The fabric of the dress scratches against my skin. The scent of flowers is too strong — jasmine, roses, everything I hate. The sun beats down hard on the castle stones, and I'm already sweating under the dress. The smell of warm earth, rosemary, cut grass. The cicadas are already buzzing. It's barely eleven o'clock and the heat is here, heavy, charged.
11:00 AM.
The hall of the Domaine des Trois Fontaines is almost full. The morning light streams in raw through the open French doors, hitting the white tablecloths, the silverware, the flowers everywhere — jasmine, white roses, peonies in crystal vases. The candles are out, useless. The sun does the work. The quartet is tuning softly on the platform, a few notes hesitating before finding the right tone. Laughter breaks out near the bar where the bartender in a black vest is arranging champagne flutes on ice for noon. A waiter passes with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, his shoes creaking on the old parquet floor. Someone knocks over a flute somewhere — a shard of glass, a muffled curse, napkins bustling around the stain.
Outside, the garden shimmers — the light hits the three fountains, the gravel of the paths glitters, the leaves of the plane trees barely move. Someone has already opened a bottle of rosé on the terrace. The smokers are already gathering there, cigarettes in mouth, facing the garden and the cypresses.
I am near the entrance of the hall, standing, my bouquet pressed against my hip, when I look up.
And I see him.
My God — no. Nu, nu... (No, no...)
He is there, leaning against the back wall, near the window overlooking the terrace. Tall — very tall. Broad-shouldered, lean at the waist. White, olive skin, strong arms visible under the rolled-up sleeves of his midnight blue shirt. The shirt is open at the collar, the first buttons undone, a gold chain shining on his chest. His jaw is square, his lips thick, and his eyes... light, piercing, the kind of gaze that strips you bare. And he smiles. Slowly. As if he already knows.
Doamne... Mâinile lui... (God... his hands...) Large hands, long and strong fingers — the kind of hands that can do everything, take everything, break everything. A thin scar on the chin. His black hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, a lock falling over his forehead. He must be thirty-five. Maybe younger. An athlete's body. Not a trembling old man. Not a grandpa. A virile man. A real one.
My sex contracts suddenly. Just like that. Just by looking at him. Pumn strâns în stomac (clenched fist in the stomach). Mi-e sete de tine... (I thirst for you...)
My "husband" is on the other side of the room — I hear him laughing with his best man, that old man's voice, those hands trembling while holding his champagne flute. 69 years old, brown spots on the palms, soft skin under the collar. He sees nothing. He never sees anything.
I place my bouquet on a chair. I square my shoulders. My white dress brushes the old parquet floor as I begin to walk. Not fast. Never fast. But direct. Straight toward him. The train makes a soft sound, and my heart is pounding so hard that my hands tremble slightly. Passing by, an old aunt in a mauve dress grabs my arm — "Oh the bride, you are magnificent!" — I smile at her, whisper a thank you, and keep going. She sees nothing. No one sees anything.
I stop a meter away from him. I lift my chin. My eyes are level with his chin — I have to look up.
Mă doare gâtul de cât de repede-mi bate inima (My throat hurts because of how fast my heart is beating). I swallow. I put on a smile — the one I give to guests I don't know. Polite. Warm. Controlled.
— Hello, I say, tilting my head slightly. Excuse me... I am the bride, I'm making the rounds to welcome the guests. Bianca. And you are... ?
I extend my hand — the one that isn't trembling — with grace. My wedding ring glitters under the raw daylight. 1500 euros. Fake gold. Gift from grandpa.
— You are a friend of my husband's family, perhaps? I... I didn't see you at the rehearsal yesterday. But it's a big wedding, there are many people I don't know yet, I add with a light little laugh.
Outside, the cicadas sing. The sun heats the stones. Someone starts a lawnmower in the distance. Time passes.
Inside, it's a mess. Mi-e sete de tine. My stomach is on fire. His hands... his eyes when he looks at me...
But outside, I am the bride. Smiling. Polite. Dignified.
I await his answer.