Kakania always had a penchant for the arts.
She’s no artist, she knows, her talent for barbed words and grand speeches reserved only for public debates and secret sessions with patients. But her profession had given her a keen eye and the ability to draw interpretations from the simplest of things, and so naturally, it also led her to the complexities of art and the people behind them— their thoughts, ideas, decisions. Every stroke has a purpose, every note has a meaning, every motion something to be analyzed and critiqued— all leading to the windows of a person’s mind. It’s all unique. All beautiful.
And so, when Kakania looks back at her time with Isolde, it’s no surprise all she sees is art, bursting out in all its different forms, punctuating each and every one of their meetings.
It starts with the bold strokes in an otherwise nondescript blank canvas that marks their first interaction. There, a burst of vivid colors in the way Klara’s overexcited fumbling almost sends all the dishes on their table flying off to who knows where. She remembers silently cursing to herself, tense shoulders and a slight tremor in her gloved fingers. Then trying to salvage her too strong an entrance with a smile too bright and too enthusiastic, yellows and golds rolling off her in waves.
She couldn’t remember what her introduction was, perhaps something too vague or perhaps something too one-note, but what she does remember is Heinrich’s and Theophil’s joint laughter, raucous and youthful, colored in warm tones that matched the interior of Cafe Central.
And there, right in front of her, a smattering of bright lavenders and iridescent tones— all encased within dark shadows and muted colors. It’s a sign of amusement, but Klara didn’t know that yet. Instead, she’s lost in the surface and pulled in muted tones as Isolde von Dittarsdorf takes her outstretched hand, yellows and golds dimming the tiniest bit as it tries to mingle with pastel pinks and aged whites, like an amateur artist still learning their way through color theory and different paints.
It’s mismatched tones and hurried lines, but she still hangs the canvas on the walls of her mind, fondly tracing every mistake and clumsy accident every time she takes the well-worn path to reflection and introspection.
Then there, after less than stellar first meetings, a curiosity that’s rewarded with song. A front-row ticket courtesy of inside connections. Klara scans the synopsis of the play and grasps about half of it before the lights dim and the curtains open—
And suddenly words on a page aren't so important anymore.
Because what use is there for plain words when Vienna’s Nightingale is in front of her in all her glory, characters coming to life with every note and every flourish. It’s akin to a siren’s call, the way the songs tug at Klara’s heart and creep up like trained roses, vines wrapping around every inch of her being and rooting her to her seat. She’s unable to look away, led to feel as Salome felt, as Sieglinde felt, as Isolde felt. A whirlwind of emotions that keeps her coming back— one more ticket, one more show, another front-row seat.
(Klara makes sure to always choose the seat right in the middle, the one closest to the stage. And when the music starts and roses start blooming in her heart, she hums to the siren’s call and thinks what danger Isolde must be, to be able to make her darling audience undoubtedly jump and drown in the water’s embrace if she so wished it so.)
Then even further from that, past first meetings and impersonal actor-audience relationships, the improvised melody of a waltz made for two. Kakania never considered herself adept at high society etiquette, but here she is on a sunny afternoon, a hand behind her back, her heart jumping in her throat. She’s trying for a smile, a persona hastily built from impromptu decisions guiding the way she bows her head and stretches out her hand down to the last detail, even in the way her shoulders tense and her fingers tremble the slightest bit— every bit the role of a lovestruck noble awaiting his muse in classical plays.
And when Isolde takes her hand and the orchestra of their makeshift scenario begins to play, Kakania finds herself carving out memories from her mind in each step and turn.
There, a staccato that’s reminiscent of her chance meetings with Isolde every time she’s running from furious Viennese guards. Kakania tips her hat and almost slips on a crack on the pavement in the process, but delights in the barest glint of amusement and mischief she sees in iridescent eyes as she rounds a corner, followed by the panicked shouts of the guards as they flawlessly fall for the act of a fainting spell by a seasoned opera star.
Then in a half-completed arc, the bell-like notes that ring in Isolde’s rare open laughter, the barely controlled shaking of her shoulders, the weight that settles on Kakania’s arm as she tries to muffle her giggles on her sleeve. It makes Kakania laugh too, bright and booming, uncaring of the looks they get from people as they pass by.
Then as a lull in the piece passes and a deep piano sounds, Kakania remembers quieter moments— when Isolde’s eyes are dim and her gaze far and Kakania’s looking for her silhouette in the shadows that color her normally iridescent eyes. She’s searching, clawing at darkened clouds. Then making a fool of herself as she stands and glides on polished floors. An impromptu act, a hastily crafted story, bold requests and grand motions and treading the lines between reality and fiction and memories as it thins and disappears and—
A booming crescendo, a bold end. Isolde’s fingers a teasing touch on her nape and Kakania’s hands a firm grip on her waist as the former leads them to a dip. In iridescent eyes, bold strokes and blinding greens that melt away into gentler lines and softer hues.
It’s Kakania. No, Klara— and the quiet affection hidden deep bursting forth in all its vivid colors.
And so as Kakania reaches the end of the well-worn path of her memories, she reaches the very same conclusion she had always known: every moment with Isolde has always been an artform— an abstract painting on a canvas, a siren’s call on stage, an improvised waltz reserved only for two.
So really, it’s no surprise she finds this beautiful too, in its own absurd and macabre way.
Like a dance, the absurd part of her mind whispers, then laughs— shaky and self-mocking.
Here, in this closed-off room in Vienna’s Foundation branch, Isolde’s confession rings out like the start of the third act of a broken play. She hums and it bounces off the walls of the dim room— like its own grand orchestra waiting for another instrument to join in. She paints a canvas with her motions— a graceful turn here, an airy half-step there. All one color, light strokes, half-finished shapes. It’s waiting for direction, guidance— a partner to meet her halfway and accompany her to the grand finale.
Except it’s not Kakania that joins her.
No, it’s an empty caricature of Kakania, in deep green strokes and lofty aspirations. Isolde is smiling, twisting and turning in perfect harmony with discordant violins and off-tune pianos, fueled by the grand speeches and naive words that never should’ve existed. That version of her bathed by the golden light of the sun setting over Vienna whispers sweet nothings that doesn’t reach her ears, but the way Isolde giggles like chiming bells makes her want to run— to claw at the shadows and tear down illusions of grandeur or to leave and never come back, she doesn’t know.
But what Kakania does know is the flowers blooming under her feet, trained roses sprouting from muddy colors and ugly lines, then climbing up her legs, her arms, her neck, and her heart. In every mistaken note that rings out, in every vivid color that dissolves into nothing but muddied tones and directionless forms, Kakania feels the thorns that lodge themselves past skin and muscle and bone— too deep to bleed, yet too shallow to kill.
Yes, Kakania has always been powerless against the arts, even as it brings her to her knees, even as the final notes ring out and Isolde does one final turn, as graceful and perfect as she had always done countless times.
And there, in the silence that follows, an outstretched hand and a final show of mercy. The sweetest of smiles. Lavenders shining like stars in iridescent eyes.
And dainty fingers locked in a mockery of an unloaded gun.
Bang.
.
.
.
.
And later, when the music has reached an eternal rest, Kakania holds a dreaming noble in her arms, the final waltz playing over and over in her head. She trembles as the thorns finally unroot themselves and the roses adorning her heart wilt and take everything else with it, red spilling all over the wooden floors of her clinic, seeping into the cracks and burrowing somewhere she’ll never be able to reach.
I’ll fix this. All of it. I promise I will.
And like all things about them, this too fits the conventions of art— the classic plays, the roles of the dreaming princess and the faraway prince. Kakania heaves a breath, a trembling hand reaching for a limp one, searing the familiar coldness into the forefront of her mind.
And like all those familiar fairy tales and plays, the prince brings the princess’ hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm. A sign of a promise made.
So, wait for me Isolde.
Then another, to the still beating pulse on her wrist. A promise sealed.
I promise I’ll come to wake you up soon.