by L. B. Joramo
~*~
In the theater Mathew sat next to me. Oddly, Jacque was on my other side, my mother beside Mathew, and my sister near Jacque. I felt as if I was at the tumultuous junction of two rivers. Drowning, I was, and I knew it.
Mathew leaned heavily into my shoulder with his chest and whispered over my face to Jacque. “You should have been there, old man. John Hancock was in a form I’d never seen before. This fiancée of his is driving the poor man to his whit’s end. He was blathering on and on about how he can’t seem to make a good impression on Miss Dorothy Quincy. I’ve never seen a man so torn to pieces over a woman. And here he is the wealthiest man . . . probably in England, not just the Americas.”
“Haven’t you?” Jacque whispered back as the orchestra prepared with a few pricks of their instruments and wails from the winds. “Haven’t you seen a man torn limb from limb over a woman?”
Jacque’s voice was deep and growled. His eyes flicked to mine.
My heart raced.
Mathew blew through pursed lips, making a noise similar to a novice trumpet player. He quietly snickered. “I just never expected a wealthy man to be like that over a woman. He could choose any woman he wants. He’s young still, extraordinarily wealthy, a hero to many British Americans, and yet, he’s heartsick over just one woman.”
Jacque didn’t say anything for a few moments. He balled his hands into tight fists. His knuckles turned white. From my periphery I saw that his face was tight. He had fine lines around his frowning mouth, those lines were also white. For half a second he wore a snarl, the next he plastered his face into serene stone, letting one black eyebrow remain elevated.
Jacque turned to Mathew, his breath hot on my face. “Perhaps love is not so easy. Perhaps Monsieur Hancock is just a man under all that wealth, and like all men cannot choose who he loves, but loves anyway.”
Mathew nodded and smiled, looking forward while the curtains rose. “Ever the philosopher, you are. You and Violet share that in common, did you know? But you philosophers are wrong, love can be a choice. I’ve made my choice.” He smiled down at me.
“What if she did not love you, hmm?” Jacque hissed. “Would you choose another, then? That would be the thing to do. Just trade her in, if she did not love you in return. Can your love turn off and on like that, mon ami?” Jacque’s racing heart beat into my arm as he leaned more into me, staring at Mathew with coal dust in his blue eyes.
Mathew turned slowly to look at Jacque. The orchestra had begun their melancholy melody.
Mathew shook his head while looking down at me. “No. I would keep loving her, if she didn’t love me in return. I couldn’t stop loving her, even if I tried, even if all the world was against me, I’d still love her. I see what you mean, friend, and can only concede the point.”
The sting of being torn apart, savaged in two directions was enough for me to look down at my chest again. No blood, but still I felt slashed in half.
“Now, what is this bloody play about?” Mathew chuckled into my ear.
I smeared a smile in place and tried to control my quaking voice as I whispered how Inphingenie en Aulide was about the Greek King Agamenmon and his travels to Troy. But before the king was to leave for Troy, he was told he had to sacrifice his daughter Inphingenie. Achilles, Inphingenie’s betrothed, would not let her be sacrificed and tried to rescue her. I stressed how it was one of the few operas with a happy ending, wherein the Goddess Diana changes her mind about Inphingenie being sacrificed, and blesses Inphingenie’s wedding as well as her father’s trip to Troy.
Mathew whispered loudly, “It’s all Greek to me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that even Jacque couldn’t help but smile and chuckle.