard to find these days. If you come across him, Paolo, perhaps you’d bring him to me?’ asked Blume. ‘And maybe you don’t mention any of this to Olivia?’

  Paolo nodded.

  ‘Good man,’ said Blume. ‘This will do your career no end of good as well, if it all works out.’

  ‘No, it won’t. Betray my brother – and to the Polizia?’

  ‘I am not asking for a betrayal. Maybe he has nothing to do with it.’

  A sparkle of hope lit Paolo’s eyes. ‘Have you other hypotheses?’

  ‘Just one,’ said Blume. ‘It’s a good one. I just need to follow the advice of a woman.’

  Chapter 44

  As he crouched over his notebook, which was almost as wide as the rickety hotel table, writing down the facts of the case, he had the sensation that the ceiling was sinking downwards.

  He wrote down the names Marco, Sofia, and Olivia and drew lines upwards from each. Marco’s line split in two, one ending with his father, one with his brother, Paolo, a new entry in his notes. He circled Olivia, then circled her again.

  He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, counted to twenty, and opened them. The ceiling had moved up again, but not by enough to make him feel comfortable. He could do with some air. He examined the window. To open it would require some force to break through the layers of pigeon shit and grime that had glued it closed on the outside. Then all the flakes along with the pieces of grey feather and the strings of soot hanging from above would float into the room, and he would be breathing them all night. He turned on the TV, a massive CRT device that threatened to topple off the dresser and crush his feet.

  He got off his bed, a movement that meant he was already standing by the door and, seeing as he had not felt happy about taking off his shoes and allowing the carpet in his room to fork its filthy pile between his toes, he was fully dressed and ready to leave his room. He grabbed his Fisher book on his way out.

  He descended a flight of stairs at the end of the corridor and discovered an entire wing with a vast ballroom stretching into a veranda and on into the deserted garden beyond, dimly illuminated by a tottering row of white solar lamps that seemed to have been stuck into the grass by a drunk who did not quite make it to the end of the lawn. His footsteps over the wooden dance floor were very loud, so he tried to tread a little more lightly, and turned his steps into a shuffle, a waltz and a little step to the side and a bow to the hundreds of empty seats. He checked the doorway to make sure no one other than the insects and rodents was watching him dance. A majestic staircase with wistful banisters painted gold circled downwards into the bowels of the hotel, and the smell that came up was of rotting vegetables. A few metres away, an identical staircase went upwards. He followed this and found himself back in the hotel lobby, which was empty. No one was at the reception desk. He walked down a dirty plush corridor full of closed doors with half an idea of finding the restaurant, though if he found one he’d try to order only food that came from a tin. Instead, he found himself in a dimly lit bar, with little coloured lamps that reminded him of a place he had been in once in New York, or perhaps reminded him of how he imagined New York bars to be. In any case, it was a place that held out some sort of promise of intimacy and companionship, or at least dignified loneliness on a barstool, such as a handsome movie star might suffer. A few people were muttering, some young people in a corner were laughing, and a television was on and tuned to Discovery Channel, on which a man in a hat was racing through vast tracts of arctic wilderness.

  Still in a New York frame of min
d, he ordered a whiskey sour, just to see. The barman, who was below the legal driving age, nodded confidently, and came back with a glass brimming with ice and pale whiskey. Blume sipped it out of interest.

  ‘This is neat bourbon,’ said Blume. ‘Not a whiskey sour.’

  The barman wagged a finger in vigorous disagreement, then went away, and came back with a bottle of Jack Daniels. ‘There,’ he said, pointing at the label.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Blume. ‘It says bourbon. Actually, it doesn’t say bourbon. But that’s what it is.’

  ‘There,’ insisted the barman. ‘It says sour.’

  Quality Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey, read Blume, noticing for the first time it scanned and rhymed like a country song. He gulped back his drink. ‘Just so you know,’ he said, ‘that is not a whisky sour.’

  ‘You drank it,’ accused the barman.

  Blume took the bottle and poured himself another. ‘Put it on the tab. Room 666.’

  ‘We don’t have a room 666.’

  Blume fished out his enormous clunky brass key. ‘Room 17, then. Do you have any cigarettes?’

  ‘Brand?’

  ‘Rothmans.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gauloises Blue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, you tell me the brands you do have.’

  ‘Marlboro, Camel, MS, Merit, or Lucky Strike.’

  ‘Lucky Strike it is,’ said Blume.

  ‘We don’t sell cigarettes here.’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  The barman looked offended. ‘There’s an automatic dispenser in the lobby.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure, I’m sure. You need your medical or tax card for the machine. It checks your age.’

  ‘OK, have a beer waiting for me when I get back.’

  Getting cigarettes out of the machine turned out to be hard work. Eventually it accepted his medical card and his money, but instead of change, made up the difference by adding a giant pack of brown rolling papers and three lighters to his Lucky Strikes.

  Back in the bar, he settled in a corner and watched men in orange battle their way through a blizzard on TV, and sipped his drink. The bar was not such a bad place, and the idea of sitting here all evening, maybe eating nuts or something that came out of a packet not previously opened in the hotel, seemed enticing enough. Outside it had started to rain again, but it was warm in the bar. He opened his cigarette packet and smelled the tobacco. Lovely. He tilted the pack and tapped a cigarette on to the table, before remembering smoking indoors was no longer permitted. He would have to go out in the rain, or huddle in the doorway. He could compromise and light up and walk around the large empty concourses and ballrooms, where no one would be bothered. Besides, most of the hotel staff he had seen seemed to be aged 16, and the few older ones were dark-skinned and probably didn’t have their papers in order.

  He opened his book.

  Try to recall the first ten presidents that we learned in Chapter 7. The trick is not to try too hard. In fact, don’t try hard at all. Just think of Günther’s journey from his bed to the swimming pool and the bar at the end. Literally, enjoy the trip, and salute the presidents as you see them, for you will see them.

  For the next ten, use your own house. Start at the front door. If a room is large enough to hold a double bed and a wardrobe, you may place three presidents in there. Do not place any behind the door where you can’t see them! Reduce to two presidents (or whatever you are choosing to remember) for smaller rooms. Perhaps just one for a utility cupboard, toilet, hallway, or narrow bathroom.

  And before you set about it, remember what the medieval monks have taught us about effective mnemonics. You want your characters to be in movement, colourful, and you want to exaggerate. Exaggeration – think dirty. Not disgusting, because then your mind blocks it. Dirty, titillating, like the medieval sculptures and drawings. If you can’t think of anything, or don’t want to for moral reasons, try comedy (if you are not so moral as to lack a sense of humour). You can do this by substitution or inversion. For example, substitute a cat for a towel and imagine drying yourself after your shower.

  If you have not been following these instructions, if you have refused to follow the room methods or learn the Memory Key, and are reading this book just to see what it is all about, fine. I have no problem with that. But consider how important room and space are to memory.

  In many languages, when we are marshalling arguments, we put them in locations. In the first place, in the second place. And it’s not just in English. The Germans say an erster Stelle, the Italians say in primo luogo, the Spanish say en primer lugar, the Portuguese say em primerio lugar. In French aux abords de means the area around, and d’abord means first of all. It has all to do with place.

  We Americans have taken this idea of place very much to heart. We say, ‘Don’t even go there’, meaning do not bring the discussion to that theme, and ‘I’m in a really good place right now’. When things go badly, we want to ‘move on’ and put things ‘behind us’. Again, it is all to do with placing intangible things in virtual spaces.

  Or talk to a stage actor. These are people who learn off hundreds of lines. They use all sorts of methods of course, and I hope some of them will be reading this book. But what always works, the moment when they really begin to get their lines, is when they are rehearsing on the stage in the positions where they will be reciting them.

  So, if possible: practise in the same place you will have to perform.

  If you want to pass exams, try this: study different subjects in different rooms. It sounds crazy, but it works. Try to review in the same context you learned.

  I might even add, though I shouldn’t, that if you learned something while smoking or drinking, you’ll remember it better doing the same.

  Blume fingered the packet on the table. It seemed like a lot of effort to resume a vice that he had had under control for so long. With difficulty, he pushed the cigarette back into the pack. It was something to look forward to.

  He pulled out his phone, and checked the time. Ten in the evening. The hotel was surrounded by stone pines and thickets of glossy buckthorn. He called Panebianco.

  ‘Hey, Rosario. You called. Are you at home yet?’

  ‘Just in.’ There was a curtness to the reply.

  Only now did he remember. ‘I forgot to give you back your car.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘But you didn’t phone. Avoiding me is more important than getting a car back?’

  Panebianco waited a few beats before answering, ‘I was busy.’

  ‘I’ll get you your car back tomorrow. Or the day after, if that’s all right with you. I still have a few things to do.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Panebianco in a voice that strongly suggested the opposite.

  Blume hung up, ordered an Old Fashioned, and explained all about David Augustus Embury to the young barman.

  ‘Just remember,’ said Blume as he swirled the ice with his finger, ‘once you learn six basic cocktails, you have effectively learned how to make a thousand. A good barman in America can earn $250,000 a year.’

  The barman hadn’t known that.

  ‘OK, so I am going to ask for a Sidecar. Remember the proportions for this, as for so many cocktails, are 8–2–1. Just think of the region of Veneto, or something.’

  ‘Why Veneto?’

  ‘V-N-T,’ Blume started to explain. ‘Actually, you’re right. You may as well just remember 821.’

  Blume offered some more on-the-job training to the barman as he mixed a Daiquiri (same as the whiskey sour except with rum, yes, brown would do).

  After a while, he wandered out of the bar, reassured by the barman, now his friend, that it did not close until two. He lit up outside. The nicotine rush was exhilarating. Cones of pressure pushed at his eyeballs from inside, his head felt light, and the taste in his mouth was disgusting. A sort of alarm bell had gone off in his head, warning and celebrating at the same time. He enjoye
d the first cigarette in ten years, but not as much as he had been expecting. He inhaled the second cigarette deeper, and held it in his lungs longer, then spat into the rain and coughed a bit. Better.

  He had moved from bourbon to gin and tonics, which were his natural drink, now that he remembered. The mixture of fizz, steel, and juniper berry seemed to freshen the mouth and mind at once. After a while, he moved closer to a pair of women talking in whispers, but they continued whispering for ten more minutes, then vanished. He did not even see them go. He went sadly to the toilet but returned giggling at a joke that had re-entered his head from years ago about a guy who punished his foul-mouthed parrot by locking it in the fridge for half an hour, and now the bar was empty, apart from him and the barman, bar boy, really, he was educating. But the night was over already. Disappointed, he saluted the barman and returned to his room and fell on to the horrible bed. ‘Pharmaceutical coma,’ he said to himself, and sank into a catatonic sleep.

  Kissing you is like licking an ashtray, a girlfriend had told him once, possibly quoting from some anti-smoking advertisement. In any event, he had not been very sympathetic to her complaint but now, as he awoke, and tasted his own stale mouth and ran the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth, he realized she might have had a point. There was definitely something ashy as well as cloying about the taste in his mouth.

  His head felt remarkably clear, though his hands had been infused with a strange reluctance to do what he wanted, as if the commands from his brain were moving slowly. He ordered his hand to stretch down and pick up the sock from the end of his bed, which it did, eventually. His foot, leg, and fingers cooperated reasonably well in getting the sock on, but when the idea arrived that he might need to take them off again if he was going to have a shower, his limbs gave up in exhaustion, and he lay down again and stared at the warped ceiling. His hair itched. It was five in the morning. Freezing, agreed the contrite parrot. Terrible experience. But what the fuck did that chicken do?