Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

When I woke up it was still day. I lifted my head confusedly to found Jeanne sleeping underneath me, facing down. I was drooling over her. I dully laughed. Of course I was. I straightened up carefully trying not to disturb her, but lightly caressed her back, pulling her hair aside. I stood up from bed just to look at her lying naked amidst the white sheets. She was so pale and rosy. The light coming through the windows made her appear more redhead than she truly was, and she was lacking flowers, otherwise she would had resembled some English painting I vaguely remembered.

I walked up to the fridge and examined through the shelves looking for nothing in particular, although I was a bit hungry. It was full of strange food as capers and goat cheese, pickled herring or Greek dolma. I just imagined her there, without me, eating by herself. I took a bottle of water from the door and drank half of it in a second, glancing towards the bed. Her sunflowers captured my attention along the way. They were still there as blooming as the first day. I approached them and slightly grazed their petals, leaving the bottle over the table.

As I came out of the bathroom I noticed Jeanne hadn’t awoken yet. I smiled, reminiscing the first time we slept together. It seemed like forever ago although it was just last week. And there I was. I glanced down, shaking my head ‘no.’ There were many moments on our time apart I truly doubted to be able to see her again. But why, if she was happy to see me? Maybe she confused me with mixed signals. Maybe she didn’t want to see me again but I just managed to make her change her mind one more time.

I turned towards a bookshelf and began to look at the covers. I smirked. There was ‘In Search Of Lost Time.’ I didn’t know why but, ever since she first mentioned it, just by the name it made me feel optimistic, as if time were this thing that could be somehow regained, although I knew Swann’s story was rather painful. I carried on sniffing round and found two copies of ‘Doctor Zhivago,’ one in French, and another one in English. I remembered Harry and Laila speaking about that book on the last chapter of ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ I got to read before meeting Jeanne. I grabbed the English version and opened it randomly, beginning to pass the pages back and forth. The text was outlined and full of annotations. I started to read casually. After a few sentences, one definitely caught my eye.

He was so childishly simple that he did not conceal his joy at seeing her, as if she were some summer landscape of birch trees, grass, and clouds, and could freely express his enthusiasm about her without any risk of being laughed at.

Forthwith I sensed a stabbing pain under my rib. I breathed in, astonished, and went to the first page. Boris Pasternak, Russia, 1957. A whole different world and time… How could he speak to me so directly? I continued to read some pages further.

What is truly great is without beginning, like the universe. It confronts us as suddenly as it if had always been there or had dropped out of the blue.

I stopped dead and wondered. What was actually the beginning of what Jeanne and I had? Was it Paris just a few days ago? Was it when I started reading her stories at some point of summer of 2013 in the middle of Take Me Home Tour? Was it when I began to write her two months earlier from Brazil? Was it our first meeting in London even if I didn’t remember anything about it? I felt my heart bouncing inside my chest.

She kept saying softly, ‘Do as you think best, don’t worry about me. I’ll get over it.’ She was saying it sincerely, without any false magnanimity, and as she did not know she was crying she did not wipe away her tears.

Why was I sad all of a sudden? Did it make any sense that those words were crushing me when I had all the reasons to be happy? Goddamn it, Pasternak. But beyond those feelings I was so drawn by my reading and Jeanne’s lead I carried on as if that book could give me some sort of answers I was desperate for.

I, a boy who knew nothing about you, understood who you were, with all the tormenting intensity which responded in me: I realised that this girl was charged, as with electricity, with all the femininity in the world. If I had touched you with so much as the tip of my finger, a spark would have lit up the room and either killed me on the spot or charged me for the whole of my life with magnetic waves of sorrow and longing. I was filled to the brim with tears, I cried and glowed inwardly. I was mortally sorry for myself, a boy, and still more sorry for you, a girl. My whole being was astonished and asked: If it is so painful to love and to be charged with this electric current, how much more painful must it be to a woman and to be the current, and to inspire love.

I gasped, my soul narrowing more and more, because I knew exactly what he was talking about. I had felt it all word by word although I’d never be able to express it that way. Why would I need more than those words anyway? They were perfect. And Jeanne… I glanced towards the bed and felt like crying. She was carrying the weight of my desire for her. Was that a bad thing? At least I was keeping her away from her work… I forced myself to return my attention to the book.

But why not, my love? Let’s be mad, if there is nothing except madness left to us.

There was a huge exclamation mark drew alongside the sentence. When did she outline all those things? And what were her reasons? How important was this book to her? Because it was sort of tragic… I noticed I was already near the end.

They loved each other, not driven by necessity, by the ‘blaze of passion’ often falsely ascribed to love. They loved each other because everything around them willed it, the trees and the clouds and the sky over their heads and the earth under their feet.

As I finished to read the paragraph I silently closed the book, leaving it on its spot, trembling inwardly even more anguished than before. I took a glimpse at the text of the French version. Full of marks. She had read it at least two times, and the book next to them on Cyrillic alphabet was clearly an original version in Russian. I looked at that one too, but the pages were spotless. I walked towards the bed, knowing my handbag was still outside, but went on by. I knelt by the end of the bed hoping for Jeanne to awake. I knew a huge part of her was kept away from me, her story, much of her heart, that mind with all those reading working on it, and somehow I feared it. I moved a bit farther until I practically reached her feet and her body stretched. She turned towards my side of the bed as if she was searching for me, but soon saw me staring at her and smiled, holding her hand out for me.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” I muttered as I lay by her side. I was lying. For some reason, I needed her up.

“You must be hungry…” Jeanne caressed my cheek.

“I am, but I could eat you,” I joked biting her hand under her thumb, trying to be strong. How could she make me that weak?

“Let’s call Mitsuo!” She exclaimed, and naked as she was she walked to her handbag to grab her iPhone. “Bonsoir, Tanaka, je voudrai bien faire une commande, s’il-vous-plaît…” Jeanne began to speak. I frowned. She could be an anti-capitalist but her thing with Mac was rather evident. She surely had her contradictions. After hanging up she went to the upholstered chair and put on her delicate white robe, tightly adjusting it around her torso, and immediately returned to bed.

“What were your plans for these days before I arrived imposing myself to you?–––I asked thoughtfully. Do you have some work to do?”

“On Tuesday morning, quite early…” She said pensively, pushing aside a few locks of hair from my face.

“I was planning to leave on Tuesday afternoon…–––I mumbled. If it’s OK…”

“I cannot cancel this. It’s the last session…” She claimed quietly, her fingers running through my forehead.

“Oh, no, no, don’t cancel it,” I hurried to say.

“You can wait for me here so we could have lunch together before you leave.” Her English was so good sometimes I just forgot she was French.

“May I join you?” I said shyly. Jeanne laughed. “You have to say yes. You are my geisha…” I carried on playfully. And she did seem much more of a geisha wrapped in that embroidered, slightly sheered robe.

“Am I your geisha?” She retorted, prolonging the ‘e’ as she slightly pushed me away with both hands, her fingertips gripping my chest. God, how could she be that sensual creature? I pulled her closer.

“You said you’d feed me grapes…” Jeanne laughed again, shaking her head ‘no.’

“I’m out of grapes,” she stated, trying to sound serious.

“But I want my grapes and I want to watch you too. You promised…” Somehow I knew that kind of blackmail would work on her.

“Fine, we can go to the market tomorrow morning–––she said blithely. And if you don’t mind you can watch from behind a curtain at the Academy…” A rush of blood rushed through my whole body, filling me with a warm sensation.

“I’d love to. Come here…” She smiled and I kissed her, ecstatic. I was going to see her posing. That was even better than the pumice stone. My body relaxed in the contact of hers, but I was so eager to understand her I decided to ask something that had been roaming in the back of my mind for days. Somehow I sensed it was the key that held everything together. “What did you say to Proust’s grave the other day at the cemetery?”

“Isn’t it strange how a few months ago you didn’t even know who Proust was and now you talk about him almost as if you’d actually read him?” She questioned me theatrically with a smirk. It was sort of absurd, for sure, to worry about something I couldn’t even fully explain, but those thoughts still needed to find an answer. And Jeanne could have that cool, relaxed way to try to intimidate me but I was getting to know her better.

“Don’t change subjects–––I retorted. Now I’m sure it was about me…”

“And what would I have said to the most refined Parisian of all times about a pop star from Northwestern England?” She said huskily, propping her head on her hand. But, yes, her ways worked most of the time, so there I was, flinching again.

“Something about me and Swann…” I mumbled.

“I just introduced you to Swann,” she asserted seriously.

“I’ve seen that film with Jeremy Irons…” I confessed. She raised her eyebrow quizzically. “Yeah, two nights ago. I couldn’t stop thinking about you…” She seemed to frown, but her features softened suddenly.

“‘He was supposed to disappoint me’…” She muttered. Was it me or did that almost sound as an expression of desire? It took me great effort not to straighten up in bed.

“Is that what you told him? But why?” She was referring to me, but I didn’t get it. Of course. I hadn’t actually read the guy.

“Proust went a bit further than Dickens. To him expectations are consubstantial to disappointment,” she said softly as if she was explaining something as simple as physical law. I took a moment to think about it. She was sort of a sceptical after all… And I only knew one way to counter-attack, my speciality: Unconscious boldness.

“Haven’t you even considered the possibility of them being completely wrong?” I asked assertively.

“How could you possibly suggest something like that?–––she blurted, amused. I live by the book.” Was she serious?

“Is it possible for you to follow to the letter what some writers said more than millions of Christians do with the Bible?”

“Did you come here to question my beliefs?” She squinted at me. Were those the foundations shaking?

“Yeah–––I said quietly, my eyes fixed on hers. I’m going to make you throw that book by the window…”

“That book is quite heavy,” Jeanne muttered playfully, tugging at me. I ran my hands around her waist. “I’ll be careful not to drop it over your head…” She carried on smirking. God, how could she be that violently clever, that violently everything?

“Then I’m going to make you tear it out page by page…”

–.–.–

Notes

That's the power of literature, Harry.

When the idea of Harry reading a book standing naked on a corner came to me, I knew I needed to write it down. 'Doctor Zhivago' is probably the most important book of 20th century, although it hadn't received the credit it deserves. So, here's my little homage, Mr. Pasternak. Proofreading continues a bit slower than usual, but I'll try to update tomorrow.

You want to know what happens next and I'm in the position of promise you next chapter is going to be the cheekiest and hottest until now.

Love you all, lovely, amazingly clever readers! <3