The Nine-Chambered Heart. Janice Pariat

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      ‘I can still play,’ I say, and add, ‘But only a little.’

      You stay silent, waiting for me to explain.

      I push the paintings aside. ‘I got a job with a choir … wonderful bunch of young kids … voices like angels and all that. It wasn’t …’ I laugh. ‘We played mostly hymns, but it paid well and helped supplement my music lessons …’

      You haven’t taken your eyes off me. I don’t know where to look, at you, at my hands. I settle for the window, where the late afternoon sun is streaming through and falling in patterns on the floor.

      ‘We were travelling … for a concert in a nearby town. All of us in a bus … it was raining … I must have dozed off … but I remember waking up to a lurch … a terrible crash … the bus crumpling like tin … and the seat in front of us suddenly pinning us back. If I hadn’t put my … put my arms between the boy next to me and the metal, I think he would’ve been crushed …’

      ‘You saved his life?’

      ‘That’s the thing … I’d like to think I did … but I don’t know.’

      ‘Your bones were broken?’

      I nod. Grateful in a way for your stoic lack of emotion. By now most adults would be voicing profuse commiseration, and I would never know what to say to their ‘I’m sorry … I’m so sorry … that’s just terrible … what a tragedy …’ I’d usually end up awkwardly saying ‘thank you’ and resigning myself to silence.

      ‘Broken in several places …’ I hold up my left arm. ‘There’s a steel rod running through this one.’

      ‘Do you beep at airport security?’

      I laugh, you laugh, and suddenly the room fills with light.

      ‘Does it hurt?’

      ‘Sometimes.’

      Then you ask me something else no one has asked me before.

      ‘If you were in that bus, would you do it again? What you did.’

      It takes me a moment to reply. ‘I’d like to say yes … but in truth, I’m not sure.’

      You don’t seem disappointed. In fact, you nod briskly, as though this is a business conversation. I want to ask you several questions in turn, about you, your home. But this is akin to having a bird finally sit on your hands and peck at crumbs. Now is not the time to make sudden movements or loud noises and frighten it away.

      As you walk out of the classroom, you turn back. ‘You know,’ you say, ‘I think you would.’

      Soon enough it’s end of term, and we’re setting up the exhibition hall. You haven’t submitted anything. I’m disappointed, yes, but not immensely surprised. I can’t even use the line I do with the other kids – ‘Wouldn’t you want your parents to see your work and be proud of you?’ I’m not sure yours are coming. And I don’t want to hazard saying ‘grandparents’ instead. I don’t know why, but I feel it’s a delicate situation. Or at least I treat it so.

      While the work is being put up, you hang around.

      Because I think you expect it, I don’t ask you where your contribution is. I ask you what you think.

      ‘About?’

      ‘All this …’ I gesture around the room, filling up with paintings, sketches, sculpture.

      ‘I want to see what it looks like when it’s finished.’

      And I find it hard to get another word out of you. But I see that you watch carefully, where everything is being placed. Right now I have no time to question why or wonder. This is my first event, it must be impressive, and it must somehow validate … something.

      I leave late that evening, after all the children’s artworks have been put up. It’s looking, I think, quite lovely. What a pity you aren’t part of it. I’m tempted to place some of the paper figures you’ve gifted me in a corner, but desist. This is your choice and I must respect it. You did not feel involved enough in this class to wish to participate.

      The next day, I arrive early at school and head to the exhibition hall. But someone else has been there earlier. Or that’s what the security guard tells me. ‘One of your students,’ he says. ‘Said she had your permission … special permission … to place something in the room. She had a lot of stuff with her …’

      ‘What do you mean?’ Panic pricks my chest. ‘Which student? What was she carrying?’

      He shrugs. Clearly not comprehending why I would be worried. ‘Scissors … paper … art stuff like that …’

      ‘I didn’t give anyone permission to do anything.’

      Finally, he seems a touch concerned. ‘You didn’t?’

      I shake my head.

      He fumbles with the door, unlocking it and drawing it open. We make our way briskly down the corridor.

      In my head, I imagine everything in ruins. Paintings ripped out of their frames, shredded and sliced to strips. Canvas torn, sculpture thrown across the floor, smashed to pieces. I can barely conceal my anger. Who could have done this? And why? For a flickering moment I think of you, and force myself to discard the idea. I have no proof. And why would the first person I think of be you? Perhaps because of your sullenness, your plummeting moods, your aloofness. But you haven’t been that way all the time. You’ve never struck me as vindictive. Still, who knows? Children can be strange creatures. I try to shake it out of my head before we enter the hall. The security guard and I are silent.

      I step in and everything is in its place, just as we left it the previous evening. Nothing seems to have been touched or broken or moved.

      ‘All okay?’ asks the guard.

      I nod.

      ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

      And then I see it. What you’d come in for, earlier this morning.

      At the door leading outside, on the other side of the room, a curtain of white.

      I can’t really tell what it is, fabric or ribbon, until I walk closer.

      Paper cranes. String after string. I stir them gently, and they rustle against my hand. Pristine white. Neat and even. Made with industrious care.

      They are a thousand, I am certain even without counting.

      They say folding a thousand cranes will grant you a wish.

      I wonder what it is you’ve wished for.

      I hope so much it will come true.

THE BUTCHER

      I LOVE YOU. I almost hit you.

      You’re lodged in a corner, screaming at me, and I raise my hand. I can still see your СКАЧАТЬ