Water in the Wine Glass: Epilogue

There was a strange, stirring calm about Clara when first she appeared outside of Helene’s room. Instead of a solemn frown, there was a smile present in the features of her face. She had wiped the remains of hours of tears away from her flushed face and just gazed into my eyes. Her voice, frail and hardly a whisper, managed to echo through the halls of my sister’s flat.

“Helene has passed on.”

I remember the strange smile that she wore with the utterance of those words. One would imagine the usual trauma and upset that follows a dear friend’s death, but there was definitely something else more prevalent in her emotions. The meadows of her soul were free from the storm, and the solitude in its gentle breezes overwhelmed the sorrow. It hadn’t been long before we gently embraced. My heart sighed deeply as she softly kissed the base of my neck. It was not the kind of kiss that was welcomed by the passionate lover, but rather one of pure fondness and trust. I believe that is greater than any lust she could have inflicted on me.

I would find out later what exactly she saw during the long hours that she was in that room. It was unbelievable, and I was tempted to laugh at first, but the sincerity in her eyes scolded me. I had knelt down at her feet and kissed her hands, praising God for the miraculous journey that she was so clearly meant to take. My dear Clara had seen Heaven, and spoken with one of its angels. No less, I had spoken with that very angel unknowingly!

Clara was a changed woman; there was no question about it. She held herself humbly, as though under the constant gaze of God himself. She loved me more sweetly, and spoke more honestly. She rejoiced in the highs of life, and walked peacefully through the lows. There was a few times where I could tell she questioned her choice to fall several rungs on the social ladder, especially when the hard gaze of her old companions met hers. But in those moments, she would simply turn to me with a smile, saying “They are blind”; to which I would always answer “How so, my love?”

Her replies always followed the path of: “Because they cannot see true freedom walking before them.”

I myself questioned pulling her into my world, but every time she came with us to the gatherings, her child-like joy and life assured me. It was with her unspoken permission that I allowed myself to love her even stronger than before. For the first time, I didn’t feel that I had to share her with either another man or her own bitterness. There was not a morsel of bitterness remaining in her body. It may be tempting to fall into pride’s trap at the admission that her freedom was my doing, but I avert that by taking quiet pleasure. If someone were to ask about the change, I would remain humble, for my left hand shall never know what my right hand has done. God knows, and she knows, and that’s all I need.

By the very first day of spring, I had planned out every detail of a particular event. The income from the previous months’ performances had provided the funds, the theater had provided the whereabouts, and the Gypsies and other actors had provided the people. Genevieve would also be present, for her maternal role in Clara’s life. The excuse that there was an annual celebration being held in the gardens at the rear of the theater provided the blanket to cover suspicion. Gen was a generally protective woman, I would learn, and so it was not unusual for her to follow Clara to such an event. I am surprised, however, that the thin coat of sweat did not give me away before the sight of the empty gardens. She had asked me if I was sure that it was on that particular day, and I responded in my usual clever way.

“There is no celebration,” I had told her, her eyes growing wide. “There soon will be, though, should you say the word.” She had taken the phrase literally, of course, and asked us to celebrate. I had responded with a “but you must say a very specific, very special word.” It was then that she began looking around at her excited comrades, seeking an answer. Even stern Genevieve could not retain the glee she felt. Honestly, I was most surprised that Elise had kept this secret.

She had instantly understood, however, the moment I dropped to one knee.

“Yes! Yes!” she had cried out.

“My dear, that is the word I was looking for,” I had responded with a coy smile. The audience around us immediately erupted into cheers and music, as I leapt to my feet and kissed her freely. High society France would have shook their fingers at our display, but when one is this thoroughly happy, how can you simply keep it within? It was also this kiss that showed me that she had meant it, for she was unafraid.

And now, it is precisely a year later, and I apply my theater makeup for the spring production. Clara is just outside my room, conversing with the members of the backstage. I can hear her laugh. Her resonant, pure laughter is contagious, and I begin to laugh to myself. Every now and then, I catch a sour hint of flirtation in her voice when she is with other men, but I’ve come to recognize that she has taken significant strides towards commitment. She will never be perfect, but I will never expect her to be.

Taking a moment to refine a rebellious strand of hair, I rise from my chair and exit the dimly-lit room to the loud commotion of the backstage area. Mid-laugh, Clara turns to wrap her arms around my neck.

“Fernand was just telling me the most wonderful story about your childhood, Tristan,” she says, eyes shining. “You must have been insane!”

I turn to glare teasingly at my friend. “And just which one, exactly, was the tale you told?”

“The one about the rose, good man! I thought the lady should know that her son might grow to be just as wild!” he laughs. I reply with a reminiscent grin. I do remember the rose that I protected from the gnashing teeth of a wolf. I remember my boyish sense of adventure and courage, and how brilliant I had decided I was when I ran out of the grasp of the wolf. As soon as the clearing where our camp was set up came into view (along with Fernand’s slingshot), the wolf bolted away. I kept the rose and cherished it until the very last petal faded and fell.

“You must have been so sad when that last petal fell!” pitied Clara. I hugged her closer to me and laughed.

“What Fernand didn’t tell you was that it was a magical rose. It came back to life!” Such confusion and disbelief in their eyes! I laughed loudly, kissing the top of my love’s golden head. “Only, it wasn’t a rose.”

Eyebrows crinkled, Clara looked at me with a blank stare before she finally understood. A sly smile tucked into the corner of her mouth as she pulled away towards where Elise was refining her stage makeup. She left Fernand completely in the dark, laughing to herself that “actors are such a strange breed”.

The last moments before the performance were an utter blur, as they usually are. Those few misshapen strokes of eyeliner, that one wrinkle in one’s costume, the moments where you remember stumbling over your words… all are refined to perfection in a split second’s time. As I traveled through the hot, body-filled passageways of the backstage, I uttered a “break a leg” to anyone who was to appear onstage in the next moment. I found Clara just offstage and kissed her cheek, squeezing her hand gently.

“Break a leg,” she whispered, the glow of being part of a play beginning to show in her expression. I had tried to have the managers allow her a small role to begin with, but was unsuccessful. They are usually gentlemen, but they certainly have their moments of arrogance, as is to be expected. They did, however, allow her backstage to help with makeup and costume. “It’s an excellent audience. You will certainly draw some laughter and tears tonight!”

“Thank you, my dear.”

That very second, the stage manager peered through the stage door, typical stern expression imprinted on his face. He quietly gestured that it was time to begin, and as quickly as I descended into the public view, the audience descended into silence.

Clara was perfectly right about the audience. They seemed to laugh harder and weep louder than usual nights. The seats were, for the most part, filled with barons and their wives, counts and countesses, kings and queens… all those who had once occupied Clara’s life with frustration and bitterness; those who had chastised her for her willingness and honest heart; those who had stolen that heart and carved painful scars into it.

I could barely see them through the lights.

My dear wife greeted me with a proud embrace as I exited the stage after the curtain call. I lifted her by her waist and held her there. Her eager kisses tasted of pure joy and pride, and I felt glad to have made her this way. I was the child for once, and she the proud mother.

With that coy sense of humor we both seemed to share, I swung her legs into my arms and carried her like a princess over the threshold of the stage door. We fell into an ocean of cheers and applause from those backstage. Still I carried my princess delicately, laughing and turning away from those who were already drunk. I knew that this was a slightly different scene than she was used to, but the brightness of her smile was almost blinding.

Once we were in my dressing room, I gently set her back on her feet. She paused for a moment, smoothing the skirts of one of the dresses I’d saved up to buy for her. Her hands hung still over her skirts for a moment, a nostalgic smile calming her expression. For a moment, I took in the beauty that her golden hair exuded with the gentle candlelight glow. She righted herself, and simply held my gaze until I thought I had shared my entire soul with her.

“Thank you.”

The words were said in a quiet lull, rolling through my head again and again. Unsure what she meant, I smiled my foolish crooked grin, and she proceeded to become suddenly fascinated by the ripples of her skirts. Concerned, I cautiously approached her and cupped her cheek in my palm. Tenderly she held my hand and kissed it. Her eyes, as she looked to me once more, were shining with the presence of tears.

“My love?” I questioned.

“Tristan… oh, Tristan, you don’t realize what you’ve done for me, do you?” she said with a little laugh. “You have no idea.”

“You know, I thought the dress was lovely, but I didn’t think it was that beautiful!“ I began jokingly. Clara remained silent, stroking the hand that held her cheek. She continued to smile as the tears poured down, and laughed at herself out of embarrassment. “Well, are you going to tell me?”

She shook her head, wiping her tears away.

“Just know that in return, you have all of me. Anything I will ever do is yours. My mind is your captive. Any strength I have is yours to build and rest on. My soul was born because of you. My freedom was paid for by you; it is yours. Above all, you have my heart. It beats within you, not me. It is not mine. I love you, Tristan. I have known so many men in my life, but I love you. I’ve made so many mistakes, but loving you makes my heart forget them. And I do; I love you, Tristan; no one else.”

I felt the silken tip of her finger brush away my stunned tear as I hunted for words to say. The rose petals that were her lips rested tenderly on mine. There was no fiery passion in that kiss, but somehow the embers it left behind were more significant than any other kiss. I felt that kiss deep within me; and alongside it, I felt her heart, and knew her words were true. I brushed a few strands of gold away from her face, and she drew her hand to my chest.

“The after-party awaits us, good sir,” she said with a simple smile as she walked to the doorway. “We are already late.”

---

It was well into the morning by the time the troupe had emptied from its new after-show haunt, “Leon et Mouton”. Because it was so near to my flat, Clara and I walked home with Elise and Cesar. Adeline had gone home before the after-party, with Fernand as her own personal bodyguard. The streets could only barely be seen as the sun rose. A few windows were lit, with the rising of travelers and those who couldn’t sleep. Streetlamps glowed dimly with the last of their wick. Elise slept comfortably in Cesar’s broad arms, and Clara rested her head sleepily on my shoulder. Cheap wine glasses hung from our tired hands as we all wished for our beds to somehow find their way to us. The city was ours in this hour.

It began with a single drop. I could hear the uneasy rumble of clouds above me as they shifted and rolled. Another drop fell, and I placed my hand atop Clara’s head so as to protect her from the inevitable rain to come. Her eyes, which had come to a complete close, opened slightly as the rain began to fall freely. Cesar quickly dodged under the protection of the overhangs of the roofs of the houses that sat quietly on either side of the street. Elise shifted gently, reacting to the sudden motion, but quickly fell asleep once more. I wrapped my arm around Clara to pull her to that same shelter, but soon felt her resist it as she sleepily gazed around.

“Give me a moment,” she said, still looking half-asleep, but smiling.

“You’ll catch cold!” I called out with a sudden paternal care for her. She simply laughed.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to the stirring sky above her, allowing the rain to fall on her entirety. I stood there with an incredible amount of curiosity as she suddenly raised her arms to match her gaze. She stood like this for a moment, relishing in the feel of water on her skin. Slowly she began to turn, still holding this worshipping position, and soon that turn became a series of spins. Holding her wine glass out as she spun, her laughter echoed off the walls of the houses around us. She slowed, ultimately coming to a full stop, and holding the glass to the sky. Raindrops caught themselves in that glass, creating a symphony of nature’s purest sound.

It wasn’t long before the glass was almost full, and I stood, soaked, watching as she drank that sweet water from the wine glass; and I saw that that was what she had longed for, for so incredibly long. With her drenched hair and sopping wet clothes, I could never have dreamed of greater beauty.

My Clara was finally, completely, unarguably free.