Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

As we approached the house I started to notice all kind of details. It was absolutely magic. Pink Eden roses climbing up the wall surrounded the main entrance, in blueish grey painting. The glazed area, a sort of veranda of French doors, was projected outside the house, almost entering the garden. Some of the many floor-length windows were open so as I peeped inside I understood it was actually the art studio. We entered the place and the sensation that everything was still the way her father left it overcame suddenly. Jeanne seemed unaffected though. Three years had passed after all… I don’t really know if we could possibly get used to the idea of losing a loved one, but somehow we should manage to carry on.

The interior was obviously renovated, as the kitchen was connecting to the dinning room and the veranda, but conserving the rustic countryside style as in the worn-out chequered floor. We left our bags beside the staircase and crossed an inner French door for Jeanne to show me the ground flour. I almost couldn’t stand still in anxiety. The space was open so from the entrance you could practically see the other side. Only easels and canvas and tables with brushes and tubes of oil paint, watercolours and palettes, were in between. A piano was on the side and a lounge area; drawings and sketches and paintings were displayed all around, antique bottles on shelves with figurines, dried flowers, pottery, artsy things; lace curtains, glass beads and sun catchers were hanging from the windows, and there was an iron bed that captured my attention. Why did they have a bed on an art studio? And to my surprise Jeanne explained to me it was where we were going to sleep. She said she loved the way sunlight brightened up the room by the morning. I couldn’t complain. I was absolutely caught up by the place and it would practically be as sleeping in the garden.

Nonetheless, I wanted to know her room so we went to the first floor. Surely it wasn’t nothing like her attic in Paris. In the spirit of the rest of the house, and probably her own self when she was younger, her bedroom was overloaded and full of textures, almost kitsch, with some sort of cloudy sky as wallpaper, and tiny vintage frameworks on the walls. The bed was placed against the window though, and the room had one great bookshelf. But somehow, even being so unalike, I was able to recognise Jeanne there, a growing-up Jeanne with her mind in so many different things. She seemed fond of that room as I watched her walk around touching everything with her finger. I could have gladly slept there, in her childhood bed.

The main bedroom was at the end of the corridor, right beside the last flight of the stairs, and it was her parent’s bedroom, obviously. When we went inside I noticed any personal effects were laying around, although it didn’t seem closed and the bed was fresh and comfortably made as the rest. I had never seen a room like that, mainly in blue, with a fresco on walls and ceiling emulating some starry night from an Italian chapel painted by Il Giotto. Jeanne told me her father duplicated it himself. They truly were all in love with art. It had something very unique with the bed facing the window and an amazing view of the garden and the little town in the distance on the foothill.

After Jeanne showed me the attic and the rest of the top floor we went downstairs. She asked me if I liked Pimm’s Cup cocktail. I couldn’t help but laugh. She was as my nan, drinking Pimm’s in summer. Well, of course she felt flattered when I told her, being compared to a respectable English olden lady. She rejected my help and left to the kitchen to prepare our drinks, so I made the most of the situation and began to sniff round the art studio. I had to admit to myself I was completely hooked by the place. I could literally see where Jeanne had gotten her passion. It was almost as seeing her mind… I walked to a string where I saw some black and white photographs hanging. There were family pictures, at first glance, mostly from Jeanne and her father. I came near to watch them closely. She resembled him tremendously, the face features, the shade of their hair, that lively gaze in the eye… And she was an adorable little girl, but I already knew that from the photo I found at her flat with the receipt from London.

I focused my attention on him though. He had that artsy vibe. You could tell he was an artist just by looking at him, not too tall, slender, sensitive looks, messy hair, casually dressed. He must have been a super fun person because he seemed to have a great time with his little daughter, as the photos showed him reading books to her, taking a stroll around the forest with Jeanne on his shoulders, showing her art stuff and painting together, and even buying vinyl records in some vintage store. That last was from New York.

But there were some pictures of Jeanne with her mother and, strangely, somehow she resembled her enormously too, her body type, a certain air and manners. I really didn’t get to see her face as I got fascinated by one of her pregnant, lying on a sofa and playing music with some headphones to an unborn Jeanne. She was looking away and her hair was darker but it was as if Jeanne herself was sitting there, showing her tummy in a stretchy dress. A lump formed in my throat. I took a step back and glanced at the photos again, all at once. I wanted it. I wanted all that. I wanted the baby daughter, the family, the quiet life, but everything seemed farther away than ever. I didn’t even know if I had Jeanne.

I carried on looking at other pictures, some of her mother applying make-up on little Jeanne. She could have tried but Jeanne didn’t seem to need or want it, neither then nor now, but somehow I felt I understood where she got all her femininity. I wasn’t yet able to catch a glimpse of her mum, as she was always looking down pending on Jeanne. There were others where they were playing on a beach that for some reason felt familiar. Well, who haven’t seen that sort of pictures? Probably they resembled some Liam’s photos with his sisters from ‘Story Of My Life’ video… I stopped on my tracks when I found a picture of five-year-old Jeanne holding a little baby in her arms. Did she have a sibling? Had her family lost a son too? I thought she would have told me by then. Anyway, I watched the back of the photo looking for a name but there was just some note in French I didn’t understand. Something about a ‘coup de foudre.’

But then, next to that one, I saw a picture that really caught my attention. It was Jeanne at the same age walking hand-in-hand with her father in Clevedon Pier. I was freaking out in my mind and almost lost for words when Jeanne’s presence brought me back to reality. I noticed she had changed clothes and was wearing nothing more than a light romper suit. My heart froze inside my chest, my crotch beginning to tingle just by guessing her forms beneath the fabric. How could she do that to me? When she came to me looking like that there was always this tension growing and I just wanted to grab her and undress her and just make love to her.

“You had been at Clevedon Pier…” I mumbled, fighting to remain focused. She handed me a drink.

“Yes, with my father, when I was five years old,” she explained blithely, taking a sip of her glass.

“We filmed a video there,” I stated, not really knowing what I was trying to point out.

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’ve been at the same place…” I frowned.

“Well, I guess we’ve been at plenty of same places,” she explained lightly.

“No, but this is different–––I carried on. Look at that picture. You were actually walking by the pier as we did in the video…” I let my glass on a table. I was too nervous for glasses.

“Everybody has necessarily to walk by the pier,” she mused a bit confused. I felt like a fool.

“No, but, I was there, at the same place, many years later–––I insisted, somehow frustrated. Have you seen the video?”

“I did.” How could she be so relaxed about everything?

“I was sick that day,” I giggled, taking a moment to reminisce one of my worst days at work.

“It didn’t show,” Jeanne said reaching out for my face to caress me. God, she was so everything.

“Yes, it did,” I shook my head ‘no.’ But I was glad she tried to make me feel better about it. “I look like a zombie.” We chuckled. “What did you think when you watched it?–––I asked her a moment later in a concerned tone. Did you remember this?” I pointed at the picture.

“I did–––she smirked. But I remember that day only by tales. I was too young. As it was the first time we went on a journey without my mother, my father was very fond of the memories.” A little sting pinched my heart. The bearer of those memories was dead. Those memories were lost; just tales remained, and a picture. “It was a nice coincidence…” With her words I stepped out from my meditations.

“It seems like fate…” I muttered. I was so over the top but I just couldn’t keep it quiet.

“Fate?–––Jeanne claimed, amused. Ah, of course… You are a Christian so you believe in fate. I’m an atheist.” Her words startled me.

“Don’t you believe in God?” I mumbled, unconsciously reaching for my cross.

“Did I forget to add that to my list of political rubbish?” She sharply joked. She was so out of my level.

–.–.–

Notes

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