Heavens gate

Trembling at Heaven’s Gate, where earthly time ceases and a man’s fate is decided, I’m about to be immersed in my Final Test.

Feeling strangely exhilarated in a state of wonder, confusion and dread, Heaven's Gate, like a gothic tower rising in the clouds has, inside, a cozy English pub..

Cordially invited by blissfully charming angels who’ve brought me to meet Peter the Great for my initial interview.

He approaches with arms outstretched to embrace  me, double kissed me on the cheeks, his stubby mustache felt rough.

        Welcome, Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. 

Stunned and delighted with the convivial relaxed atmosphere, I recognize many faces smiling with knowing winks  all giving me the thumbs up sign.

Not knowing whether they were waiting for, had completed their Final Test, or were enjoying their heavenly reward, I wasn’t going to risk muffing my chances, so I didn’t ask.

Passing close by a table where Beethoven and Mozart were involved in a game of chess also composing at the same time, I overheard Mozart, a mischievous fellow with such swagger and sway;  

        Ludwig, Mein Herr, a little more arpeggio

        Nein, die  Sonate ist Perfekt, he growled.

My entrance had caused interest and naturally, wanted to appear at my best so I had borrowed the ceremonial dress from 

my portrait by Jacques Louis David in the National Gallery. 

What an artist!  Neoclassical perfection a masterful improvement on the excesses of rococo design.

 Immaculate cream trousers, dark blue jacket, and gold epaulets gleaming,  I’m portrayed from the ground up to emphasize an imposing bearing.  I never looked better.

After the museum closes and the cleaners have finished, the place comes alive. Sliding out of our gilt frames free to roam but obediently returning to silent upright imprisonment minutes before the first guards’ shift begins. All were my friends.

What a thrill and privilege we felt  to dwell in the magnificent museum and witness the explosion of growth and success of this wonderful experiment in democracy called America.  Washington, birthed in a swamp has flourished like a mighty eagle soaring beyond all expectations. 

         Be assured, Comrade, Peter said,  escorting me into a private suite with large open French windows and a terrace beyond.

         We don’t grade actions . We    

         look       

         Into the contents of a man’s heart hoping 

         to see great love there

         and what he has bequeathed to the world.

My knees stopped shaking but the heart? that was 

beating like the guillotine drum roll.

         See , he said,  your advisors are viewing you. They

         have the option to intercede on your behalf…

Merde!  Marie Antoinette, that quasi-peasant appeared heading the procession, resplendent and twirling in lilac toile-de-Jouy. even brandishing the shepherd’s crook, a trifle over the top. She waved with a weak smile, I doffed my bicorne.  She snickered at my obsequiously low bow.

      Why do you wear your hat sideways?   

Not waiting for an answer, showing no interest she pirouetted off, to my blessed relief.   

Peter stroked his chin thoughtfully muttering to himself.  I sensed his desire to give me a fairer shot. 

         England! he chortled.  

Nom de Dieu! Not Wellington I silently begged.

Breezing into view………was it, could it be the Bard?  

Indeed, elegant and suave with noble brow and pointed beard wearing striped doublet and hose it was William Shakespeare, acknowledging me with a quick bow from the head.

 He could be loads of fun or downright ugly with a predilection for daggers and dark, stormy nights, I wasn’t feeling too chipper.

         Greetings, Emperor 

Stepping into the room, extending his hand which I grasped fervently. No lingering revenge here, thank goodness.  

Scanning my rap sheet, his brows arching, he was solemn.

        Zounds! Napoleon, Verily thy record is pessimal. Haircuts, donuts, Brandy……

William, mon ami my achievements do they count for nothing? 

Look further, I beseech you.  Centralizing the French government and all the trouble I went to with the Pope 

         Now Emperor, he said curtly, regarding the Pope.         

         let’s draw the veil of charity over that one.

The Napoleonic code streamlined the French legal system. I persisted.

Help me out here.  I was almost frantic. I’m either to descend or ascend right? Nodding he was silent.

          Ah, what’s this excellent observation I now see?                    

          Pray, allow me to congratulate you.

           Never interrupt your enemy when he is making   

           a mistake.     

           Good one, Emperor, I wish I had thought of it.

           Alas, the link to charity and love still isn’t clear.                                 

           Only the heart can speak or hear that which is 

           authentic.

The heart?  The heart is it.?   Look at my letters to Josephine.

            Now you are beginning to understand, 

            Emperor,                                             

            Charity is the ultimate virtue we seek in a man.                 

             the perfection of the human spirit so dear to 

             the                      

             Divine One.

Oui c’est va.  See this one I wrote to my sweet wife.

As for me to love you alone to make you happy to do no thing which would contradict your wishes, this is my destiny and the meaning of my life……

              Emperor, Emperor, that’s all well and good in 

              matrimony but we still need evidence of     

              unconditional love.

 Did I not suffer deeply with separation from my dear child.?

              You had a child?

Of course, I only saw him at a young age.  So dear to my heart. I would dip my finger in claret and let him suck.  He would laugh heartily.  I loved the boy. Dedicated many of my books to him.  My last words were I should like to have seen my wife and son again, but God's will be done.

               Dear friend, I too have known this most 

               precious                 

               love. My only son, Hamnet died at a young 

               age.  

              Twin brother to my second daughter, Susan. 

               Unable to verbalize, I concealed my grief in 

               sonnets and plays, where the aching loss can 

               be 

               magically healed. but can do nothing to 

               assuage 

               the family’s heartbreak revived every birthday.  

Embracing each other, two fathers united in suffering, we sobbed unashamedly. I was opening my heart, with humility showing sincerity as never before.  

Let us retire, mon ami, I said.  Knowing he had cemented my deliverance from foolish pride. I felt confident of success in the forthcoming Final Test.

What better way to celebrate than with dinner at the fine cuisine of Heaven’s Gate?  

With a glass of very good Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and a wry twist of fate I drank a toast to William Shakespeare, Englishman, my savior.

As we laughed and reminisced I persuaded him to try that most delectable of French desserts crème brûlée, which he agreed wholeheartedly was superior to his nation’s unutterably mediocre, Spotted Dick.

Word count 1102