There was a small house in a wooded corner of Poitou, where on clear days the alluring, secretive scent of the marshes reached. The locals were used to the fact that twice a week a slight honey or tawny blonde middle-aged woman cycled to the village to pick up supplies, like clockwork. There were rumors about a grumpy, cynical old woman with white hair who was said to have been both a world traveler and a teacher, once upon a time, and she always wore red on the rare occasions she came to the village.

In the grassy wild garden, there was a wild cherry tree, from which the birds had pecked the last cherries long ago. Under it there was a high-backed chair, and certain Mademoiselle Brooke was sitting in it.

Katherine Brooke looked at the dark sky, the air was oppressively humid, and somewhere nearby there was a rumble of thunder.

And then the sky tore as raindrops began to fall to the ground, a misty curtain of rain obscured everything. Enjoyably, purposefully, Katherine sat still as the thunder rumbled, and the leaves of the great lilac bush trembled.

She was taking stock. Moments of solitude were extremely precious these days, and had to be enjoyed to the fullest.

Katherine heard a slightly alarmed exclamation, and soon familiar arms were wrapped around her, as a beloved voice remarked playfully, "Having a moment were you."

Katherine countered in wapish manner, " If I can't sit in the rain in my own garden, then where. This rain won't kill me. Do not fuss so Marguarite."

The years had left their mark on her, but her eyes were still as charming as they had been on that rainy afternoon at the Lido years and years ago, Katherine noted.

Very slowly Katherine held out her hand and Margaurite took it and in silence they walked through the dewy, damp grass towards their home, a stone house nestled amid the trees. Quietly the iron gate creaked shut, and the sign on it swung, rusted but clear, in copper plate, etched with the following verses;

Where's the jasmined house, with its open night, and above us,

hops, in their curling arches, and a thirst that can't be helped,

and the sky, and the sky more romantic than Petrarch's sky!

Wearily, Katherine rubbed her aching knee and drank her hot honey tea. On a small side table was a Victrola, pouring out bright music, strains of Rachmaninoff: 12 Songs, Op. 21 - 5. Lilacs.

The lines on Katherine's face softened a little, as she immersed herself in listening to that soft romance, as the recorded voice of her beloved child sparkled captivatingly sensitively.

Marguarite glanced seriously at Katherine, for her pale amber colored eyes, which had looked more startling than ever since her formerly dark hair had turned white, had a silghtly vague middle-distance look. There was a soft, wordless pride in that look.

And softly, Marguarite remarked, " Ever since Betty sent you that new recording about a week ago, you've been listening to it often."

Katherine looked up and smiled a little as she said, "Since my fingers are too sore to play the piano anymore, I have to get my music elsewhere. It took me several years to convince Betty to make this record, so of course I get to enjoy my victory."

Marguarite gave a lingering laugh as she remarked, "Naturally."

Katherine, smiled slightly crookedly, as she said, "And Betty is not the only one who appears here, as you know. Antonina, Nina, does her world-renowned Tatianas letter scene."

And at that moment, Tchaikovsky's lingering, recognizable notes burst forth. And Nina's sensitive, fluttering, passionate interpretation was perfectly in tune with the music, as Tatianas leitmotive soared onwards, as Nina rendered Tatianas burning, impassioned love confession to Onegin to its conclusion.

Tchaikovsky's music swelled, it bubbled, and quietly Marguarite heard how Katherine recited, first lines of the aria, in absent-minded tone, "Let me die, but first, let me feel hope." Indeed, that love can be and is sometimes, if it only can survive lifes turbulent waters."

Marguarite poured more dark syrupy tea into thin old-fashioned tea glasses with silver-filigree-holders, as she said lightly, "We haven't done too badly, have we."

Katherine glanced around the slightly cluttered living room. There were rows of Italian notebooks, between colorful teapots, on shelves, sophisticated silk kimonos from Japan that decorated the walls of the house, colorful as chrysanthemum flowers, lithographs and graphics from Prague and Stockholm, in elegant frames, and a rosewood piano with legs carved into the shape of lion's feet. It was full of memories of the two lives together, of oil paintings, rambling bookshelves, cluttered memorabilia, of memories of trips, carved jademonkeys, spanish lace-fans, mantel filled with photographs, in silver frames, where beloved friends were smiling, and then she smiled slowly and said, "Indeed, we have not."

Marguarite glanced at the thin letter resting on the table, and handed it to Katherine, who with one swipe cut it open. The thin letter sheet opened and putting her glasses on her nose, Katherine read the next lines written in sweeping curlicued cursive.

Passy

Paris

September 1948.

Dear Katherine.

You probably thought I'd forget your birthday, which I certainly didn't. You're certainly as grumpy and sarcastic as ever, as your last letter to me proves it. I think you hold the village in mild terror whenever you go there.

That album that you have been pestered is my gift to you, and not only mine, as you must have already noticed. In it is twined a touch of nostalgia for the lost world you experienced with me back then.

The world has turned around again, after the Potsdam conference and Yalta. The Iron Curtain is tearing through Europe and we don't know what the coming years will bring.

Hopefully future generations will get to live in a world where there would be no more wars, even if that doesn't seem likely.

Much love to you both,

with all my love

B

The warm wholesome scent of fresh bread wafted from the kitchen as Marguarite was baking unhurriedly. Slowly Katherine went to the corner cabinet and took out a small carafe, and placed it on the table as she called, "Leave that bread for a moment, my dear."

Marguarite found her eyes moistening with slight tears as she saw that there was a carafe of Wísniówka on the table.

And like that first, sultry evening in Venice, their kisses, still tasted like cherry, as carefully Marguarite, knelt before narrow chair as she touched Katherine's fingers, as she murmured, "You are still full of surprises, Katherine with a K."

A rueful, rougish twinkle rose in Katherine's eyes as she said, "Oh, Ill try."

The house, which was almost covered in drooping apple and walnut trees, had often been the scene of quiet, hidden love, full of laughter and music and so it was this autumn evening, in the heart of Poitou-Charentine area. Slowly pale curtains were drawn, as the velvety evening sky darkened, in time pale crescent moon reflected its radiance to the environs.

A/N: In honor of annual Queer History Month that is November here in my neck of woods. Here is the ending of Katherines narrative.

The poem quote etched in the fence is an excerpt from Sophia Parnok's poem," Она беззаботна еще, она молода," (Our Passion's still carefree, still young)from 1932, the english translation is mine.

Rachmaninoff: 12 Songs, Op. 21 - 5. Sirenyi or Lilacs.(1902)

Пускай погибну я, но прежде, я в ослепительной надежде - "Let me die, but first, let me feel hope" Tatianas Letter Scene is a well-known and romantic aria from Tchaikovsky's opera Jevgeni Onegin(1879)