Mourning

It was a beautiful tableau: the cherry wood coffin with elegant gold handles and silk lining of royal blue suited perfectly the allure Mira had possessed in life. The coffin, which was not closed, was raised slightly at the head end so that the visitor upon entering immediately saw the angelic face. Even in death she looked breathtaking. Close beside it stood on one side a wooden easel bearing a painted portrait that William had once commissioned of his wife; on the other side sat William himself. On a chair that was visibly far from comfortable, with a grave expression, he wore a tailored suit that fit him like a glove; during her lifetime he had not left her side for a moment and now he sat beside her mortal remains. Matt stood on the threshold — how hard it would be for him, how hard it was going to get. Matt knew no better. The daughter of Mira and William had just left the room; from the kitchen came some clattering, the tap ran open and shut and shortly after came the gurgling of a coffee machine. Matt took a deep breath before stepping into the room, his eyes fixed on the porcelain face of Mira — at this moment there were no other visitors to pay their last respects. From his chair, William followed Matt's gaze; he knew full well that his best friend had been secretly in love with Mira for years, even though this had never been spoken aloud. Even now that Mira was dead, he felt he had to keep an eye on Matt as he approached her coffin. He nodded pleasantly when Matt placed the flowers at the foot end of the coffin and forced a smile when Matt laid his hand on her shin and stroked it — an innocent gesture of affection for Matt, but William's blood boiled, he would have loved nothing more than to slap that hand away. Hands to yourself, mate.

Matt stood there for a moment, lost in his own thoughts; when he looked up he was also the first to break the silence, though he spoke in a soft, almost whispering voice. "Will, dear friend! Words fall short, how terribly unfair death is." Matt had switched the radio on during the long drive but had taken nothing in from the broadcasts; throughout the journey, which took three hours, he had thought about the words he would say to William. In the end this was the text he spoke — in three hours he had been unable to come up with anything better. "Thank you for coming, Matt." William's voice was slightly louder. Was he glad Matt had made the journey? No, certainly not — William would have preferred that Matt had found the distance too great an obstacle and stayed home. That his friend had made the effort anyway told William precisely what Matt had felt for his wife. Still, he received the words with a friendly nod; even though the words sounded rehearsed, the sympathy felt good to him nonetheless.

William turned his head toward the kitchen. "Vera, do we still have a vase? Matt has brought a beautiful bouquet." William experienced the bouquet as a Judas kiss, but he knew full well that this was a moment to keep his inner voice from surfacing. Mira had once told him that she found Matt's behaviour peculiar and had the feeling there was more behind it — at least, that was how William had read between the lines. He himself had always trusted Mira completely; he was also certain that she and Matt had never gotten up to anything behind his back. Not that they would have had the chance, for he had rarely left Mira alone. He simply hadn't dared, and that was not necessarily because of Matt — Mira was a woman who attracted a great deal of attention from other men. And women. In the room where Mira lay in state there were at least twenty bouquets and floral arrangements — how many of those had been from secret admirers? William had no idea. For Matt this was confirmation that Mira had been a beloved person; for William proof that everyone had wanted something from her. Everyone who had come to pay their last respects could not express themselves truthfully and could really only show sympathy toward William. The kind words and compassion did him good, even if he sensed something else lay behind them — the attention was directed at him.

"Those are indeed beautiful flowers, Matt." Without anyone having noticed, Vera had entered the room and took the bouquet from the coffin with her into the kitchen to put it in a vase. Matt's gaze followed her — at least William still had his daughter, how else was his friend supposed to go on living? He had been inseparable from Mira, inseparable because he had been so dependent on her: Mira had been his rock and now he sat there, outwardly composed — how wretched he must feel at the prospect of carrying on his life without her. William did notice how his friend watched his daughter as she left the room, the way more and more men stared after her these days; she was in many respects unmistakably a daughter of Mira. Many men and women had worshipped Mira, it had quickly become insufferable for William — the moment anyone looked at her, jealousy took hold of him.

William followed Matt's gaze to the portrait beside the coffin. He was pleased with the painting — a beautiful tribute and keepsake of his now deceased wife. He had commissioned only Mira's head to be painted; he could not bear the thought of giving the artist an excuse to let her eyes roam over his wife's entire body under the guise of: it's my work. A female artist, yes — naive as he was, he had initially seen no danger in having a woman immortalise Mira on canvas; he had even been quite pleased with that decision. During the three sessions in the artist's studio — he had of course accompanied Mira — the hungry eyes of the painter had not gone unnoticed. Why was the whole world always after Mira? Even when the weatherman shared the forecast with a smile he felt jealousy; when a dog in the street turned its head and looked at Mira, he would have liked nothing better than to do something to the animal and its owner alike.

If it had been up to him, he would have kept her indoors at all times — though he felt that was going a bit far. So he had chosen the alternative and had made sure Mira was never alone. He smiled cautiously. Matt interpreted it as a melancholic smile; no doubt a fond memory. But no, the smile was not melancholic — William was relieved, no, happy: he no longer had to let his life revolve around Mira. At last he could live his own life.