Chapter XXVI
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The streets of Seville exploded with gaiety, as young and old celebrated the opening night of La Feria de Sevilla. Located on the banks of the legendary Guadalquivir River, the city sparkled its enchantment, alluring all within to taste of its delights. Far and wide, flames from candles and lanterns emitted their continuous glow throughout many streets and upon pale stone buildings that boasted elegant domes and stately minarets, Moorish in architecture. Reminiscent of thousands upon thousands of fiery stars and beacons in the velvet indigo night, the flames gave off strong light by which to see.
The spirit of jubilee rang throughout the streets as the smallest children laughed and played under many a watchful madres' eyes, and old men drank the pale gold Manzanilla wine, while boasting to each other of their great life achievements. In this city, famed for its music and dance, revelers laid claim to every available space and pitched colorful tents in what would become their home for the weeklong celebration. Earlier that afternoon, fine Andalusian horses bedecked in elaborate saddle and harness pranced throughout the crowded streets in glorious parade, bearing their proud masters. And in the district that held the bullfights, people had streamed in hordes to watch with terrified excitement their favorite toreadors sweep their red capes in fearless displays of courage and skill.
In another corner of Seville, a celebration of a different nature would soon occur outside the doors of an ancient cathedral, where earlier a legal ceremony had bound two lovers, uniting them as one in the eyes of God. Now, a second ceremony was about to unfold, no less significant or joyous than the first, this bonding unique, an unwritten and unrehearsed exchange of vows forever entwining two hearts and souls in unity. A phenomenon never before seen or experienced in the streets of Seville, the much talked about event drew the curious from surrounding areas of the Carnival to witness such a spectacle.
Near the cathedral, bands of gypsies in colorful costume strummed guitars, clicked castanets, and played violins while proud young men and women in exotic costume danced sevillanas to the passionate rhythm of the music. Yet it was not this that caught many an onlookers' eye, but rather the sudden appearance of the tall, masked man who stood, statuesque, above the crowd at the top of a curved stairwell. Replete in Spanish costume of a broad-brimmed ebony hat, ruffed white shirt, red cummerbund, and short riding jacket that matched form-fitting black trousers and boots, he stood proud, his bearing that of a Spanish monarch, a king. Magnificent. Commanding. His black mask gave him an air of mystery, and many a woman, young and old, cast an awestruck glance his way.
Opposite him on another stairwell, a beautiful lady took her place, just as tall, her stance tranquil, confident. She wore an elaborate dress of flounced white silk shot with iridescent thread, which glistened as if moonlight lay captured within its folds. A fiery red rose in full bloom rested above her left ear, and her dark curls glistened in the candlelight, trailing in wild abandon to her waist. Many were the men who gave her a wistful glance, but she had eyes only for the man in the mask, as he did for her. The two lovers stared across the wide clearing at one another as though they inhabited their own private world and no one else in Seville existed.
As if by previous arrangement, the notes of the musicians' instruments faded into a whisper of sound before disappearing altogether. The dancers grew still, and much of the crowd fell silent as all eyes fastened on the striking couple.
"Angel of Music, my love, my passion, come to me, dear Angel," the masked man sang in a rich, clear tenor that brought an instant hush throughout the rest of the crowd.
"Angel of Music, my sole desire, I yearn for you, sweet Angel," the woman answered in a beautiful soprano, just as soft, just as stirring.
"I am your Angel of Music ..."
"As I forevermore am yours!"
The people stared, spellbound. None moved for fear of breaking the enchanted moment.
From opposite ends, the couple began a slow procession toward one another down the short stairwells and along a cleared path rimmed by lanterns and carpeted with red and white rose petals. From above, more petals floated downward, a fragrant and steady shower of blossoms that surrounded the two lovers in a velvet kiss. The couple moved with graceful purpose, their eyes never wavering from one another. A soft radiance lit their countenances, having little to do with the myriad lamps lighting their path. From the moment they began to walk, the song of Music gilded the night, and everyone held a collective breath as the couple continued to sing:
"Destiny chose us to be together
Love decreed it was so
No matter if we ascend
To the heights of the heavens
Or venture to the earth far below
Together we'll soar
Wreathed in passion's bright flame
To a world where there is no more night—"
"My soul is yours alone"
"My heart is yours to claim"
"You are my chosen delight!"
"Erik, my King …"
"Christine, my Queen …"
"Nothing shall part us evermore
Through darkness and pain
Our love has overcome
Light streams beyond joy's hidden door –
Sweet ecstasy's gold we shall now treasure
In this our own paradise
To have and to hold
Now and forever—"
"I as your husband …"
"I as your wife …"
Meeting beneath an arch of red roses in the center of the path, they joined hands.
"Music bound us, love renewed us, hope set our souls free,
To cherish each other for all of one lifetime
This day we hold the victory!"
The crowd gasped as the two reached a glorious crescendo that shook the very heavens.
More quietly they sang:
"Christine, my Queen …"
"Erik, my King …"
"You are my heart and my song
Our rose will not fade
For love's timeless bloom
Binds us and keeps us ever strong"
"Erik, my King …"
"Christine, my Queen …"
"How much love do you require?
I give you my all, spirit, body, and soul,
You are my only desire"
As the two lovers continued to stare deeply into one another's eyes, their words came softer, slower …
"Christine, my Queen …"
"Erik, my King …"
"This vow, this night I give to you,
Forevermore, I will honor, trust, and adore
Forevermore ... I will love ... you …"
As they sang the last, they drew closer. Their words blended into the night in sweet accord, the final notes lingering over the air, faint as sparkling mist. He lowered his head while she lifted her face to his, and they met in a tender kiss, sealing their promise to one another.
For all of one lifetime, for all of one eternity.
The gypsy children that came to Seville with the masked man and his lady stared in awe. The beauty of the music watered their parched hearts, washing away the debris of fear and grief like a soft summer rain. Never had such a sweet blend of voices so soothed them, melodic tones comparable to the angels, as they had called themselves. Never had they been so shaken by the revelation that now stunned their minds.
For they realized, they might have made this masked man leader of their tribe in accordance with the Drabarni's old prophetic legend. But he was a true King of a different realm, and his lady, a true Queen. Deep in their hearts, a kernel of truth sprouted, and they knew they had just witnessed the incarnation of Music.
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Erik kept his hands at Christine's small waist, barely conscious of the fierce applause shattering the air around them. For him, only she existed; nor did she look away from his eyes. She glowed with happiness, her eyes lit like shimmering windows that framed twin candles. Her face sparkled, as did her smile, her skin appearing illuminated from within by flecks of light. He had never seen her more radiant, more beautiful, more beautiful than any other woman he had known. This woman … this angel … his wife.
His wife.
Erik could barely grasp the words, hardly dared believe them, not since the priest first spoke them in a quiet and private ritual scant minutes ago, legally binding them in spirit. Nor could he grasp them now, in this their musical ceremony, a revelation to each other in the sight of all present the tender vows of their hearts. He stared at her in mute amazement. His body felt weightless, as if he might exist in a fantasy, a dream. Was she real? Was this moment, this day, real?
Her hand lifted to his face, her touch a warm brand of reality on his cheek.
My husband, she said into his mind in wonder, as though she had heard his thoughts and experienced the same disbelieving awe.
He smiled, the word new, strange, wonderful to him, and he mused if this sensation that sunlight had burst inside him and flooded his every pore was what bliss felt like.
My wife …
He lowered his head to take her parted lips in another kiss, but before they could make contact, he felt the sleeve of his jacket pulled in a series of sharp tugs.
Curious as to who would dare intrude, he looked over his shoulder, then down. A tiny gypsy girl, possibly twelve, looked up at him with huge dark eyes.
"Please, señor," she said, her voice trembling as if she feared him, "will you and your Juvali sing for us again? And play?" She held up a battered violin to him.
Erik stared at the skinny waif, his brows drawn together in confusion. He had not touched a violin since he left the opera house. No one but Christine knew he played. How had the child known …
"She recognizes you," Christine said from beside him, her voice soft, pleased. "They all do."
Rendered speechless, Erik looked amid the throng, most of who had returned to their festivities, to see the gypsy children that had accompanied them to Seville. Many stood as if frozen and stared at him, the silent distrust and bitter loathing they'd barely kept in check during their week's journey now absent from their features. In place of those feelings existed the appearance of stunned revelation and deferential fear.
Christine laid her hand against his shoulder. "Go on, my love. We have the best reason to celebrate."
He looked at her. "Sing for me?"
"Always."
He touched his fingers to her cheek, brushing his thumb along her parted smile. They shared a tender look, before he moved to accept the offered violin.
The instrument was old, the wood chipped. He tested the strings to tune them, then drew the bow across, producing a haunting note of beauty that made all in the near vicinity stop what they were doing to listen. He continued with the song he'd taught Christine in one of her later lessons at the opera house, and as he hoped, she opened her lips, letting the silver tones of her voice ring clear through the night.
Everyone in the street stilled and turned to watch, many drawing closer. Unaccustomed to such forthright appraisal, Erik focused on Christine, admiring the unparalleled beauty of her voice. Tonight it carried a quality he'd never before heard, rich and full, yes, but with a glow behind it. Radiant. Serene and confident. He once told her she had much still to learn, and it seemed she had excelled. As her adoring eyes turned to him, he almost missed a note, something he'd never before done. Now he could name the new quality: she sang like a woman in love, emotion stirring the joyous notes deep from within her heart. Astonished to be the recipient of such love, even now, Erik wondered if his mind would ever accept what his heart now realized, what she'd proven to him.
Their song ended and without being asked, they moved into another, both captured by the rare opportunity to express the music they cherished to an audience who longed to experience it. The crowd thickened as more people came from neighboring streets to listen and watch, having heard the faint silver tones of Music beckon. Andalusian gypsies filled all of Seville, but on such a magnificent occasion as this, even their presence could not steal the joy of this night from Erik. Nor had his mask provoked disturbing questions, since everyone assumed it to be part of his festival costume. Others, also, wore masks.
When presented with additional instruments to play by eager observers, Erik acquiesced. Some were novel to him, but once he touched their taut strings, they obeyed his every command, producing exquisite notes that raced, caressed, and trembled through the night air while the onlookers watched, mesmerized.
The celebration lingered on, Christine pulling Erik deeper into the merriment, urging him to become one with the crowd. At one time he might have retreated to the shadows to watch, but tonight he experienced a confidence never felt among so many, and he moved with Christine into the bright candlelight of the gala, the other revelers eagerly welcoming them into their circles. They drank sherry wine and feasted on sugared cakes. Together they sang to the mysterious strumming of Spanish guitars and the beguiling reverberations of violins. Christine moved with fluid grace in the sultry Latin dances, fascinating Erik, and at one point, he tore off his hat and jacket to join her.
The song ended; another began. The haunting strains, rich and alluring, wove their spell around them, inviting them to feel the rhythm, to partake in the deep mysteries of the dance. They stood silent and stared at one another, as the evocative notes unfurled within them. He stepped back and in one deft move stretched out his hand to her. Christine took it, and Erik pulled her to him fast, spinning her into his embrace. They stared at each other, motionless, before beginning the languorous, sensual dance in expert accord. Erik had no need to learn the steps - the music, the passion, ran deep within his blood, the very core and expression of his identity. The others stopped dancing to watch and clap their hands in rhythmic staccato, first slowly, then faster, as the throbbing beats increased and pulsated, urging the couple on.
Oblivious to all else but the rousing music and Christine, Erik continued to stare into her eyes that had darkened with desire. His own need for her escalated with each erotic brush of her body against his as she danced around him, evading and enticing his pursuit … each tight clasp of her waist as he again hauled her close and her silken hair grazed his chest where his shirt now gaped open. The song intensified, their dance, their music sending a blaze of heat sizzling through the night.
Erik pulled Christine spinning against him in hard embrace one final time and felt the tremors race along her body. She kicked up one slender leg next to his hip, which he caught beneath bended knee, hauling her closer. Her leg wrapped around him as he slid his hand high beneath her ruffled skirts to grip her warm, bare thigh. She flung herself back in a supple fall and he grasped her hard about the waist, leaning in to her, then in one rapid movement brought them both upright. Her arms flew about his neck, her eyes heavy lidded and velvet dark staring into his, inches away.
The seconds electrified as the chords strummed to a dizzying height while they stood motionless, bodies pressed together, faces flushed, breathing fast.
Erik forgot the dance, forgot the people watching and crushed Christine to him, kissing her with a vehemence she returned. They tasted deeply of each other, their tongues engaged in a private dance of passion while she gripped the back of his head, trying to pull him even closer, moving her warm, soft body more tightly against his.
The guitar gave five final rapid strums and loud applause shattered the air. Some laughed in good-natured amusement, a few cheering them on in a different manner. Recalling where they were, Erik broke their kiss and released his firm grip on her leg. Christine's smile turned shy as she dropped her tight hold from around him and took a small step backward. Grateful that she didn't understand the language to recognize what the uncouth men called out, Erik still knew she must have understood their message.
From out of nowhere, the Drabarni appeared. She had been absent since before their wedding and Erik assumed she had worked her trade and found more than one hapless victim to relieve of coins for a fortune told.
"Come, it is time," she said in French, taking Christine's arm.
His mind still reeling, his breathing rapid, Erik took a moment to respond. "Where do you think you're taking her?"
"To prepare your Queen for your wedding night," the Drabarni shot back. "I assume you approve?"
Her amused reply stunned him, both the brash words she used and their full meaning. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, removing the remainder of oxygen from his lungs.
"Another part of the prophetic legend," she said, still speaking in French, "was that the man with half a face would possess both a realm known and hidden. Tonight I have seen who you are. Now, if I may take your bride and prepare her for your union? Before both of you give the children a performance that involves much more than your captivating music and dance."
At her blunt words, Erik felt the same heat that crept over Christine's face, flushing it rosier than before. Suddenly mute, he could offer only a curt nod while he fought for composure. He gave Christine a look that tried to reassure before the Drabarni pulled her away.
They could not understand, any of these merrymakers, how much he and Christine had endured to arrive to this moment, how monumental an occasion this was for them. And the knowledge that soon their final ceremony of love would commence, when they would share the expression of their vows, uniting them in body, did not help to steady Erik's breathing.
He closed his eyes, still hardly daring to believe this night had finally arrived.
Soon, My Passionate Rose, soon ...
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