About six months ago, he’d been in London and they’d had a chance to meet up so she could give him the background he needed for his song. (Carl, her fiancé, was off in Thuringia, doing research.) Imogen and Carl had not, alas, met on an airplane, but instead hadbeen set up by Carl’s sister, who had a flat in the same building as Imogen’s. It had not been an instant match—while Imogen knew her Bach from her Beethoven, she didn’t necessarily know herSt. Matthew’s Passionfrom herSt. John’s Passion. Carl vowed to properly introduce her, and she’d been taken by how sincere his joy was as he shared each cantata and concerto. When he’d told her his dream of being married at St. Thomas mere moments after she’d accepted his proposal, she said that if he could somehow make it happen, she would be there.
He made it happen. And his parents made all the other arrangements happen. In terms of the music, Carl had been understandably particular. Plenty of Bach. Some Mendelssohn. Some Mozart. (He’d played at St. Thomas, too.) A snatch of Wagner. (“Nothing too heavy,” Imogen said. “If that’s possible with Wagner.”)
The way Imogen put it to J was this: “You are the one chance I have to bring my own music to my wedding.” Perhaps understanding how this sounded, she quickly added, “Not that I don’t love Bach. I truly love Bach. I don’t think I’d be able to marry Carl if I didn’t. It’s just that...have you ever been to St. Thomas?”
J admitted he hadn’t.
“Well, it’s awe-inspiring. The architecture. The fact that it’s been there for so long without burning down or being bombed. It’s a place that’s full of God, in the most exalted sense. But whenever I’m in a space like that...I can get lost in my own insignificance. God’s there...but I want to be there, too, you know? Especially at my own wedding. Carl’s music will be the voice of God. And you...well, I want you to be the reminder that we’re here, too. A song that only lasts a day means just as much as all the songs that stand the test of time, if you’re the person whose day it is. Does that make sense?”
J told her it did. Later, he let this conversation guide him as he crafted the song. He felt like his job was to help Imogen stand up to Bach. Which was a ridiculous task...but it helped that shewasn’t expecting him to be equal to Bach. Instead she wanted him to be her side of the story, her space in the church.
Because the wedding was so long in planning, he’d had plenty of time to work on the song, to shift it around from time to time. Now, after Tara’s wedding is over and he is in New York with little to do, he takes the song back out and makes it into what it’s meant to be.
J flies with enough frequency that he is subject to the following truth: Good flights are always forgotten as soon as you land. Nobody ever tells the story of this really great flight they had, not unless they met their future spouse or got to sleep for the first time in one of those seats that turns into a bed.
Bad flights, however, can linger for years, and become the stuff of legend.
J’s flight back to Sweden is one of those bad flights.
There is a delay getting on board. Then a delay once on board that lasts long enough for the pilot to need to be switched, which means going off board, only to board again an hour later. Once in the air, there is turbulence that makes the plane seem like a yo-yo at best and a yo-yo with its string cut at worst. The monitor at J’s seat malfunctions so the only channel he can watch shows instructional meditation videos. The man next to him practically dares him to contest the arm rest, then gets irate when the flight attendant cuts him off at four vodka tonics.
By the time J lands, the ten-hour layover has evaporated to just under four hours, which isn’t enough time to go through customs, get home, and return to the airport to go through it all again. J desperately wants to leave the no-man’s-land of the travelopolis, but he knows more chaos will be unleashed if he misses his next flight. So instead J arrives early at the gate of his next departure.
He needs a shower, to make him feel more living than dead. He wants to text V about all his flight misfortunes, then wonders,What’s the point? He’d only be doing it to make himself feel better,and ultimately, he won’t feel any better. Just alone at the hell of an airport gate.
His spirits go up a notch when a dog in a service-dog vest comes over and sniffs him in a friendly manner, then starts barking. J isn’t sure he’s supposed to pet a dog in a vest, but the dog nuzzles in close and gives him a raised-head look that all but coos,There...don’t you feel better? Then the dog sniffs him and starts to bark again, with an unnerving insistence. People in the seats around J are starting to react to the disturbance, not positively.
The dog’s owner comes over and J instinctively apologizes.
“Don’t worry about it,” the man says in a thick German accent. He’s probably J’s age, with a beard that looks more figurative than literal. “C’mon, boy.”
He tries to shush the dog, but the dog continues to bark.
The German laughs and says, “Oh, no—that’s not good. Mona is being trained to detect cancer, and she’s signaling that she’s smelling something on you.”
J has heard of dogs sniffing out drugs. Tracking down fugitives. But...“Cancer?”
“Yeah, cancer.”
“So the dog thinks I have cancer? Do I have cancer?”
“I don’t know...do you?”
“No!”
“Do you have any candy in your pockets? That could be it.”
“No.”
“Huh. Any food?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe you have a dog yourself? She could be picking up on that.”
“I don’t.”
The man is pulling Mona back now, leading her away.
