The Reinvention of Love

though it has been contractually agreed upon and can’t be prevented. This particular cage is rattled constantly throughout the five acts of the play, and it grows tiresome to hear Hernani proclaim his love (yet again) to Doña Sol, and to hear her say (yet again) that she would rather die than marry Don Ruy Gomez. Everything hits the same note, and the melodramatic props – torches, disguises, vaults – don’t help matters.
    Victor has no subtlety.
    But as it turns out, it is a good thing that all the utterances are at such a fevered pitch, otherwise they would be drowned out by the hissing from the Classicists. Practically every speech is interrupted by boos and jeers, and then by the applause and cheering of Victor’s bohemian friends. The actors often have to stop, mid-monologue, to let the noise from the audience subside before beginning their lines again.
    I try to pay attention to what’s happening on the stage. I try to listen to the words, watch the frantic, sometimes farcical actions of the characters. I know that Victor will question me about everything later, and I had better be able to give him some firm opinions. But the truth is that I don’t care about the lovers. When Hernani tells Doña Sol (again) of his devotion to her, I want him to shut up. Their relationship is too passive. She is nothing more than a glorified servant, never challenging him, always available to him. She shows much more spirit with DonRuy Gomez. I think theirs would be a better marriage.
    Maybe because I am in love, other lovers appear fraudulent. Only Adèle and I know the exquisite happiness of true love. Only Adèle and I are fully worthy of its blessing.
    That, or Victor can’t write a good drama.
    “The heckling makes the play seem more interesting than it is,” whispers Adèle, in a quiet moment. I squeeze her hand. We are always in such agreement, as though what I am thinking in my head is, in fact, a conversation with her.
    At the end of the first act, Hernani declares his desire to kill his rival for the love of Doña Sol.
    “My vengeance will guide my dagger to your heart,” he says. “Without a sound, it will find its mark.”
    “Do you think Victor suspects?” I whisper to Adèle.
    “Guesses,” she says.
    “What’s the difference?”
    “When you suspect, there is evidence. With a guess there is only instinct.”
    Hernani’s speech sends a shiver of apprehension through me nonetheless.
    At the intermission we dare not leave our seats in the balcony for fear of having to do battle as we make our way along the aisle. There are people yelling on the stairways and down in the lobby. Their voices lift up to reach us. The circular lobby is its own stage, decorated with pillars, all the stairways leading away from it, like spokes fanning out from the hub of a wheel.
    I turn in my seat slightly so that I can look at Adèle. She has turned in her seat to look at me. Sometimes we do this for hours at a time. We cannot seem to get enough of each other. Every little thing is fascinating.
    “I love your ears,” I say. I can just see the lobes hiding in her hair. They look like pearls.
    “I love your eyes,” she says.
    “I love
your
eyes.”
    We go on like this,
sotto voce
, until the unruly audience have clambered back into their seats and the lights have mercifully dimmed enough that I can run my hand up the inside of Adèle’s thigh, the material of her dress whispering in protest.
    She takes my hand, in the dark, and raises it to her mouth, licking each of my fingers slowly and deliberately.
    I feel faint, and with my other hand I grip the armrest of my seat to keep from toppling over.
    The curtain goes up. The ridiculous action begins again.
    The audience appears more spirited after the intermission. I realize they have probably been drinking to fuel their fighting ardour. I suddenly worry about our position near the balcony railing. What if a riot breaks out? We could be thrown over the railing, or trampled to death in our seats. These days, whenever Parisians gather together in a public space, it seems that there is the danger of a riot. I look around nervously.
    Hernani gives another tiresome speech about his undying love. A Classicist in the dress circle hurls a cabbage at the stage. Hernani gambols adroitly out of the way. The cabbage lies centre stage and there is a moment when all the actors regard it, as though it possesses miraculous properties, as though it is an oracle they have sudden