The Remarried

Chapter one

Entering the house feels like entering a small room that was closed for years. The air is unusually heavy and warm. Perhaps it is the contrast with the cold, sterile room I left less than an hour ago. Or it is the contrast with the numbness I feel inside. But for the first time, entering that house doesn't feel like coming home.

I am holding a small box in my hand. It is so small that it would easily fit into the pink clutch bag I took with me to the execution, but it didn't even cross my mind to put it there. I held it in my hand for all to see, since the moment one of the officers with machine-like voices gave it to me. I wanted to ask a lot of questions when he handed it to me, most of them in a sarcastic tone of voice. So this is how it's done? This is what it takes to erase us from this world? But then I looked at him and saw that there was nothing malicious in his face. He was handing me the small box with a vial of poison like it was a charitable gift. And when I looked at it from the outside, it really was.

It isn't the Republic that forces the families of people executed for capital crimes to 'follow', as they call the honor suicide the families commit the night following the execution. It is the republic without the capital R, the society, the fear of rejection, the shame and desperate desire to be remembered at least with compassion, not with disdain. Like the last cup of tea they drink together could take all the shame away, purify them, clean their name before it would be forgotten. It is not a written law, and yet nobody has ever opposed themselves to it. Neither do we. This is the reason why we are all together, suddenly united as a family we never resembled before. But I don't feel like there is anything about me that would need to be purified.

Since the trial, most of the neighbors stopped greeting me. They refused to serve me in a shop once. A man spat under my feet on the street. And yet nothing could erase the pride from my voice when I dictated my name to receptionists, officials or prison guards. "Eleanor Vessen-Rivetti. Double S, double T."

They say all the marriages of the upper class are about money. And we were never ashamed of the fact that the fortunes of our families were discussed more than our feelings before the wedding. But compared to all the married couples I know, Edmond and I were a match made in heaven.

If I were ashamed of bearing his name, it would mean I were ashamed of being his wife, of loving him, of standing by him throughout the whole trial. It would mean I were ashamed of myself, because before I was anything else, I was his wife. It was what defined me in the society, what defined me in our family, it was my purpose in life.

If I am willing to drink my cup of poisoned tea tonight, it is not out of shame. I am willing to die because now my life has no purpose.

The tea smells of berries and roses, almost like the one I drank when I first met Edmond, at a tea party my aunt took me to because she thought it was high time for me to find a husband, or for her to find me one. But I chose the flavor because it is more likely to hide the smell and the bitter taste of poison, not out of nostalgia. I don't use sugar. The officer advised me not to, he said it could slow down the effects. We all know the poison will be there anyway.

I lay the tray on the coffee table in the salon, with the familiar clinking of porcelain. Everyone is already sitting there, waiting quietly, seemingly calm, like they would wait for me to bring cake after a Sunday lunch. There weren't many Sundays when we were all here together like this.

Edmond's mother is sitting on the sofa with Maria, her daughter. Both are wearing a long black dress, both have their hair styled the same way, held back with a silver pin. Only Maria took off her shoes while her mother didn't. Like she wants to die complete, like she doesn't want to cause anyone trouble with having to put her shoes on for her when she's dead.