At that time, I began to understand how much Miriam suffered. I thought that the only thing I could do was to take myself out of any encounter with Jacques. And so, I did.
Looking back, that was the first mistake I made. I forced Jacques to transport me from the realm of the real into the realm of his imagination.
With my whole being out of his sight, I freed him to fall in love with me. More precisely to fall in love with a chimera resembling me; a chimera born from the richness and depths of his soul. I became his dream woman, precisely because I was not his woman.
I remember Angelo’s words, one warm autumn evening while we were walking through Place du Tertre watching the work of amateurish artists:
“My dear Clara, your cloistered behavior is ridiculous. It’s not helping at all.”
I retrospect I wish I would have listened to him.
Well, but later Miguel would say:
“Jacques fell in love with you the moment he saw you, Clara. Remember his words that winter evening…”
I remember the words that Jacques uttered that winter evening when we first met him. I always will.
I had a premonition
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
We became one when our imaginations like rays of light intersected; when we left our bodies craving for each other – like deserts for rain – behind.
Empires fall. Walls collapse.
Our union will live forever.
Do you see the distinction between spirituality and temporality?
sleep my love
immersed in scents of reddish fruits
caressed by tears of sibyls
imprisoned by the ocean’s
dream of legends
of old loves
centuries are passing by
sleep don’t worry
i’ll make sure
there is no space or time
between your soul and mine.
First, one’s mind catered to the other.
Then they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.
By the time physical love came into play they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.
It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate. Yet they did not.
i’ll give you the romance
of the first kiss
the sound of mandolins
on ardent nights of love
the mysteries of shadows
in the autumn streets
the heaviness of purple fruits
from morning gardens filled with sun
i’ll give you everything
just let me bathe in your deep pain
for i can’t take mine anymore.
Our destinies caught into the deep lines of my left palm.
With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.
None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our profuse tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.
One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass, trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.
“Clara, please! This needs to stop!”
We have judged ourselves so many times that the space around us metamorphosed into a battlefield packed with carrion birds.
We became Don Quixotesque characters battling windmills.”
Oh, how well I understood Jacques! Yet, he could not understand that no matter what I was going to say or do, Miguel would not give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.
Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. Miguel was Cortés who conquered an empire; Cortés who enrolled god to help him; Cortés who destroyed the Aztec temples and raised the flag of Christianity.
Jacques had no chance.
Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my hands trembling, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:
“Wait, Clara, wait, you do not know Jacques yet.”
Oh, how right he was! In fact, none of us knew Jacques. Not even Angelo.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.