Ceremony or No
Get married in a museum they said. It would be perfect they said. How romantic! How unique! How unconventional!
I had once thought so, too. I can barely remember its name at present, but it is, without a doubt, a very well-stocked museum, full of paintings from what seems to be the Impressionism period downwards. They even procured a few tapestries, looking to be from the 1400s, which really piqued my interest the first time we came inquiring about a venue space.
It surprised me they accommodated our ambitious plans. I am sure my fiancée’s background in the art history world helped a bit. But then again, he also had the most horrid glare when he was annoyed. The docent trying to assist us was certainly annoying. I wish that had deterred us. I wish that obstacles of money or square footage had sent us back home, back to the desperate, endless scrolling through websites and blog posts to find some place suiting our arrangement of grandeur.
It was not every day that a professor married royalty.
Therefore, the occasion required opulence of the tangible kind. Not that I wanted the whole “royal treatment”. It brought bile to my throat, remembering the term being used by one of my fiancée’s colleagues, but I learned it was wise not to correct. Everyone and their twice removed uncle had an opinion about what was good and proper. They would think me rude if I excused myself from such conversations.
Temples! Estates! Castles!
I had lived in a fair-sized castle all my life and was quite bored with it, but I had forgotten that others could only dream of that existence. So, I let them have their princess fantasies for their own sakes. I paid them no mind. But it did bother my soon-to-be husband. I assumed it was the pressures of academia and tried to persuade him to ignore the clucking hens of the literati, pecking away at the silver bands of our engagement rings. I could almost physically feel the metaphorical dents in the precious metal as I toyed with it, looking at Richard with the biggest, saddest eyes I could muster. “They are driving you insane. Driving you away from the real reason we are doing any of this!”
I told him I would have preferred a nice, tranquil garden. Perhaps an enchanting private villa? Or a wide open plain, with mountains on the horizon, and cottages on said mountains! Somewhere, our essences were not masked by the ceremony, but enhanced. I reminded him we were doing this for love, not for appearances.
His brows folded like a fragile piece of muslin fabric, and I began to doubt if that was true. But a gradual light behind his darkened pupils eased the inner tugging of my heart. He suddenly exclaimed, “Why don’t we go where you can have all the places you long for and more?”
The paintings could take me anywhere I wanted to go he said. Their gold encased frames would then satisfy the wondering eyes of the guests. Marriage in a museum he said. It would be perfect he said.
As long as it was at night.
At first, the thought of a night wedding was odd to me, yet then I realized how romantic that truly was. And he was always a fan of the romantics and their paintings. We could have peach and cinnamon scented candles everywhere and watch the moonlight drip over the well-manicured lawns and into the windows, onto the oils and pigments of the art! It sounded so beautiful, so fitting for our rather mismatched yet perfect love.
But as I walked down the winding hallways, to the altar and the rest of my life, white gown and all, a swarm of frenzied bridesmaids bombarded me. They were buzzing around me like a swarm of locusts, their lime green dresses mimicking neatly creased, flapping wings. Their shrieking was horrible. “Wait! Oh, God! Don’t go! There’s been a mistake!”
Slender, gloved hands gripped my waist and shoved me to the floor of the nearest gallery. I was lucky my skirt was full enough to cushion me away from the impact. It still felt like the wind knocked out of my lungs, however. The doors swiftly closed on me before I could wrestle myself into a sitting position. Then there was silence.
And now here I sit, on a polished marble floor that has me slipping and sliding in the attempt to stand. I feel like a snowball trying to roll itself into an upright snowman. After my third tumble, I decide to slide my way towards the door, much like a penguin on his belly, gliding on ice crystals. But instead of feathers, yards of tool, lace, and pearl beads scrape against my stomach.
I reach for the handle and find it locked. Outrageous. No one gave the bridesmaids extra keys. The door must lock automatically from the inside.
With no other stimulation but my own thoughts, I panic. What did they mean by a mistake?
What could have happened? The caterers had arrived on time, and the dress fit perfectly—thank God—when I slipped it on this morning. I even wrote a quaint note to Richard and slipped it into his dress shoes when he looked in the mirror and occupied himself with his tie. It read: Do not forget in all this commotion that I love you. Ceremony or no.
I thought it was sweet.
Then I thought that his reflection in the mirror was strange. I could barely see him, just the tie in the mirror. The sun was rather harsh though, and he was in the shadows of the room. It must have been a trick of the light.
If I had known that was the last time Richard and I would be in the same room before they locked me away in here, I would have run up and kissed him. Bad luck before a wedding, I know. But everything had gone seemingly without a hitch. Why did everyone wait until now to make a fuss? That was downright irritating. And I have tried my hardest not to be one of those “bridezillas,” or so the States call them.
Maybe it is better that I am locked in a room now. I can have my little tantrum all by myself in here, and no one would be the wiser. Yes, that is what I shall do. I shall scream, and cry and yell now, and then be the picture of perfection when they come back to fetch me.
Things really do work out for the best sometimes, do they not?
Just as I turn and lean my back against the door, ready to let out one of the biggest, most frustrated screams of my life, I see a little podium with a gold placard on top standing in the middle of the room. I probably failed to see it during my descent to the floor, but it is as clear as day now.
A distraction, I think. I brace myself against the door and start walking myself up into a standing position. There are fewer slips and stumbles now, but with the sheer length of my dress, a few still happen regardless. I finally feel my heels clack against the marble ground, and I welcome the sudden stability. The urge to scream has almost vanished with it.
I hobble towards the podium, my ankles rolling slightly in my haste. Alright, so maybe not as stable as a thought. But I can still walk. Good. This is good. Everything is fine.
I grip onto the podium for dear life and see that golden placard engraved with something. A small, poorly written poem. I try to read it, but the clamoring thoughts in my head seem to block out the words. I read it again aloud to try and counteract the annoying buzz.
“Look into their faces, if you must
Traces of life frame their eyes
Be careful of which ones you trust
All are capable of telling lies”
Huh. Strange.
And with that thought, three overhead lights flicker to life, one for each of the three walls before me. Perhaps I triggered a motion sensor. There is a painting under each light, all depicting portraits of the most unusual characters I have ever seen. Not much in my taste. I have never been one for portraits. But there is something striking about them. Each pair of eyes see