A woman’s power of mood is as temperamental only to the requested temperature. She will plod the afternoon with caresses to the wind, and at night the hat which rests over the brow, is her share of an idle mood. Thoughts over the evening are in the accompaniment of parlor conversation. Elegance, is to Katharina the endeavor of excessiveness. She is not weary enough to walk the long mile towards the mood of stars, where her face is compared to the silver moon.
However, the mood which mimics her features, is as seductive to the French spirit, as the rawest flavor of wine. Enough to mingle among guests, as would those who wield violins, and offer a tune to the mood of drear. Melancholy is as much a euphoria, as it is the darkest shade.
Katharina favors the milky skin of her palms, so she’ll carry the sixty-franc bank note to the beginning of the path. To the first square of the common board game. It is time to travel back to the entrance, and favor an atmosphere of foggy cigar smoke, among the chatter of guests. She’ll become the beauty of an evening, and shall drown in its almighty fragrance.
Blackness is upon the simplest of womanly sorrows. It is their natural state of brooding. They muse upon the widows whose own emotions are only fathomed either through acceptance, or narcissism. Seduction is the flavor of blackness. Emptiness are for the virgins, where bells come through the aisles in springtime weddings. What would become of woman, if tension were not the fuel for pleasure? To want, and to linger. Lingering among the many flies of a warm May. They are the entertainers to instinct, and Katharina grasps this concept only unconsciously.
Upon descending the stairs, with Devorah near her, there is another hesitation.
We will recall that this is the third occurrence. Two hesitations dedicated to Katharina, and one with Devorah. Katharina recalls a memory. Its feeling is overburdened with the burning aroma of skin. Skin, which is both necessary to touch in the push or pull.
In these two motions, they represent duality. Simplistic in expression. Opposites.
The fires of an evening in lust grow greatly in the fewest seconds. They grow high, as Shakespeare once described. Though, for truth to make an impression, the bodies would linger within each other. A connection of spiritual eternity. Pierced by an agony, which is this fire.
Under the moonlight, we dance. We shiver. Under the faces or phases, romance is a certain mourning to the loss of ignorance. We had found comfort in lacking knowledge. Then, to see, is to not believe, but to know. Science! It is for the dogs. Science speaks of dedicated hours in where our bodies are most active. It is pettiness, and dries up the blooming colors of many fragrances.
Symbolism, is worth a vast infinity. It exists for respect. We respect the symbolism in every concept inherent to our understanding. We respect the symbolism of Death. We respect the symbolism of Love. We respect the symbolism of Shame. We respect the symbolism of all emotions. We respect it, immediately. So, to respect the symbolism of sin, as a concept avoided, immediately, might seem cruel to our spirits. That is an error. Through the same light, the darkness should be treated with a beautiful respect. We respect the lights of Heaven. We should also respect the fires of Hell. Satan’s wrath is as much inevitable as our longing for peace.
We should respect the symbolism of symbolism. The meaning to symbolism is eternal. It is as objective as the next fact. Facts are dry. They are still necessary. But, they will continue to remain the same. They cannot evolve. The changes through passion, change the facts, and the facts of old days, becomes useless. The lights of Heaven, and the many flames of Hell’s wrath. Each replaces the odor of desire. To desire, it is neutral. The word, means nothing.
Katharina grasps the sixty-franc bank note, even tighter.
The memory which belongs to a great heat, either of love or lust, is flooded aside through the many blushes that sprout a luscious vermillion upon her cheeks. Brightness, which extends over this visage, and continues to drip into the porcelain texture of her skin.
There is a voice that echoes from below. That voice reaches the stairs.
Its tone strengthens the gravity that controls Katharina’s movements. She does not fall, but suddenly yearns to dance. Her feet are soon carried down the remaining stairs.
She appears as the bleakest of swans that parade between the faintest ripples above a glassy lake. Her eyes bare excitement, and her fingers tremble with an ecstatic glee. Shielded by darkness, as this black swan with a musing countenance, that focuses on the future steps of her feet. Her temperament is controlled through a fevered bliss. Any struggle to sympathize with the surrounding moroseness of this night, immediately vanishes, for Katharina is drowned in agony.
Yet, the agony is quite enjoyable. A certain masochistic endeavor, to uncover the beauties of a dark night, where mystery lays its broken fingers onto the strings of a harp. Her glee is subtle. It is worn, and she is lost in the atmosphere of this inn. She is lost in the atmosphere of this inn.
Bernard’s Inn. The little place of her heart.
Down below, Katharina discovers the man, to whom her daughter was made flesh. His words falter at her appearance. In fact, the ongoing description to this given scene should be portrayed.
Katharina had indeed discovered Gustave Hoffman.
He stands behind the counter, counting change he has received as tips. Upon looking at Katharina’s bold features, his surprise arises to the greatest levels. Yet, there is an apparent understanding, or expectance of this unfolding event.
Had he known of her presence within Bernard’s Inn? It might be that this is true.
At first, Katharina is silent.
And, this silence is soon replaced upon the examination of his face.
Her eyes hover over his chin, and to that point, there is noticed, a shaven bit of skin, with a faint sign of stubble. Next, the eyes raise to the nose; it is a flat nose, broad, and built upon the genetics of German making. Finally, her vision lands upon the area between the two eyebrows.
Within this zone, one cannot but recognize the person straightaway.
Since, after the mighty effort to identify the subject, we are instantly faced with the choice to look towards either eye. It is but a moment of confounding confusion, where our decision will unite with the comprehension of this person’s identity. The image that replaces our travails, are either shocking to our senses, or will create a wide flood upon our emotions, eventually shocking them into a complete submission. To that person’s will, we will walk, and find meaning.
Katharina expels a soft cry from her scarlet lips. Tinted with the cosmetic that smears over a beautiful face of white, these lips remain parted, for the shock has indeed consumed her.
She stumbles a few paces backwards, conveniently catching herself on a chair, where her hand has discovered its presence. Her legs tremble, and her other hand reaches to her cheek.
Devorah has run to her side, evidently confused in this situation. She, of course, cannot recognize the features of her maternal father. Gustave Hoffman, a German, to a Jewess, is as much the connection of Heaven and Hell, in a passionate folding of limbs.
Devorah looks first to her mother, then to this man, and cannot differentiate the good from the evil in this dire moment. She says, “Mother? Who is this man? Why are you so frightened?”
Strangely, Katharina possesses some amount of strength to utter a few words.
They come out through quivering lips, as tears have formed themselves on the edges to her eyes. Katharina says, “He is… He is… His name is… Gus.”
“Gus? Who is Gus?” inquire Devorah.
“Gustave Hoffman, is my name,” says Gustave. Then, adding, “let’s not cause a scene, Kath. Come to me. Embrace your lover of old. Our daughter would very much enjoy that, if she is sane. Devorah, does not my face symbolize your own features? You must have enjoyed your soft complexion, as a result of your mother; but, have you noticed the faint ruggedness of your jaw? Your eyes, which are sculpted from my own, should have been noticed to this day.”
Devorah is silent. She cannot understand anything this man has said. Her expressions also do not change. From confusion for the moment, the levels of that confusion do not heighten, nor do the decrease, putting the tension of this moment into stagnation.
In a brief few seconds, Katharina has gained the strength to panic. She flies to the door, with the speed of anxiety, in every tremble of the limbs. Devorah, only looks upon the floor.
In pursuit, Gustave makes his way towards the door, having an expression alighted as a predator on an expedition of satisfaction to a voracious appetite.
He passes Devorah, and pauses.
This pause seems to quake across the brownish floors.
Gustave offers a few fatherly words to Devorah, which morbidly create comfort in her eyes. “Devorah, as your father, I’d say it’d be good to see Alden, the one you’ve been blind to, by thinking him to be your father.”
She does not reply, but only rushes towards the stairs, and climbs them, not deigning herself to look back, and no longer hesitating. Gustave watches her departure without a drop of anxiety. He simply simmers in his pursuit, to be at the front of his beloved.
He drinks in a few breaths, before motioning to the door.
Outside, the warmth has taken a turn downwards, for its peak has been leveled on the equal strength of a frigid breeze. Its air is to Gustave, the satisfying resolve to solve this dilemma with a dose of peace. To passion, there is his enemy; but, to tranquility, a conclusion is created.
Gustave has noticed a cry, at the turn of an alley, to the right of where he stands. His vision steers in that direction. His gaze is sly, and identical to a hungry bear, whose nose has caught the scent of smoking venison upon the area of a campfire. He dreams to pace through this alley, and possess the creature, to which his emotions have been condemned to the steel bars of his heart. An aroma of delight, with the aroma of a woman, especially as April releases its warmth.
His hands do not tremble, nor do they weave the signs for a curse upon his spirit. He simply shimmers in this golden and silver sky, for the events of this evening, are drawing the night to an ending. The curtains are being closed towards one another. There are no witnesses.
To this alley, he travels.
She notices his approach, and attempts to cover her face with her hands.
For Gustave’s shadow lengthens itself above Katharina’s trembling legs, and above her torso, to a face which blinds the two irises with tears. The tears do not descend. They merely stay in their silver coloring.
Gray contours fold over a distraught countenance.
Empty, and yet, there is a flooding warmth that enters her bosom. The curves of her breasts are the curves of the pale moon above. Porcelain, and keeping to the warmth of this ongoing trepidation. The warmth is reflected as anger. It is anger, that boils inside a churning cauldron. It mixes itself with the desire to bereave on a lost memory. Gustave is the possessor of her heart.
He takes a step towards her, observing the motions of her fingers. Katharina dreams of nothing more, than to escape, or to run through his body. These two feelings haunt each other, within dreams, which are kept close by darkness. At war, and in endless hatred.
Gustave takes one more step, before Katharina begins to speak.
“Gus!” she cries. “Why did you come here? Did you think I was dissatisfied? Was your heart aching? My heart, was not aching! It could not have been.” Here, Katharina closes a hand over her chest, with the lightest touch, as though caressing a babe. She says, “My heart! It beats so fast! Why does my heart beat so fast? I am not in wanting. I am not in a tension. Why am I flooded by such warmth? Gus! Are you able to answer? I am in need! I denied! Now, I confess!”
He says, “I came, because I was taken away. Taken away, due to an apparent emptiness. It surrounded me, with all its blackness. It drowned me. I wished for its ending. Upon coming to France, the proper term for replacing this feeling of dread, were identical to a few soothing words, uttered from any mother of comfort. I am here. I am to share but a single kiss.”
She falls. Katharina drops to her knees.
Her eyes hover above the corrosion of this alley, and all its filth.
Katharina appears as a lonely ghost, within this hall of stellar void. Ethereal, and forlorn, baring a great tragedy upon two symmetrical shoulders. A love lost, and now found.
There are the stars above, which represent each tear that has been shed, in both the present and the past. Her arms are limp, and do not carry any strength within the flesh. Her anguished face sympathizes with every living pauper at this moment. She is as the withered woman, who is the symbol to any shameful widow, under the spell of entropy.
Lost, and broken, with only a shroud of black.
Her strength suddenly returns under the grip of two hands. It is Gustave, who is upon her. A shadow, to which further shed a greater darkness upon this tremendous torture. That torture, which is the love that blossoms pain, as a flower which counts more thorns than petals.
Her beauty is returned, and is shared with a man named Gustave Hoffman, a former officer in the German military. His woman, a Jewess; perhaps a disgrace to his country; to his heart, it is a blessing where no perspective may hinder its progress towards enlightenment.
Gustave drinks in this ghostly beauty, enwrapping both arms around the slender waist; and, he presses his torso to her breasts. They are entwined, and captivated by each other’s scent. Her gleaming skin, and his fragrant tresses, in this warm April air, are the materials for each other to build a monument of eternity. They share a few words, but the next moment locks them both.
A passionate kiss, declares the moment as its empire.
Gustave has deceived his motives, bowing to his entrancement.
Katharina has submitted to his will, tasting the lips where the tongue still speaks his commands. To comprehend intimacy, is to not entertain any questions.
They have embraced without any shame.