Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

I awake with the sunlight falling directly over my face. I leap confused about where I am. I’m naked under the sheets. Jeanne… I slide a hand across my torso. It’s almost as if I could still feel her. I look around. She’s not in bed. She’s not at the bathroom either, for the door is open. This mansard is very spacious but there are not many places to hide oneself. And there’s only silence. I realise she’s not at home. She must be out to the shop or something. I’m alone then… I stumble between the undone bed and grab my boxers. I slip them on and stand up. My knees are a bit weak from yesterday. I smile at the memories of her riding me, and all the things we did together.

I begin to walk through the place, glancing around. This is so full of her spirit. She’s everywhere. She’s everything on this flat. Every little detail cries it is her. Every piece of furniture, every picture on the walls, every choice of colour. I approach an upholstered chair and take the white, delicate woven robe and bring it to my nose. It smells like her, like her smooth skin… There are so many things I didn’t notice yesterday. My mind was sort of clouded by the idea of her. I was so fixated on her, on her body and words, on her every move. Now a complete new side of her self is revealed for me to continue to read in it.

I walk to one of her many libraries. I glance at the spines of the books, running my index through them. Some seem very old and are quite roughed down. I see most are in French, but there’re plenty in other languages too, as English, especially, but also German, Spanish and Italian, even Japanese. She seems to be a lot into Japanese culture; she even has a set of three kanji’s drawings hanging on the wall. Does she speak all these tongues? She said she was a translator.

I move to reach her desk, a white trestle table as almost everything around here. Her silver MacBook rests on the centre, surrounded by mountains of papers and books, and pens, arranged in some particular semi-order. I run through her stuff with my finger and I sit on her chair. So this is from where she writes about me. I glance up to the gigantic corkboard placed on the wall, covered by posters from the Opera and postcards, and some photos. I approach it and there are some articles and poems too. I lightly touch everything I can reach and moving the papers I find some photos of me in black and white I haven’t noticed before. I beam, resting my hands on my waist, pleased. The paper has photographic quality, so I’m perplexed. Did she take photos from photos? Could she be this complex? One has an annotation made by hand on black ink. Is this her handwriting? I read.

“Non amo te Sabidi nec possum dicere quare hoc tantum possum dicere non amo te,” it says. Latin. Surely she reads Latin too, and maybe even Greek.

I take a piece of paper and an antique fountain pen and write it down. I walk to my jeans and shove the paper into my back pocket. I need to know what it means. I quickly return to the board and continue to glance at my photos. All seem to be from 2013. My hair was far shorter than today. I giggle, running my hand through my fringe. She said she wasn’t very pleased about my new look. But it has worked pretty well walking through the streets of Paris. Nobody has recognised me yet.

Before I sit down at her desk again I find the remote control of her hi-fi. I’m curious to know what she’s been listening to lately, so I hit the play button. I immediately recognise the melody, although is in a jazzy rhythm and sang by a woman.

I give him all my love,
That's all I do.
And if you saw my love
You’d love him too.
And I love him.

He gives me everything,
And tenderly
The kiss my lover brings,
He brings to me.
And I love him.

A love like ours
Could never die
As long as I
Have you near me.

Bright are the stars that shine,
Dark is the sky.
I know this love of mine
Will never die.
And I love him.

I definitely like the cover. It seems perfect for her. Jazz must be a pretty pleasant music while you write. I take the first of the papers on the mountain at my right. I see some printed paragraphs in French with annotations on the side on red ink. This must be her thesis about me. It seems that she’d done plenty of work. I wonder if her viva voce is any time soon. I wish I could read it.

“Quel est le sens ultérieur d’utiliser le recours de l’homosexualité ? Qu’est-ce qui fait qu’une personne, présumablement une jeune fille hétérosexuelle, écrit une fiction homosexuelle masculine au sujet de son idole ?” I mumble. I only understand two words but it’s enough for me to drop the paper. Wrong paragraph, definitely. But then I giggle. Larry is on a PhD thesis… Life is so strange. I’ll never tell Louis about it.

The song has finished a while ago so I replay the whole record. Why on earth jazz and Paris combine this well? I glimpse at my left and find some papers with her handwriting on, the same as in the photograph. I see my name written down and trace it with my fingertip. It looks so nice, so important… I wonder where she is. I’m missing her already. There are no drawers on her desk, unfortunately, but a wooden box at the back catches my attention. Maybe there’s a photo of that guy inside. Why would she keep a photo of him?

I lean in to grab it and place it over my lap to open it. I find some photos, indeed, but old ones, from people I assume are her family, and some landscapes, mostly forests and a sandy area. She told me her father was a photographer. As I pass them I find one of a little girl. It has to be her. God, she was the cutest with that long, French fringe. The box is full of other little things and memorabilia as matchboxes and tickets from films. As I move my fingers through it I find a white piece of paper. It’s a receipt from a bookstore in London. I can’t stop myself from smiling, my body surged by an intense joy. Is this the receipt from that day? I look at the date: March 4, 2011, as Zayn said. Why has she kept this all this time? Maybe she is obsessed with me in some way as I’m obsessed with her too. Who would have said one day I’d track an unknown girl down to Paris and then go through her stuff as a complete maniac?

I look at my watch. It’s almost eleven in the morning. Where might she be? I stand up from her chair and walk towards a tallboy. I look at the framed photographs from above. Jeanne with her friends, surely. But there’s one of her alone, raising her fist sitting on some guy’s shoulders amongst a multitude of people and flags. Jeanne in a protest. I grin. I can tell it must have been taken a while ago, although she looks the same. I wonder who took that picture. I leave it on its spot and open the first drawer because I’m this clever. It is full of black, lavender and nude coloured lace lingerie, as well as some slips and stocking. I feel all my blood rushing to my crotch. How could she be this sexy? How could she give me this without even being present? Well, it’s the force that brought me here in the first place and it surely hasn’t gone away. I lightly touch her undergarments with the palm of my hand but soon hear steps on the stairs, so I run to the bathroom after closing the drawer.

As I walk out of the bathroom some minutes later I find her fixing sunflowers on a vase. I want to live right here with her and adopt a cat. Her hair is up in a messy bun, so I’m able to admire her slender neck in slight torsion. She’s wearing a yellow gingham dress fitted on the waist that falls just above the knee and ankle strapped woven flat. She glimpses at me and giggles as I approach her in the kitchen area. I see she brought some other flower on a plant pot. It seems a species of orchid. How did she manage to carry up all this stuff six floors by stairs? I see she uses a linen recycled bag as in London and melt.

“Bonjour,” she mumbles, her mouth assuming the most adorable shape.

“Morning…” I say as I place my hand on her lower back and lean in to kiss her on the lips. She quivers momentarily and I grin. “Where have you been? I thought you had changed your mind about sharing this day with me…” I speak, leaning back against the worktop.

“Not at all–––she retorts, slightly grinning. I went to the baker’s, to the newsstand and, finally, to the florist’s,” she says proudly pointing at her flowers. I smile pulling her closer by the neck and kissing the top of her head. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Do you have some cereal?” I say, grasping the worktop by my sides.

“What are you, a chicken?” She blurts, extremely amused. We chuckle. “This is Paris, indulge yourself,” she says wiggling her eyebrows.

“Well, what do you suggest? I ask her, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well, all I have is black tea, freshly ground coffee with milk, toasts with butter and jelly or honey, and croissants,” she lists, grinning at my disconcert.

“But you have no cereal…” I observe.

“No, banned from this house,” she says, emphasising her words with a gesture of her hand.

“So you stay in shape because of the stairs…” I chuckle lightly.

“French women’s best kept secret revealed…” She jokes.

“I’ll have the same as you–––I assert. Coffee with milk, a toast, and a croissant.”

“How do you know that’s what I take?” She asked, pretty puzzled.

“I read you, remember?” I poke her chest.

“Oh, sure.” We laugh.

“So, what do we do today?” I ask after she places the vase over the table and begins to prepare everything.

“Well, we have breakfast then I read the press–––she says opening a tin of coffee beans. I usually do it on the table but because you are here I could break the routine and change places…” She reads the actual press… She’s unbelievable. After she grinds the coffee on an electric mill she continues to speak. “Then we snog under the summer sun and we bath.” This part has definitely caught my attention. I turn to face her. “Then we lunch and then we get dressed and visit a friend of mine…” She carries on in a casual tone.

“Do we visit a friend of yours?–––I snap. I don’t think so. I want to be with you alone.”

“But my friend is dead, so strictly you’ll be alone with me,” she retorts lightly. Are we going to a cemetery?

“You are so uncommon…” I mumble.

“Thank you–––she grins after doing that little grimace with her mouth that kills me. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll love our adventure.” I help her with the bread. “So, what have you been doing all this time I was out, besides putting on some music?” She asks. I can’t help but chuckle. “Did you go through my belongings?” She says. As in that song she likes I knew she was smiling without even looking at her. “It is fine. I have nothing to hide…”

“I find your thesis over the desk,” I confess.

“Do you want me to read it for you later?” She says turning towards me.

“Definitely, but not a Larry’s fragment, please.”

“Oh, sorry–––she chuckles, placing her fist over her mouth. It’s not my fault it’s a complex phenomenon, you know…”

–.–.–

After she made coffee, filling the flat with the most amazing scent, we had breakfast and stayed at the table for a while as she began to read the paper. Then we went to her little terrace with an astonishing view of La Sorbonne, a renowned park at the left and the building where Napoleon is buried, to the right, as Jeanne explained to me. I was still in my boxers and Jeanne had changed to a slip, leaving her hair down. As she sat to read on the wooden bench against the edge of the terrace I practiced Pilates on a yoga rug few steps away from her. After all I had a show to give the next day. She glanced at me from time to time from above her paper, her reading glasses on the tip of her nose.

“Each time you change postures I lose ten thousand Euros for the photograph I’m not taking,” she joked.

She was so irresistibly sensual sitting with her huge paper between her hands, her glasses and her hair rolled to the side it was hard for me to remain focused. All I wanted was to take her to bed but she seemed so relaxed while reading I felt almost guilty about my dirty thoughts. But the day was running. We had left a bit more than twenty-four hours by then. At one moment, as if she was reading my mind instead of the paper, she lifted from the bench and walked towards me as I sat on the floor in lotus, staring at her. She held out her hand for me.

“You are looking far too beautiful. The world can wait,” she smirked.

–.–.–

Notes

The morning after... But it wasn't awkward at all!

There are actually three levels of language in this story: What is said––meant to be understood by Harry and you––, what is said but in a different language––important to the story but not at the moment. Not meant to be understood by Harry. If you don't know the language or are too curious you can use your translator or just ask me––, what is unsaid––Harry will state he didn't understand, maybe or maybe not relevant to the story...––. This is not a coincidence, I'm building a literary mystery.

I imagine by this moment you should have pictured Jeanne in your minds, but there's an actual photo of her, the one Harry found over her tallboy. This is Jeanne. When I chose the girl behind DreamingOfYou and decided she was French, I remembered that photo from the press. I searched it and as I saw it, it brought all her background. Photos and art in general have this evocative power. This story is full of images I translated into words, imagines that gave me a sensation, an atmosphere, a certain light and details, looks, movements. I've been working so hard on this story, and because of that I'm so glad you enjoy it. Staying around even if it's not your usual story, your comments, your messages, it all gives me the energy to carry on with this puzzle. Because this is a puzzle and a labyrinth and I'm honoured to have you around to walk with me. So stay with me because this is not just another story but a full experience.

Thank you to all my marvellous, clever readers for sharing your time with me, and special thanks to my lovely friends @Morgan_Who and @KevinThePigeon for your constant support. @Morgan_Who, being able to bring back Harry Potter to your memory makes me happy :)

Love you all! xo