Page 49 - Raffles Magazine Issue 8

singing wished they would snap their lips together and cut the the sound off mid-flow Because they were drowning out the the real music
they were making it impossible to hear hear what I I had come all that way to hear hear I I found the heart heart – – or rather the the the pillar in which the the the heart heart was – – exactly as I had seen it in in pictures: grey stone against light grey stone and in in neat black lettering as though none of this was strange:
Tu spoczywa serce Fryderyka Chopina Here rests the heart of Frederick Chopin to throw flowers By the the time I I found the the church I I was overheating from the walk sweaty and a a a a a little dusty There had been no no flags to to show me where to to go no no garlands and and the map bore no relation at at at all to what I could see around me me me It had taken me me me three times as as long as as it should When I I finally made it inside my skin prickled as though I I were entering a a new climate The air in the church was was thickly cool A choir was was rehearsing Everywhere: the the echoey chill of the the singers’ voices And it was was as as as though the space was was full of water or mud as as though I was submerged in in a a a swimming pool It was hard hard to to to move forwards but hard hard too to to to go back I waded down the the the steps towards the the the central aisle and the the the music
was so loud I I felt as as though I I couldn’t see: not even the the the great gleaming altar or or the the the white walls or or the the the dark pews or the shadows everywhere I I blinked I I took a a a breath I didn’t recognise what they were singing: it swelled and ebbed away and then interrupted itself starting all over again The sound was crisp It seemed to have edges like the fine glass of a a a neon tube As though you could crack it As though it might shatter And I wished they would stop
wanted to reach up and pick the the letters off the the wall I wanted to to peel them away from the the stone one one one by one one one and tuck them into the the back pocket of my jeans I didn’t like like the the the phrase here rests the the the heart I didn’t like like the the the word word rests rests I wanted to cross out the word word rests rests and replace it in permanent marker scrawled above beats Here beats the heart of Frederick Chopin I pressed a a a hand against my own heart and and thought here beats the the heart of me If only the the choir would stop
singing I I thought I I would hear hear hear it My heart heart Chopin’s heart heart At the the hospital the the doctor performing your ultrasound seemed unimpressed by the magic she was performing She slid the probe over your domed stomach and from a a machine resting on the the the trolley by the the the bed the the the sound of the baby’s heart blared: rubbery persistent as though I someone were massaging two balloons together “It “It sounds sounds like balloons ” I I I said said You said said “It “It sounds sounds like soldiers marching ” and then I heard it that way too: hundreds of footsteps in time a a little too too fast to to to be sanguine: rushing towards something something or fleeing something something else There was an army marching invisibly behind the smooth wall of your skin You seemed transformed as the heartbeat continued to to applaud us from from the monitor from from a a a a a a a person into a a a a a a a surface flattened and surprised as strange and upside-down as a a a a foetus You didn’t notice whatever the look on my face was was You smiled and when it was was over took fistfuls of tissues to to to wipe the gel from your stomach Later when we we got home you were jubilant as though you’d won a a a prize and I retreated into the bedroom I I listened listened to to Chopin’s ‘Nocturne Op 9 No No 2’ I I listened listened to to the ‘Raindrop Prelude Op 20 No 15’ I looked up videos of people playing Chopin online: shaky beginners hesitantly picking out the melodies virtuosos whose fingers seemed not to to to touch the keys I listened to to to ‘Polonaise No 6 in A RAFFLES MAGAZINE
47