Her poise would be prompt, sharp, aristocratic. Yet I don't know if her eyes would hold the look for forlorn, withdrawn, shame, or demise.
She is a mystery.
And I am Diane Sawyer, Oprah Winfrey, Katie Couric, and the woman-next-door all rolled into one. A journalist at half, a friend at best.
We find her in the pages of Esther. Her beauty striking, probably dark arched brows, bronzed face, chocolate eyes, thin wide lips, sprawling lashes, elevated cheekbones, and hair as luscious as the Persian gods themselves - long and shiny and falling in cascading splendor. She is the wife of the King, the greatest woman in the land. The female remarked by all, known by all, and A-listed by all. She is Angelina Jolie.
She is The Queen.
And now, she sits across from me, and I spiral through thoughts, perceiving questions, and wondering her mystery. Who is she? Whose daughter was she beloved? Whose friend was she companioned? Whose mother was she embraced? Who is the woman behind the veil? The Veil of the Queen, the veil of her secrets, the veil of her betrayal.
It was customary for her to throw parties. To exchange the lavishness of the Kingdom. A great banquet was hosted by Xerxes, her husband of the royal throne. "Couches of gold and silver on mosaic pavement of porphyry, marble, mother-of-pearl, and other costly stones" dotted the grounds of the garden, itself robed in silk and linens and servers throughout (1:6-8). And she held her own affair, the richness of the palace dancing with light cast from reflection of gold.
We sit at dinner, her and I, and a lean forward, looking into the dance of the history she beholds, and ask her about that day, about that night, about the extravagance. She looks away, as if in memory, as if hearing and replaying the sounds of the lyres and harps and timbres and dancing and intoxicated laughter. She tells me of her giggles, of the women all rushing about amid the castle, each doused in myriads of the finest oils and spices, their skin warmed to the scent, and their Persian maids ruminating at each beck and call. It was a flurry of activity, of chatter, of color, of silk. Only the grandest fabrics present, only the greatest of guests invited.
She remembers it well, her foreplay to the evening. Her own personal dance of pulling together the means of her royal affair. She seems to love this moment, to dance in it too.
Then I ask her about the entrance, about the attendants demand.
And her face casts shadow. Her looks grow gaunt. Her tension immediately snapped. I'm trying to understand her life behind The Veil, and read into the shadow. Is it regret I see? Remorse? Anger? Contention? Retribution? Or is it hurt? Brokeness? Longing? Or loss of love?
For the King had turned his face from her. Her Lover, her Love. Her other part of the whole. Surely, he had women gushing to be his own, and laid with many, but none was she. None was Vashti. None was the wife as she. None was Queen.
The moment was caught in her eye, stark and startling. Then gone. Ripped and removed. As if she wanted the reminisce to lay dead. Away in the grave.
My silence is poignant. Waiting. Letting the flick of all emotions settle, the flame calm to kindle. To strike when the fire gave way to ashes.
They smoldered, her emotions solemn and her face turned away. She remarked his words, his command, asking her to flaunt her self. To make gestures and dances and expose what she beholds.
It is this moment. This moment that I surge into. Every beat of my journalist heart wants each detail, the mesmerizing script only she knowns and can behold. I linger forward, wondering if the wait will open her soul, will open the words of her to me. My fingers grip the pen and feel tension mounting, willing her to unravel.
But she stares off. Says something about his arrogance, and a line or two about her disgust. Its as if a cement wall rises to protect her shattered soul. Pauses pass and I wait. The she reaches in and speaks forth: the gasping of the crowd, the shocked stares of the attendants, the immediate silence that billowed through the room like a tsunami, rippling through the clinking goblets and music until only absolute stillness and sharp contrast hung like thick judgements in the air.
She had tried to stay, to partake in her own ball, but the exuberance was gone. The party vanished. People swirled, but only to stare. Gazes still fell on her, but only to cast hatred through a glare.
She removed herself, but they had already removed her. From their respect, their awe, their role of her as their Queen. And then worse, he removed her. Her lover, betrayal. His pride his armor; her heart, his stone.
And now here is she. She once exalted. She once Queen.
Her life has turned to quiet corridors. To small gatherings of the friends allowed to see in, the harmen of the King beckoned her way, the women whose husbands have too left them unchained. Her life has turned to darkened rooms, to candles once lit.
I look at her again, and wonder what she sees. A woman once beheld by all, now gossiped by all.
I sip the end of my red wine, and land the goblet down, my fingers encircling the stem and tracing the gold. My journalist pen I set to the side, and lean back, perplexed in my chair, and softened by her tone. Her stare falls downward, her own glass pushed aside too.
She is the institution all men have been decreed to control. She is cast-off, the society removed. She is the one now, all looking to replace.
She is Vashti, the once-was Queen.
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