We didn’t divert from our plans, however, because Magdalena was a devotee of the theatre, and because I wasn’t quite brave enough yet to do anything that would get us into trouble with you. A little mischief was one thing; outright subordination was quite another. I didn’t want our beautiful evening to be spoiled by your raging temper when we arrived back home.
So even though Magdalena stared hungrily at the masked partygoers in their plumed hats and billowing brocade dresses, I pulled her away from the heart of the revelry and towards our destination.
The opera was one we had never seen before, in the new, more serious style that was starting to replace the sung comedies so popular around the region. Opera was growing in stature and influence, spreading all over Europe, and the composers had begun to experiment to great acclaim. I’ve sat through so many operas with Magdalena I can scarcely remember their names, but I remember this one. It was a rendition of the Biblical story of Judith. Familiar enough to me, who still read the Bible for recreation and meditation despite your scoffing, but relatively new to Magdalena, who had never cared much for sermons.
“They should have let her fight,” Magdalena whispered to me behind her fan. The lovely Judith onstage lamented her position in Israelite society, desiring to fight back the invading horde alongside her brothers. Moved by the plight of her suffering countrymen, she swore vengeance against the Assyrians. “I would have let her fight, if I was in charge.”
I smiled at this. It was hard not to smile at Magdalena when she set her mind on something, declaring her will like a true high-born lady.
“She has her revenge,” I said. “Keep watching.”
Magdalena reached out in the darkness of our opera box and clutched my hand when Judith welcomed the leader of the Assyrians, Holofernes, into her home. She sang sweetly to him as he reclined on her lap, secure of his safety in the arms of a woman. Then, once Holofernes had fallen into a drunken sleep, she called for her maid to bring her a sword.
Magdalena took a sharp breath, her throat fluttering. I leaned in closer to her, wanting to savor every bit of her pleasure. Through her eyes, I was able to experience the story for the first time all over again. My heart leapt in my throat as Judith sang out her triumphant aria and swung her sword. It came down on Holofernes’ neck with a great gush of stage blood so satisfying my mouth watered. Magdalena gave a little jolt in her seat and clapped her hands together briskly, and I laughed and pressed my cheek to hers. Her joy went through me like lightning, catching fire in my chest.
“Who is that woman with her?” she whispered, as the two women held down Holofernes’ writhing body and completed the decapitation.
“Her maid, I believe.”
“Maybe they were like us,” she said, voice velvety and soft in the darkness. We were still pressed together, her lips near my ear, her eyes fixed on the stage.
“And what are we, Magdalena?” I asked. The question was out of my mouth before I had a chance to weigh it. We had been together for years, the three of us, but there was still no name for the affection between Magdalena and I. It seemed incomplete, somehow, to call her lover or friend.
She turned her face towards mine, nudging my nose with her own.
“Don’t tell me you think we’re rivals, dear Constanta. Haven’t you realized by now that there’s enough of him for the each of us?”
“I’m not thinking about him,” I said, and to my surprise, I was being honest. My head was always full of you: when we were together you overshadowed every conversation, and when we were apart I made myself sick with missing you. But now Magdalena had my undivided attention. “I’m talking about us, you and I. Let’s be honest with each other, for once.”
Somberness was not one of Magdalena’s strong suits, and it was my constant disposition, which resulted in a rift between us. She was content to glide in and out of my bed, teasing me mercilessly one day and then sliding her arms around my neck and calling me beloved the next, and she never saw the contradiction in her actions. I, however, took love much more seriously. Love was no girlhood game. It was an iron yoke, forged in fire and heavy to wear. I suppose I wanted to know once and for all if Magdalena really loved me, even if it was just in her way.
Magdalena looked at me for a long moment, and then deliberately began removing the glove of her free hand. She did it with her teeth, so she wouldn’t have to let go of me. Once the grey silk was settled into her lap, she brought her wrist to my mouth. Secure in the dark anonymity of the opera box, I kissed the pulse beating languorously underneath her fragrant skin.