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Hello les amis ! Today I'm back with a new translation of one of my texts. This is one of my favorite, actually, so that was easier to work on it. Thanks to my brilliant co-worker Faye Chandler, this is a good translation! She spent some of her spare time working for me and I thank her once again for that.
I' hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
*****
Dream a little dream of N.
She would have given anything to see something else than indifference in those eyes.
N. had this look without compromise that she couldn’t resist. He was always nice, lovely, funny and a bit shy, but he was not an easy man. Not the kind of guy who would hide the truth under a large bunch of hypocrisy – not like her – oh hell no, he wasn’t.
That’s how she already knew he was not interested in her at all. Not in that way, anyway
But that was completely unacceptable for her. She had wanted him from the very first time he had become her friend. She had wanted him from the very first time he had sat right in front of her in that café next to the university. From that very first moment she had been introduced to him. From that very first time he had smiled at her. He had always been nice to her. Distant and careful enough, but always adorable. But she could not handle the idea of never being allowed to touch him. This indifference drove her completely insane. She refused never to be able to be with him, she refused to give up on him. She wanted him. She wanted to be with him. To be his only interest. To be the only one who would make him laugh. Even to be the only one who would make him cry. To watch him sleep. And, of course, to touch him. To caress the powerful curve of his shoulder blades, the prominent muscles of his arms, to lose herself in the warmth of his chest, to fall asleep with her fingers interlaced with his, to replace a lock of hair on his forehead, to drown in the intense look of his eyes, to follow his eyebrows, his cheek, his thin and severe lips with her finger. To lose head from just one kiss on these so much desired lips. She was going crazy just at the thought that all of this may never happen.
So she found shelter and comfort in her own dream world made-up-of-him. Made up of him, him and only him. She dreamt of him as her Prince Charming, as the savior of humanity, as the boy next door, as the father of her children. She dreamt of him holding her hand in front of the rest of the world. She dreamt of him as her secret lover, her forbidden passion. She dreamt of him completely happy, laughing out loud. She dreamt of him desperately sad, crying on her shoulder. She dreamt of him entirely and him as only hers. The awakened dreams she made about their fictional first kiss were now almost permanent. Preventing her from working, sleeping, eating, to sum it up: from living. Her favorite fantasy was maybe her simplest: the one taking place in the building she worked at. Sitting at her small dreary desk, surrounded by her small dreary files, she would be working unhappily, as usual. She would be dreary too. And then, she would hear noise coming from outside. An unusual agitation would catch the attention of the occupants of the entire building. She would get up like everyone else, hardly hearing what her all so dreary colleagues were saying. The main door would be wide open but the light would be so powerful that you couldn't distinguish the inside from the outside. That was the moment she would see the contour of a silhouette appear in the entrance. She would have recognized this gait anywhere. In this particular dream, he would wear an impeccable anthracite grey suit, with a perfect white shirt, with the collar unbuttoned. As it was her own awakened dream, she would have him walking straight up to her without a single glance at the others, all those girls who were more beautiful than she would ever be. She would have him walking straight up to her without a single hesitation, but not too fast either, in order to make the pleasure last. He would stop right in front of her, slowly taking off his sunglasses, plunging his iron blue eyes into hers, lifting her chin with the top of his forefinger, gazing intensely into her eyes for a few minutes. And then, with this cute smile that turned her heart upside down – she loved it and it was her dream after all – he would slide his hand onto her waist, pull her up close against his body and would finally give her, this smooth and so long kiss she had been waiting for. She would then feel her heart explode, her body catch fire, her senses melt: a perfect moment. And without pronouncing a word, they would leave, without a single look behind them. An awakened dream, a fantasy of absolute perfection she would allow herself every time she’d feel a bit blue which is let’s say: very often.
Consequently and naturally, the day arrived when, losing sight of the boundaries between her dreams and her reality, she betrayed her all-consuming passions in front of all their friends. There. In the middle of this bar where they used to meet every Tuesday night since they had finished their studies. Still excited by the burning reality of her most recent awakened dream, she felt herself, unconsciously, getting closer to him, landing her hand on his neck and leaning in towards N.’s perfectly formed face.
The hasty recoil movement he made brutally woke her out of her half-trance and the shocked « what the fuck are you doing ? » accompanying his gesture added to the lead she suddenly felt in her legs. Completely frozen for a few seconds, she felt a wave of both extreme heat and extreme cold run through her entire body, stick to her face, leaving her crimson, stammering a poor and clumsy “What? If you can’t even joke…” hoping to save a bit of dignity. An attempt that did not really succeed considering the expressive looks that he set upon her all night long. Well, all night long, not really. For once she left really early pretexting a sudden exhaustion – oh god yes! I should go or it’s gonna be hard to get up and work tomorrow!- even though she was usually the last onevto leave so that she could make the hours spent with the man of her dreams last as long as possible.
Dying of shame, she buried herself under her blankets, trying to lose herself in her own bed, screaming and repeating in the emptiness of her falsely colorful apartment that NO! NEVER! She would NEVER get out of her bed again – I don’t fuckin care, I’m not going back to work, they’re all complete cunts anyway – and many times she played and replayed the scene of great humiliation in her mind in every possible way without being able to understand what the fuck was wrong with her. She finally fell asleep, into a deep dark sleep, without dreaming for once, which was very unusual for her.
The day after, her nose in her coffee, she still could not believe that she had done… what had she done (no, no, no, she could not say it, she could not even come to put it into words. This way, it kind of seemed less real.) She could still not believe it while brushing her teeth, neither while one the bus to work. Not even while closing her office door. She’d better work than think about him and the “accident” –let’s call it an “accident”- of the previous day. So she just threw herself headlong into her files. She would arrive at an early hour in the morning, leave as late as possible in the evening. But Tuesday inevitably arrived. She had been thinking about it for a few days already. Would she go? Or wouldn’t she? If she didn’t go, it would seem very suspicious and add to the awkwardness. She had to go. But if she did, wouldn’t she die from shame on on the spot? Certainly, yes. But she had to do it. A few hours of suffering and then, everything will be ok. Almost ok. She had made her decision: she would go.
She took a huge deep breath before entering the pub, tried to find from deep inside her, her best acting talents, put on her most adoring smile and then stepped inside. She throw a huge and enthusiastic “Hello !” to everyone but couldn’t help herself from noticing that N. wasn’t there. She immediately felt worried but tried not to let it show. Which was incredibly hard. As hard as trying not to ask where he was, as he was usually the first to arrive. She did not ask. But he did not come. Neither did he come the following week. And the week after that. So she started to convince herself that it was her fault. That she would never see him again. Each night she practiced fictional conversations with him, determined to call him. But she did never did. As she was losing hope, he came back, on the following Tuesday. Everyone else asked the questions she was burning to ask – perfect – but she did not hear the answers she wanted. What N. announced that night broke her heart. She felt like she was dying right on the spot. She felt like all her hopes were vanishing. Abruptly and painfully vanishing. If he hadn’t come for a few weeks, that was because he had needed time to prepare his departure. He was leaving, far away. Leaving her. Cross the ocean. To follow his dreams while killing hers. He had been promised an important acting part. The role of his life. The role that would finally allow him to be known to become famous in the entire world. She pretended a sudden faintness, a sudden weakness that wasn’t that fake after all, to go back home.
The heavy rain was not enough to wash the infinite sadness crushing her heart and soul. She hardly felt the raindrops running down her back. Though they were cold as ice, they were still warmer than the nascent huge emptiness in her soul. Tears had begun to flow uncontrollably from the very moment she had stepped out of the pub. And hadn’t stopped. She lied down on her bed without even taking her clothes off. She felt as if she was crying out all her vital forces. She had never experienced such pain. She was certain she would never get up again. She would never survive his departure. She felt torn apart from the inside out. What would she become without him? She had been living through him and for him for so long she had never even wanted to consider the possibility that he could one day no longer be there, or finally fall for another woman. Though she had seen so many of them come and go, hating them insanely from the depth of her soul. He had never left for one of those bitches. That was a good thing after all. But it didn’t change the result: he was leaving. In three weeks, he would throw a party for his departure, right before boarding his plane. Celebrate his departure. What the fuck. That was the last thing she wanted to celebrate. However she had answered with an extremely happy but deeply faked: « Of course ! Count on me!” when N. had asked her if she would come to celebrate . She had astonished her own self actually. All she wanted was to shout at him to tell him that his departure, for her, would be the exact opposite of a celebration, that she would die of sadness, that he was her reason to live and that she didn’t want him to go. But no. She had stood strong looking into his eyes full of new dreams, his beautiful blue eyes she cherished from the depth of her soul. She was feeling miserable. Lonely. Lonely and awfully miserable.
Then, she cried for a long time. For very long time. As long as she could. She wouldn’t even remember when she’d finally surrendered the day after.
She woke up in the mugginess of her sheets, her half dried hair stuck to her face. Her eyes were heavy and swollen. She got up leaning on her elbow for a few seconds, then sat on the side of her bed. Her head hurt. The tears from the day before were hammering her temples. She wiped her nose with the side of her hand. She got up. Too fast. A dizziness forced her to grab her bedside table to prevent her from falling. She took off her clothes, throwing them flippantly at her feet and slipped into a warm shower. She had lost all notion of time. She didn’t even notice the day going by. Like she didn’t for the week after that. Her gestures had become automatic. Outside, she was a perfect illusion of herself. Faking happiness, she actively participated in the preparation of the surprises for N.s “leaving party”. She was full of ideas, of good will, and in a good mood. Back in her lair, she was only a shadow of herself. She didn’t even turn the lights on, or turn the TV off. She ate cold meals directly from the cans. That was when she did eat.
By the day of the party, she had lost 7 kilos. It suited her well. It wasn't good, but it suited her though. She had chosen an extremely expensive dress, had her hair dressed, and make-up done. She found herself pretty, which was rare. She received a lot of compliments. That was rare too. All night long, she did what people were expecting her to do. She laughed, drank, danced, talked. Perfectly perfect. She stayed to help clean up. Until she was alone with him. He couldn’t stop thanking her for her help. She just smiled and said that it was normal, that it was what friends do . He had drank a bit too much. He wasn’t able to drive. She offered to take him home He crumbled up on the passenger’s seat and fell asleep a few minutes later. She brought him to her apartment. He resisted a bit: he had to go to his house to finish packing in order to catch his flight later that day. She insisted, explaining that he could rest for a few hours and that she would take him home afterwards. He agreed and collapsed on the pink couch. She was exhausted but couldn’t go to bed. He was here. Right in front of her. Her own sleeping beauty. If only she could keep him that way forever. Forever. He woke up two hours later. She brought him a freshly made orange juice. A delight. He couldn’t stop apologizing, embarrassed to have zonked out the night before. They both laughed. He still felt tired. She told him to rest a few moments more, while she prepared breakfast to perk him up. That’s what he did. She kneeled next to the couch a quarter of hour later when she was sure the sleeping pills had kicked in. He was more beautiful than ever. Peaceful. He looked like a greek statue, those she admired so much in the museums. Her hand shivered as she laid it on N.’s forehead. But he didn’t move. So she caressed the perfect line of his profile. She spent long moments watching him, caressing his hair, underlining his pretty mouth with her index, grazing his chin. And then she grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him off the couch. She slid him into the scullery and laid him in a, much more adapted space for this gorgeous man. Here, he would stay with her forever. She would preserve his beauty, take good care of him. He could surly only be grateful for what she would do. And she would keep him close. With her. Where he truly belonged.
During the days and weeks that followed, she was happier than ever. He had stayed. Stayed with her. Every morning, she started her day by kissing him. Every night, after work, she ran home to him. Her happiness was finally complete. She thought it was time to clean up the room a bit. She had almost slipped on melted ice cream when approaching her wonderful beloved one.
Then she bent over the deep-freezer to remove a bit of ice from her lover’s eyelashes.
© Vanessa TERTRIN - 2013