L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, que nul ne peut apprivoiser et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’appelle s’il lui convient de refuser. Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and it’s all in vain to call it if it chooses to refuse. - Sung by Spanish gypsy
My heart had often lurched in my chest over the last three years as I mistakenly glimpsed a desired silhouette, but this time it was not allowed to resume its steady rhythm. She was actually there in the opera box above me. The cacophony of the orchestra tuning its instruments, and the titillating gossip of the crowd faded to a dry hum. I was only vaguely aware of those around me preening at their very best to see and be seen on opening night. All of it became a monochrome backdrop to the vision of her. My damp palms gripped the wooden arm rest and the faux velvet cushion shifted beneath me. My date was thrilled to be front row center on such a night and chirped cordially with my mother who eagerly awaited the debut of her prodigy as the Spanish seductress.
Once the lights went down and the brilliant spectacle on stage unfolded, I only looked sideways toward the opera box. For a time, she was obscured by a railing, but as the music rose, she leaned forward into it, bringing her half smile into the warm light radiating from the stage. I could not make out her mouth, but I knew she would be singing under her breath as she knew all the words, having sung them while my sister played the music on the piano years ago. I wished I could make out her eyes which I knew would be sparkling. The orchestra spoke to me of the emotions unfit for words in its notes of anguish, love, and passion.
I soaked in every shaded detail of the way the silk of her azure dress clung to her skin in places and in others floated around barely grazing her shoulders. I was jealous of the fabric that tickled her skin and longed to feel the warmth of her. My gaze remained feverishly riveted to her despite her obliviousness to me. I unsuccessfully willed her to look down at me. Instead, the stocky middle-aged louse next to her sensed my gaze and laid an arm around her shoulders as he scanned the darkened crowd below him. Her date was rewarded for his possessiveness with a smile. He basked in her affection and grasped at her even more tightly.
I had thought that the deep wound in my soul had healed but it split open revealing feelings that were just as raw as they had been when she left me three years ago. The longing was still an unsatiable hunger. My feelings echoed the opera unfolding on stage. I too had willingly given everything to be with the woman of my fantasy. Like the shattered hero, I also watched helplessly as she moved in the arms of another man. Unlike him, I could never harm her, but I could relate to the pain that drove him to kill her. Rejection of such a perfect love is akin to madness. The auditorium felt too hot with a cloying mixture of perfumes.
Finally, the soprano perished in her former lover’s arms and the chorus belted out, ‘Toreador’ once more. I did not even wait for the lights to come on as I bolted from my seat, rudely pushing my way out into the aisle leaving my date gaping like a drowning fish. From the mezzanine, I scanned the lobby below as the audience flowed out the doors. There she was, on his arm, working their way through a throng of opportunists trying to lobby for his attention. The man kept an arm around her, and she was willingly ushered through, flashing a timid smile to those who greeted them.
I worked my way through their entourage dodging and weaving like one of those dancers on stage. Hesitating as I drew near, I realized that there were no words to greet her; yet this could be the only opportunity to ever see her again. I moved closer and tapped her shoulder by reaching around some purple-haired elderly woman. For a brief sparkle in time, her eyes locked with mine. In that moment, the woman I once knew surfaced on her features with a sexy flush and a spontaneous smile. The submissive consort she was now playing was temporarily vanquished by the vivacious woman beneath the illusion. Her shoulders and her chin lifted confidently. However, a breath later she caught herself and rearranged a more timid version of her smile and turned to lavish it on the man at her hip. He blossomed. Those near him tried to hide their awkwardness at his obvious display of affection by looking away. Without a word, I had been dismissed.
Her tense averted posture implied that I would not be allowed any closer, so I retreated to the mezzanine and contented myself with taking pictures of them. My editor would never publish any of the pictures anyway for fear of arousing the man’s wife. Nonetheless, I swallowed my empty jealousy and snapped pictures for my own fix. I considered the new smell of her perfume. Through the window, I watched him usher her into his car and the chauffeur eased them into the traffic. I feverishly considered, then rejected, the possibility of following them despite her cold dismissal. Restless and unable to consider either going home or going out, I pointed my own car downtown toward the office without finding my date to even try to offer an excuse. I used my key to get in the backdoor and went straight to the dark room. Closeted with the photography chemicals, I kept vigil around dishes, waiting for her image to appear. Looking at her photograph would be a small dose to feed my snapping hunger. The images on the drying line slowly revealed her as they shimmered into existence. They revealed her hair, her nose, and the eyes that hinted at a depth that cannot be reached. I revisited the details of her not visible in the photographs; she also has a scar that runs the base of her hair line, a burn from some long-extinguished fire. Only one who had run their fingers through her hair would know it was there. The next day, in the newsroom, her picture triggered little concrete information from my fellow snoops. She was certainly the Lord’s new consort. No one knew where she came from or even her last name. The society columnist thought that maybe they had met on vacation in Rome somewhere. Predictably, the editor was annoyed with my wasting film on a couple whose elicit, though public, image could never be put on record. He considered our newspaper to be above trashy tabloids.
She is pretty but it is not her flesh that rivets people to her presence. Eye color and lips have little to do with the way people feel her energy in a room. It is something more real than an ephemeral shell of a body. Those who have seen her seek a moment with that spirit. We are moths to a flame. And even though we cannot touch it or contain it, we feel thankful for the full force of the moment that she brings us into.
The first time we made eye contact, I was mesmerized by both her vitality and vulnerability. And yet from that first time we looked at each other until today I have not been allowed to know the parts that she keeps hidden. Her power is the paradoxical joy and pain of being able to mingle breath with that beautiful soul and without the ability to truly hold on to her.. She is a star that illuminates the dark.
I gave up my job, my home, and my heart to search for nuggets of her story. It was a journey with little hope of a happy ending but the fantasy of her gave me intention anyway. After that night at the opera, I lost her again. When I finally saw her once more, even though I knew more of her secrets, I was still unprepared for her.
