When the Cypress Whispers by Yvette Manessis Corporon Page B

paused for a moment and looked around the classroom, then lifted the paper slightly closer to his face and once again began to speak. But as he began to read the passage, Daphne noticed that his hands had stopped shaking, and his voice took on a steady calm.
    Was this the face that launched a thousand ships
    And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
    Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
    Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!—
    Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
    Here will I dwell, for Heaven is in these lips,
    And all is dross that is not Helena.
    I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
    Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack’d
    And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
    And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;
    Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
    And then return to Helen for a kiss.
    Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
    Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
    Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
    When he appear’d to hapless Semele:
    More lovely than the monarch of the sky
    In wanton Arethusa’s azur’d arms:
    And none but thou shalt be my paramour.
    As he finished the passage, Alex once again looked up from his paper. He planted a slight, crooked smile on his face as he scanned the room for some sort of encouragement or reaction from his fellow students, but all he met was bloodshot blank stares—until he glanced at the girl with the pile of books and clothing beside her. Daphne locked eyes with the disheveled American boy and shyly but knowingly smiled back.
    “Very well chosen, young man,” the professor remarked. “Now, tell me what this all means to you.”
    “To me, this passage is art,” Alex began. He stared into the paper, which he clenched with both hands. “For me, true art evokes emotion. Love, hatred, joy, passion, compassion, sadness. Whatever form it takes on, art makes you feel something. It makes you know that you’re alive.”
    Alex stopped to take a breath. He looked up from his paper and made eye contact with Daphne once again. She squirmed just a little in her seat and felt a knot form in her stomach.
    “This passage makes me think of the power and possibility that exists between two people,” Alex continued. “It makes me think of what it might be like to love someone so deeply and completely that you would go to war for her, risk the lives of your friends for her—as Paris did for Helen. If art evokes emotion, then this passage haunts me. I feel haunted by it, by the possibility that a mere kiss can make the angels sing and make a person immortal . . . that the gates of heaven can be opened by a kiss.”
    On the surface, it made no sense. This was a class assignment, homework, nothing more. But despite the immigrant’s cardinal rule, “Keep to your own kind,” as Daphne watched Alex give his five-minute presentation, she knew that everything had changed.
    “Thank you, Alex. Well done.” The professor dismissed Alex with a nod of his head.
    Alex gathered his papers and prepared to return to his seat, starting up the stairs that led to the multitude of empty chairs in the cavernous lecture hall. Daphne forced herself to look away, to stare instead at the mosaic pattern of the lecture hall carpet. It hurt too much to watch him, to know that boys like him were not meant for girls like her. But then her solitary contemplation was interrupted by a whisper from above.
    “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
    She knew it was him before she even glanced up. As Daphne stared up at him, he didn’t wait for an answer. They both knew he didn’t have to. With his long, muscular legs and frayed-at-the-hem khakis, he climbed over the pile of Daphne’s clothes and slid into the seat beside her—and into her life.
    “Hi, I’m Alex,” he said as he extended his hand. Her long lashes fluttered before her big black-olive eyes locked in on his once more.
    They went for coffee after the lecture, both uncharacteristically cutting classes for the rest of the day.