Page 31 of Only You

‘And yet, here you are inviting me to a museum and not her,’ Ross said as they walked through the doors of the Brooklyn Museum.

Jones shrugged, trying to think about a smart comeback before he let himself mull over the fact it had been over a week since Dani had last called him.

He wondered if she was still practising for her concert.

Even then, it was still odd not to hear from her at all…

‘Also, you know we can only be here for an hour before I have to go get ready.’

‘I know the drill,’ Jones reassured him.

The New York Philharmonic was performing that night, and they were forty minutes away from the theatre.

Despite it being five hours before the concert started, Ross treated performances the same as he treated going to the airport: if he wasn’t obscenely early, he was late.

Luckily, the crowd was small that day and wouldn’t take up too much time for Jones to visit the exhibit he wanted.

‘Why did you want to see this again?’ Ross asked.

‘I’m researching something.’

‘Researching what?’

‘Something for a song,’ Jones lied, his eyes scanning over the exhibition poster inside the museum.

There was a dramatic shot of an ancient harp-like instrument with the words ‘Griots: Holders of Human Life and Legends’ in bold typeface.

Walking in, a hush fell over him. The room was dim with the majority of the light coming from spotlights that highlighted various African statues around the room.

There were a few people gathered around the exhibit, murmuring among themselves.

‘So, is this something for Jair?’ Ross asked as he looked around the room.

‘Gonna switch from bass to… a kora?’ Ross read off a nearby display that held said instrument, a guitar of sorts that had a thin, notched bridge with many strings with a round base.

‘Supposedly, it sounds like a Spanish guitar mixed with a harp.’

‘Maybe I’ll pick one up someday,’ Jones said dryly as he walked around, looking at the statues, squinting at them closely to find the right one.

When he convinced Ross to take a detour to this exhibit, he had made it sound like a casual but confident request to see something cool that had caught his eye. He said they might as well see it together since Ross was in town and they, as musicians, should learn more about West African music.

While that was true enough, what he didn’t tell Ross was that there was something in him that begged to go, simply from an exhibit advertisement with a picture of a terracotta figurine depicting an archer.

It was almost the same feeling he had when he found a relic from his past lives, a bone-deep knowledge that he had held the object, knew of its origin and importance.

There wasn’t the same level of familiarity but something about it made it hard for Jones to ignore.

For a moment, he wondered if it was all in his head until he stepped in front of a glass case that held the figurine he saw online, accompanied by others like it.

They were all soldiers, some standing tall, others on horseback.

A tingling feeling sat on top of his skin, and he read the plaque, hoping for some clarity.

Inland Niger Delta artist. Djenné, Mopti Region, Mali. Archer, soldier, and equestrian figures. 13th to 15th century. Ceramic.

He grimaced at the spare information before looking through the glass.

On the other side was a painting that had bright and bold colours, dominating the wall.

It depicted a man in patterned and regal robes on the back of a decorated horse against a yellow background.

It was so big and the colours were so vivid, Jones was surprised he missed it at all.

It demanded Jones’s attention. He approached it and noticed that there was a small stand in front of the artwork, holding a pair of black over-ear headphones with a button under it labelled: ‘Press to Play’.

He put the headphones on and pushed the button.

The sound of a xylophone-like instrument played for a few seconds before transitioning to a woman singing.

He looked around for more information but didn’t see a plaque.

Instead, the lights shifted around the painting, words appearing on the wall below the frame.

‘Listen carefully, for by my mouth, I shall tell you the story of Sundiata Kieta, son of the Buffalo, son of the Lion…’

Jones’s eyes followed the words, reading along with the epic of the first king of Mali. After a couple of minutes, he could no longer resist the urge to close his eyes, giving fully over to the relaxing tone of the griot’s soothing voice.

As soon as he did, his head went quiet, the griot’s voice fading away.

Slowly, the black behind his eyelids was replaced with the vision of a blue sky dotted with the occasional wispy cloud.

Trees with skinny trunks and thick, vibrant green canopies blocked out parts of the sky, the ends of their branches dotted with spindly yellow flowers.

Babul trees , his mind supplied, despite never having seen them before.

A moment later, he realised he was on the ground, surrounded by shrub grass, but no part of him felt the urge to get up.

Whatever responsibilities the world burdened him with didn’t exist and he could truly bask in it.

The afternoon was perfect and unending, the breeze provided background music to the scene.

That and the occasional sigh he heard from the person lying next to him because he was not alone.

In this life, he never would be.

Jones’s eyes snapped open when he felt a hand land on his shoulder, jumping as though he were being jolted out of a dream. The headphones slipped off his ears and he caught them right before they hit the floor.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Ross asked, his eyes shining with concern. Jones blinked for a moment before remembering where he was.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’m… I was listening to the story and spaced out.’ He held the headphones up to his ear and realised the audio ended. He slipped them back onto the stand, reading the words on the floor.

Just as blood is crucial to human survival, the griot is crucial to the survival of West African history and culture.

‘What was the story?’ Ross asked.

Jones searched his mind for the answer, but he remembered nothing beyond the first minute. One moment he had closed his eyes and the next, Ross was in front of him.

‘It was about a king,’ he said, still dazed.

‘Hey, man, if you’re having a bad day…’

‘No,’ Jones said quickly, even as he felt the telltale signs of a migraine forming. ‘I’m fine.’

Ross’s brows furrowed and, for once, he wished his friend didn’t know so much about his health. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m good.’ He peaked at his phone, noticing the time. ‘And we gotta go. It’s been over an hour.’

The next day Jones sat on the floor of his apartment, fiddling with a Rubik’s Cube as he finished his daily Sudoku on his phone. He leaned his head against his bed as he tossed the device aside.

He was still battling the migraine from the day before; even walking around his apartment was difficult.

In that way, he was lucky he had nowhere to be and there was food prepped in his fridge.

It was the small things that made his days easier.

Despite his pounding head and wobbly steps, he made sure to complete his daily routine.

After the puzzles, he ran through the scales on his piano before switching to guitar.

If he felt well enough, he would practise a song or try composing.

Today was not one of those days. Today, all he wanted to do was lay down and let all his memories be as troublesome as they wanted. He contemplated his situation as he ran his fingers over the strings of his acoustic guitar, the soft sound resonating through the room.

He would like to believe he was a laid-back person. ‘Live and let God’ was his favourite motto growing up. He didn’t hold grudges or stay down too long; he’d seen the consequences of that through enough lifetimes.

Now, however, he was getting worried. It felt like his grip on reality was loosening.

More and more, he struggled to remember what needed to be done tomorrow or the next day, while his past lives were clearer than ever.

Some days, he didn’t know who he was waking up as.

Just a few days ago, he was throwing punches as soon as he woke up, readying for a match that didn’t exist. The day before, his head filled with details about a wedding dress and linens.

A shiver went through him, the chill of fear filling him. What would happen at the end of it all? Who would he be? What would he become? Would he lose himself to a different personality? At this point, what was he even fighting for?

Us .

He rubbed his forehead as his headache intensified.

His first instinct was to make yet another doctor’s appointment but that wouldn’t help.

He knew the symptoms and the timeline. If he were to keep up his habits, stay with his memory exercises and was just plain lucky, he would have at least another decade to live.

The problem then became that, according to his past lives, he wasn’t lucky.

Two months ago, he wouldn’t have been bothered by this but now there was a renewed sense of dread every time he thought about his early demise.

Suddenly, a long-forgotten melody crept into his mind. He frowned even as he pulled his guitar into his lap, unable to resist the urge. As soon as his fingers touched the strings, the music fell out of him, as if he had played the song yesterday instead of seven years ago after his diagnosis.

The piece was a swan song, an ode to a man lost long ago. Originally, he had written it for a summer music programme audition. In his essay, he had described it as a reminder to never give up, to go out fighting. The answer was cliché, but everyone loved it and the piece.

However, as he played the song now, he didn’t think of fighting. Instead, what came to mind was the moment when he looked someone in the eye, and they gave him permission to give up.

The relief that came with it.

As if trying to physically push that thought out of his mind, he played harder and louder.

Yet, the memory remained.