Our story began in France. From there it took us to the United States, to Mexico, to Canada, and back to France. On the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. Our future, heavy darkness starring back at us from a white abstract past: like Malevich’s famous Black Square hanging on an indifferent wall.
Who was to blame for all that happened? As the story progresses I invite you, my dear readers to be the judges and the jurors. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.
There were four of us:
Miguel, my mirific Conquistador: Moorish passions bursting from his Mediterranean skin, gleaming green eyes only half open in our nights filled with lust. His eyes look almost white in the dark. Oh, those nights when after making love he used to hold me in his arms against the window of our condo watching the lights of the city reflecting into the sky. He used to murmur rhythms of Mariachi songs while kissing my neck. Miguel, and his love for me. Miguel, my mundo nuevo.
Jacques, a Norman knight at heart: blue eyes cold like ice, expensive, impeccable shirts. Jacques, in love with the complicities of the smiles that one only finds in the streets of Paris. Jacques and those cuff-links of his made from gold, and encrusted with roses. Oh, how I remember Jacques’ laughter! It sounded like the reverberations of an iceberg falling into the sea. Jacques, who used to say: “The beauty of this city creates us, for we cannot create beauty anymore.” Was he right?
Miriam and that seraphic face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns. Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching silently Rodin’s Gates of Hell. I always wondered what she thought about it.
And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.
How could four people who tried so much not to hurt others, end up hurting each other so deeply? How could we let all that happen to us?
According to our dear friend Angelo, a Greek born in America, it was my fault. I was the one who mistook reality for my imagination. I was supposed to know better.
Oh, no, Angelo, no! It was not like that! It was more like the Billy Goat curse. We were not destined to win until the curse was broken.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers