Carved into an old oak tree
A rugged heart. I + C
You find an old guitar
and you play Bach’sSuite no. 1 in G
We leave it in the canopy
and over time the guitar’s body
is swallowed up by the tree
performing the slowest melody
as each string snaps successively
Stretched out over a century
An automated music piece
no music sheet, the title simply reads:
We were here at the same time
It was a time to be alive
We were here at the same time
It was a time to be alive
When he opens his eyes, he is alone.
Does he have the church to himself, or does the church have him to itself? Is it possible for the answer to be both at once, and for hisaloneness to be in such equal balance as well? Having omniscience over the moment, and the feeling of power that comes from that. And also having the moment completely unshared, completely solitary, and the feeling of isolation that comes from that. Both feelings sublimely coexisting—as they always do, but not usually in such stark relief against the rest of life.
J keeps singing. Not for anyone else. Not for the pillars or all the centuries they represent. He takes the moment and sings for himself, to hear his voice as he’s never heard it before.
We were there at the same time
It was a time to be alive
We are here at the same time
It is a time to be alive
His voice lifts on the final note, and then he watches to see where it goes. Like Bach’s, like Wagner’s, like Mendelssohn’s, his work is invisible, and yet it has a chance to endure.
You don’t have to believe in any particular deity to feel gratitude. J lingers in the silence for a moment and bows his head, grateful for this unexpected gift of time and place. Then he returns to the sacristy before anyone else can step into the scene and make it any less his.
There is an afternoon’s pause between the ceremony and the reception. J calls V to tell her about what happened, but the call goes to voicemail, and he doesn’t want to say anything about it there. In his room, he starts to think about the ceremony in terms of a song, and he begins to free-write in his notebook. Then he fiddles around with his DJ set some more and checks his email. One address catches his eye—it’s not a name that he knows, but the email address is fromThe New Yorker. Normally, he would figure it was just asolicitation from the subscription office, but the subject line reads:Friend of Skye’s, curious about doing a piece.
It ends up that Nick Andrews, the reporter, is indeed a friend of Skye’s, but wasn’t at the wedding because of his “conscientious objector status.” In other words, he wasn’t there because he’s never liked the way Detroit treated Skye, and that means he’s one of the people Skye has turned to now. Meanwhile, they told Nick about J’s wedding-singer gigs, and about how helpful J has been, and Nick, a staff writer atThe New Yorker,got the idea of pitching a story about J to Talk of the Town.You have the right profile—obscure enough, but not too obscure,Nick writes.And the weddings are a great hook. Will you be back in town in the next couple of weeks? And would you be up for doing something if my pitch lands?
J has appeared inThe New Yorkerbefore, but always as a listing, never a subject. He writes the reporter back and says he’ll be back in New York in a few days. Then he writes Skye to thank them (and also to make sure Nick’s email isn’t a prank).
He is eager to tell someone else the news—but there’s no one in Leipzig, or in the entirety of Germany, really, for him to tell.
So he calls V again.
