Page 9 of Better in Black
She wore a ballooning silk gown with stripes of color, and her black hair was tucked up under a glimmering turban. She seemed to be moving chairs about and peering under tables. As Tessa watched, Madame Dorothea drew off her long gloves, presumably to prevent them from becoming dusty, and bent down to roll back a corner of the Aubusson rug on the floor.
Aha,Tessa thought. By the time Madame Dorothea had straightened up again, Tessa was on her way back to the suite, and Will.
—
The maid provided by the hotel, Marie, was very skilled, Tessa thought. As skilled as Sophie at doing hair, though not nearly as good at conversation. She put Tessa’s light brown hair up in a chignon, with curls falling to frame her face, and helped Tessa into her opera clothes: a pale blue dress trimmed with soft lace, fitted at the waist and flaring out to the floor. The short sleeves left Tessa’sarms bare, so over the dress she wore an opera cloak, trimmed in blue and gold ribbons.
“You are lovely, madame,” said Marie, clasping her hands. “I am sure your husband will think so too.”
When Tessa came out of the dressing room, she saw Will standing by the window, all dressed in somber black with white accessories: pale gloves, a wing-collared shirt, and a long white scarf. His head was bare—Will had never liked hats. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he turned to look at Tessa.
She saw him inhale sharply. He looked at her as if he could not help looking at her, as if the shield of his unfamiliarity with her had fallen, and for a moment she was looking atherWill, the Will who loved her. The vulnerability and the yearning in his face broke her heart and she wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, to take his gloved hands and hold them in hers.
“I married well,” he said.
There was wonder in his voice—because, of course, he did not remember marrying her. He did not rememberher.He found beautiful what her Will found beautiful, but that was not enough to make them the same person.
“I am glad you think so,” Tessa said, drawing her cloak about her. “Come. We had better go, or the opera will begin without us.”
—
Tessa and Will sat together in the darkened performance hall of the Opéra Garnier. The Garnier did not have electric lighting, so the story ofLa Traviatawas playing out upon the stage behind a veritable forest of flickering candles.
The opera itself—the story of a forbidden love between Alfredo, a nobleman, and Violetta, a dying courtesan—was deeply romantic (indeed, perhaps all opera was). As the two lovers soared intothe duet of “Un Dì Felice, Eterea,” Tessa listened to the words, feeling as if they were wrenching at her soul.
That love that is the
pulse of the universe, the whole universe,
Mysterious and proud,
torture and delight to the heart.
Tessa could not help but glance sideways at Will. He was still as a statue, his face like marble. Expressionless. He had laid one hand on his knee, his white glove shining in the dimness.
All around, Tessa could see the other operagoers in their red velvet seats, their faces turned toward the stage, all clearly enraptured by the music and the singing. Some were wiping away tears.
I don’t know how to love.
Nor can I suffer such great love.
I’m being honest with you, sincere.
You should find somebody else.
Beside Tessa, Will rose to his feet. “I cannot stand this anymore,” he said, and pushed past Tessa blindly. She started in surprise, hastily gathering up her opera cloak and gloves. She dashed after him, ignoring the irritated faces of the other operagoers, aghast at all the fuss. They could not possibly understand.
Tessa raced after Will, down the grand staircase surrounded by marble columns, past a statue of Pythia flanked by bronze lamps. She fled through the grand foyer with all its gold and mirrors, then down a series of hallways, and burst out of the opera house ontoRue Scribe; as the door closed behind her, the music was abruptly silenced.
The street was dark, though it was lined with gas lamps. There was little traffic, and all was quiet save for the usual distant city noise. Will was there, black and white as a chessboard, leaning against a rather dirty wall. He looked like someone who had stopped running only because he had run out of strength.
He looked at Tessa as she approached him. “Will,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”
Though she suspected she knew the answer.
“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not upset, I…” He held out a hand to her. “Come here,” he said. “Kiss me, Tess.”
She went to him. Because he was Will, even if notherWill, and Will had not always been hers. She had not fallen in love with him because he belonged to her, but because she belonged to him. She let him draw her close, his hands smoothing over the silk of her gown, her bare arms and shoulders. He cupped the back of her head before he kissed her, as he often did, his gloved fingers finding their way into the softness of her hair. He folded her against him, his lips brushing hers, first gently and then harder.
