The Tempo of a Heart

I am – or was, I suppose I should say – a good friend of his. His closest friend, as far as I know, and he did tell me just about everything, even his greatest plan – a fatal plan, as it turned out. It’s lucky he told be about it, though, or else his strange death might have remained a mystery forever. You’ll report this story just the way I tell it, won’t you? Good. It’s the truth, and I won’t see his memory tarnished by anything less.

He was a brilliant musician, composer, and conductor, but I expect you already knew that. Suffice it to say that music was his life. Ironically, it was the music that did him in, too, but I’ll get to that soon. So like I said, music was his passion. Even his wife – she died several years back, rest her soul – knew she was second to it. It consumed nearly all his time even then, and more so after she passed on. Despite all he’d done, all the performances he’d given or directed, and the symphonies and sonatas and God knows what else he’d written, he felt that he hadn’t yet composed his greatest work. Now, he was getting on in years, just a few months shy of eighty, you know. But he told me he wasn’t about to let that stop him, even though he was hardly the healthiest man alive. I mean, you can’t sit in a little room scribbling down melodies and such, not coming out for days at a time, and expect to be running a marathon any time soon. But that’s exactly what he did. Shut himself up for days, I mean, not run a marathon, of course. That would’ve been something, though. D’you mind if I have a cigarette? Thanks. Talking about this kind of gets me agitated.

So besides just the composition, he stated doing some experimentation. He kept talking about being one with the music. He wouldn’t come golfing with me because he had to achieve oneness. That’s what he said, anyway. It became some kind of obsession. Oh, I didn’t say what kind of experimentation? Sorry. It was part of this whole “oneness” idea. He had this heart monitor, see, and he started hooking himself up to it when he practiced conducting, and taking notes of his heart rate at different tempos. Did you ever see him conduct? Good, then you’ll know what I’m talking about. Remember how whenever he got to a fast part he’d get all wild on the podium? I’ve seen him after concerts, and he’s absolutely drenched with sweat. And at the slow parts, he changes – changed – completely, got quiet and calm and expressive. That’s why every ensemble he conducted sounded like a philharmonic orchestra. Some of them were, come to think of it, but you know what I mean. And with those extremes during conducting, I can only imagine how screwed up his heart must have gotten, how far apart the rates must have been.

He tried all different tempos, he told me, until he found a few which made his heart beat at exactly the same rate as the music. He was really excited about that. And he took the symphony he was writing and used those same tempos for it.

That was the symphony he premiered the night he died. You were there, right? You heard it and saw what happened? Of course, that’s why you’re here. Wasn’t the symphony fantastic, though? It was so... I don’t know. Moving. Emotional. Exciting. It seemed like it encompassed everything, like the story of a life put to music. Maybe that’s what it was.

Now, there’s no medical proof of what I’m going to tell you. They said he died of heart failure, and that’s true. But they don’t know what I know – what I’m pretty sure I know, at least. I don’t know if he knew it would happen, and I don’t know if he wanted it to happen. I really don’t think he did. He loved life so much, but I guess it wasn't a bad way for a musician to die: after conducting the greatest work of his life.

So, back to the symphony itself: it had the faster movements towards the beginning, and then, you remember how the last movement was really slow? And then it got even slower? Think how much exertion his heart took during that performance, especially during the presto. By the final movement he must’ve been exhausted. And – well, what I think happened to him was that by that last movement, his heart was beating very, very slowly, to match the tempo. And the ritardando at the end slowed it down even more. Man, it must’ve been going so slow he shouldn’t even have been alive. Maybe it was all beyond his control by that point. And then he gave the cutoff, and lowered his arms at last. And then he collapsed. You saw it. There was no more music to beat in time with; his heart stopped with the symphony.