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.