Page 47 - Raffles Magazine Issue 8

“Chopin was buried in in Paris but his heart heart the heart heart of him was in Warsaw ” the internet had told you he he he was buried in in Paris “There ” you had said “he’s in in Paris You You can take the train You You could go for the day ” And I’d had to to explain to to you – and in in in in explaining it it notice the weirdness of it it all over again – that yes Chopin was buried in in Paris but his heart the heart of him was was in in Warsaw Which was was when yet again you were forced to ask why The first answer is that Chopin on his deathbed was seized by a a a a a patriotic frenzy and expressed the wish that wherever his his body ended up his his heart be returned to his his homeland In this version the request is is borne of love for his country I imagine a a kind of homesickness in in in in Chopin’s bones growing more intense the closer he he came to death A sense of never being able to sit comfortably fidgeting itching for for for home for for for Poland a a a a country whose name in in in English gets tangled in in in my brain with his own – – Poland Poland Chopin Cho-Poland – – and and and which in in Polish sounds like music a a a a kind of dance: Polska polka Did Chopin ever write a a a a a a polka I google and learn that the Polka in in in C C minor posthumously attributed to Chopin was most likely written by his pupil Charlotte de Rothschild I I fall down a a a a rabbit hole of internet searches I I listen to the polka on repeat trying to recognise Chopin in in in it as though I would be the one finally to solve this musical mystery Hours later I emerge unsure what if anything I was looking for A second answer: Chopin in in in fin his final weeks developed a a a terrible fear of being buried alive As his illness worsened the fear increased until he he was dreaming about it afraid even to shut his eyes the closed lids like a a a a premonition of that final closed lid from which he would never escape To ensure he wouldn’t wake up underground he he he requested his his heart be be taken from his his body before he he he was buried Dutifully when he he died his sister Ludwika Jędrzejewicz removed the heart and placed it in a a a a a jar of cognac She smuggled it under her cloak back to Warsaw where it was eventually interred at the Holy Cross Church on Krakowskie Przedmieście The third answer is that Ludwika Jędrzejewicz was crazy In the the taxi from the the airport the radio was playing a a a a a a Polish pop song I tried and failed to get a a a sense of of the the meaning of of the the words I noticed – – guessed – – that it it was was in in G major I imagined it it was was a a a a a a love song song because most songs are When the driver turned it off what was was left was was the the hum o of the the engine: a a a a a low F sharp “Oh ” ” I I said “you can turn it back on ” ” I I mimed twisting a a a a dial as though that were still how radios worked but by then we we were drawing up outside my hotel and the the driver was was saying something in in in Polish which I guessed was was “You are here here ” I I I looked out of the the window: I I I was there I I I had been so preoccupied with the the music that I’d barely noticed the the city In the the hotel lobby there was a a a a a sculpture: a a a a a large glass vase and and inside it neon strands twisting like branches brittle It was hard to look away from: transfixing and lovely The light emitted a a a a faint persistent buzz as as though it it was alive trying to say something: “psst” it said “psst “psst psst psst psst over here” It sounded as though an insect were trapped inside the the glass frantic wings strumming the the surface As I walked past it to to the the front desk I I felt I I should resist the the urge to to listen as though I I might get lost in that strange buzz It seemed so urgent I I checked in I I filled out the form with my name and address And behind me I could hear the neon whispering Hush I thought to the neon There is nothing you can tell me me vibrating like that I I know what I I have come here for “Are you here for for work or or or or for for a a a a vacation?” the man behind the desk asked Without hesitating I said “Work ” This was a a a a a lie that felt like the the truth I I was was there with a a a a very specific task I I was was focused on it I I would not be distracted I I marched past the vase of neon strands without pausing: Hush I I thought as I I walked In my my room I I I changed my my shoes grabbed the guidebook I I I had bought at the airport I took out my phone to to text you – – “Safely arrived!” – – and slid it back into my pocket before I could think too much about that word again: arrived arrival arrival arrival the new new arrival arrival arrival our new new arrival arrival arrival when it was me after all who had just arrived Then I I hurried to leave I I did not pause to to shower or to to lie on on my back on on the bed and stare at the the high ceiling above it I did not listen to the the psst psst of the the neon light in in the the lobby as as I passed it yet again to step step into a a valve of of the the revolving door I stepped out of of the the hotel onto the bright street and I began to to walk through Warsaw towards Chopin’s heart I listened out for it harder than than I I looked harder than than I I felt the cobbles underfoot or the the hot light on my face: Chopin’s heartbeat in in the the footsteps of passers-by tourists and and tour tour guides a a a a a woman hand in RAFFLES MAGAZINE
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