Death's Song

7-Valse

"Vous avez retourné," he says in a language I do not understand. "Et cette fois-ci vous a amené un ami."

"Sir, I don't understand."

"Bienvenue, mon nom est Monsieur Chopin. Avez-vous venir étudier avec moi?" From his chair in the corner, he gestures towards and odd-shaped desk.

"Parli italiano?"

"Italien? No, pardon." He puzzles through our predicament before rising from his seat. His fingertips caress the polished wood of the desk as he opens one side of it. One arm beckons me closer, and he sits on the stool in front of it. As I approach, I see rectangles of black and white, arranged in patterns before him. He sets his rounded fingers on the monochrome array, and beauty fills the air. This must be a futuristic instrument. It sounds percussive, but not as harsh. I wonder how it works. His music is foreign to me, full of strange intervals, but they are so full. This instrument sounds many notes simultaneously, and it is a wonder that this man's fingers wield all of them.

His song aches on the edge of something he cannot grasp. He longs for something more. Yet, a lilting metre encases his yearnings into a more palatable idea. In three, I begin to feel each downbeat, and I nod my head along in rhythm. Between glances, M. Chopin notices my movements and gives me a look of approval. The song takes over his body before winding to a close.

"Vous ne pouvez pas comprendre, mais mon ami, Mort, vous a amené ici pour une raison," he says as he rises. "Ici, prends ma main." He stands before me, offering his hand. I stare for a moment before placing my palm on top of his. What a strange man of the future: he plays a new instrument and offers his hand. I wonder what he will do next.

"Magnifique! Suivre maintenant."

He begins to shift his feet, creating the shape of a box on the ground. With one hand in mine and the other on my shoulder blade, he urges me to follow suit. As I follow, I begin to feel the metre of the song that repeats in my mind. Each downbeat occurs when my feet move forward or back. Is this dancing? Once he sees that I have it, he takes us around the room, introducing spins and flourishes.

Death watches us sweep about the space, and I catch myself smiling at him whenever we pass. The silent song guides our every step. For the first time since Mama's passing, I feel like smiling. I feel more alive here with Death watching than at home, isolated from the world. Here I dance in the arms of a stranger in a strange land, and experience embraces me. When M. Chopin is satisfied with my dance education, he ends the dance, to my disappointment.

"Merci beaucoup." He bows before walking over to Death. He can see Death? M. Chopin takes one bony hand in his, leading the Reaper to me. My new dance partner is much more intimidating than my frail teacher. Death offers his hand. I bravely stare into his face before placing my hand in his. Death's fingers are not cold as expected. They're almost inviting. Our stance is intimate, but I feel safe. His hourglass glimmers in the light of the setting sun that melts through the window. Death exhibits a warmth unfamiliar to those who experience his presence.

"Bien. Êtes-vous prêt?"

M. Chopin sits at his instrument, eyes closed, focusing. Then he begins. A grande dance in three, brilliant and full of vivacity fills the room. As he plays, he lets go of the world, losing himself in the music. He allows it to inhabit his body to make magic. The song holds power, but the type I know not. M. Chopin's music speeds and slows, telling the story of a life spent in and out of love. All the moments of wild exuberance and recklessness return to the farewell. The beginning gives no hint to the depth and despair lying beneath the surface of grandeur. Thus, we dance to his song of Life and Death.