The following story by Olivia Mudrick ’20 was awarded a Scholastic Gold Key for Flash Fiction.
Sostenuto
Frédéric Chopin was confined to an armchair.
George, perched on the edge of the sofa nearby, watched him intently.
His condition had gotten worse. His coughs were frequent, each one louder and longer than the last. He stared across the room, his eyes fixed on the Pleyel in the corner, the one that he’d brought all the way from Paris to have with him.
He had agreed to come in the hopes of finding better weather, some sunshine to clear his head and lungs from Paris’s damp streets. But, the clouds followed them here, trailing behind like spider silk, trapping the man in his own misery. Even now, the sound of pattering rain consumed the room. Each drop echoed down to the sitting room, chilling George to the core. The soft thuds on the roof mocked the two of them, the constant water was inescapable.
George never would have come if she’d known how bad it would be. She had sent the kids away to give Chopin some space, but nothing seemed to help. He had turned in on himself, folding over until he was nearly invisible, dissolving into the fabric of the chair.
The rain picked up.
George started to notice something else behind the rain. A pattern of sorts. As the rain grew heavier, a rhythm repeated on all sides of the roof, echoing. The soft pitter patter had given way to a thundering applause.
Seeing no change in his expression, George touched Chopin’s hand, attempting to draw him back to the present.
“Frédéric,” she said, “listen.”
He first looked to the window, watching as streaks of rainwater stained the glass, racing towards the ground. Then looked up, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the clouds through the ceiling panels.
After a few minutes of staring upwards, Chopin still hadn’t moved. Worried, George shook his arm.
“Fryk, what is the matter?”
He tore his gaze away from the ceiling to look at her. His eyes were wide, shiny. His face pale with sickness. With his frail limbs and sunken cheeks, to George, he already looked like a corpse.
“Come,” she said, gripping his arm harder, “we’ll take you out of here.”
He spoke for the first time in hours.
“Not yet.” He said, his voice thick. He coughed once and then sat up with difficulty. With George’s help, he got to his feet and made his way over to the Pleyel.
Once seated on the bench, he grabbed sheets of paper and a pencil from the piano top. He rested them on the bench beside him, and, with one last look towards the ceiling, he began to play.
Photo by Lorenzo Spoleti on Unsplash