Lover's Palace

On the sacrificial altar, I can only see your face

In the gray-yellow, mute-brown factory-like air of a small village in the countryside; buried in the darkest pit of the forest, among rolling plains, enshrouded by limestone cliffs...

In the center of this village lies a somber and imposing cathedral.
To reach it, one must take a short cobblestone path which splits off from the end of a very long, winding dirt road — one that's been trodden and stepped on by thousands of hooves, feet, shoes, and wheels; centuries long, they've been pacing back and forth, slicing the Earth; a reciprocating saw, severing open and splitting apart the land.

The grass, wheat, shrubs, and bushes that decorate the passage are dotted by ribbons, deflated balloons and plastic scraps, which, unlike the travelers, never fully disappear.

Next to the cathedral is the brothel, and upon the pale, exposed gray limestone, I perceive myself resting against it, back here again, my back against the wall, beating at the center of the village's pulsing heart.

Dusk has long fallen. It's the winter of the day, the coldest hour of the night.
The moon, in its last quarter, illuminates the top crescent, and only barely, for the half-moon is blanketed by swiftly circulating clouds. Stars glitter above the heavy fog, and clouds mix in with the thick vapor to form a fine cotton gauze, pulling across the wet ink of the galactic night.

The stars and planets seem to shimmer the way light does on water, and with my back against the wall, for a second, it's as though I'm hanging upside down. The sky is the vast ocean beneath me, the dirt and stone is the sand, and the village is the vaulted night sky, and I’m alone, in orbit, attached to a radiantly effervescent light.

The brothel is painted a creamy, pastel yellow. Rococo-blue silk drapes billow out from the curvaceous, ornately sculpted windows. Golden tassels stream from the bottom of the curtains, and the silk is so full of warm air, the windows look to be inflated by glistening bubbles that burst out from the frames. Roses and violets decorate the façade, bouquets of them are held in glass vases, each one, like teardrops, fastened to the wall by heart-shaped screws. There are garlands of flowers hung about the windows and around the doorway. The wooden entrance to the brothel is cut out in the shape of a heart, and none dare open a single door, for no one wants to be the one who makes the heart break.

In contrast to the cathedral, the brothel's façade depicts an explicit and pornographic love scene — a warrior type man and voluptuous woman, embracing one another, their limbs intertwined, entangled, as a jewel-piece, set in the center of a disorderly, unwrapped bed. An onlooker might notice the wings of Cupid, floating above the couple in the upper right corner, obscured behind the bed's netted-lace curtains. Engraved roses, myrtles, and violets frame the sculpture, and the stone is so perfectly carved, the scene becomes uncanny, realistically moving, almost living.

Firelight flickers from behind the blue curtains; echoes of laughter, moaning, whimpers, and lovesick music reverb through the cold, humid air. Crickets and owls chirp in the distance, but all else is formidably quiet, for it is only the brothel and the cathedral that stand erect in this village.

It takes six hours, by carriage, from the nearest town, to reach this small hamlet, and beyond the cathedral and brothel walls, lays nothing but two derelict outposts, in the dense forest, and a single muddied path, which leads to the gates of this lover's palace. For reasons of virtue, the entrance to the cathedral is distinct cobblestone, built out from the marble fountain that separates the two opposing buildings.

The brothel is engulfed by light, it shines like a solitary star in the empty night. Against the cold walls, I keep my eyes on it the way I'd keep my eyes on a phone screen in another life. I stand still and feel the night air caress my wet skin. My skirt is pooled at my ankles, and my thigh-high stockings are rolled down below my knees. My red garter belt, which I always wear, is fastened with a metal heart-shaped locket, and remains in place, dangling above my exposed thigh. My hands are clasped around one another, praying, and I hold them tightly together at the center of my chest. I heave shallow, panicked breaths, confused, and terribly, inexplicably lost. He's my Mars and I'm his Venus, but he's gone, and there’s no chance I’ll cling to him again. Despairingly, I search for his silhouette behind the curtains, I perk my ears to hear his laugh, I envision his smile, I try to remember the smell of his breath.