Laine... you can walk...” My voice was naive, and sounded like that of a little girl.
He returned my smile, his eyes dark and sad. “At least in your dreams, yes. Why don’t you call me Sebastian, Melisande? If only in the dream?”
I was embarrassed, reluctant to abandon the formalities, even in that fantastic and unrealistic situation.
“All right... Sebastian.”
His arms circled my waist in a strong and playful embrace. “Can you dance, Melisande?”
“No”.
“Then let me guide you. Will you allow me to do it?” He stared at me sceptically now.
“I don’t think I can,” I admitted sincerely.
He nodded, in no way disturbed by my sincerity. “Not even in a dream?”
“I never dream,” I said incredulously. Yet I was dreaming. It was an undeniable fact, right? It couldn’t be real. I was in his arms in my nightgown; I could see the sweetness of his gaze and the absence of a wheelchair.
“I hope you won’t be disappointed when you wake up,” he said thoughtfully.
“Why should I?” I objected.
“I’ll be the object of the first dream of your life. Are you disappointed?” He stared at me with a serious and doubtful expression.
He was pulling back now, and I planted my fingers in his arms, fierce as claws. “No, stay with me. Please.”
“Do you really want me in your dream?”
“I wouldn’t want anyone else in it,” I said boldly. I was dreaming, I reminded myself. I could say whatever came to my mind, without fearing the consequences.
He smiled again, more handsome than ever. He twirled me around, speeding up the pace as I learned the steps. It was a realistic dream, frighteningly so. My fingertips perceived the softness of the cashmere of his sweater, and under that, the strength of his muscles. At some point I heard a noise, like a pendulum clock striking the hours. I laughed. “Also in my dream!”
The sound of the pendulum was not particularly pleasing to me; it was a shrill sound, distressing and old.
Sebastian pulled away from me and he frowned. “I have to go.”
I jumped, as if struck by a bullet. “Do you really have to?”
“I must, Melisande. Dreams also end.” His quiet words were sad, and they sounded like a farewell.
“Will you come back?” I couldn’t let him leave like that, without putting up a fight.
He studied me carefully, as he always did during the day, in reality. “How could I not come back now that you've learned to dream?”
That poetic promise calmed my heartbeat, already uneven at the idea of not seeing him anymore. Not like this, at least.
The dream dimmed, like a candle flame. And so did the night.
The first thing I saw, opening my eyes, was the ceiling with the exposed beams. Then the window, half closed because of the heat.
I had dreamt for the first time.
Millicent Mc Millian gave me a kind smile when she saw me appear in the kitchen. “Good morning dear. Did you sleep well?”
“Like never before in my whole life,” I said laconically. My heart felt like it would burst out of my chest, when I remembered the star of my dream.
“I'm happy for you,” said the housekeeper, without knowing what I was referring to. She went into a detailed account of the day she spent in town. She told me of the mass and of her meeting with people whose names didn’t mean anything to me. As always I allowed her to speak, but my mind was occupied by much more enjoyable fantasies; my eye always fixed on the watch, in the feverish anticipation of seeing him again.
It was childish to think that this day would be different, that he would behave differently. It had been a dream, nothing else. But inexperienced as I was on the subject, I was under the illusion that it might reflect onto my real life.
When I entered the office he was opening some letters with a silver paper knife. He hardly looked up at my entrance.
“Another letter by my publisher. I turned off my cell phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to him! I hate people with no imagination... They have no idea of an artist's needs, of his timing, or his spaces...” His bitter tone brought me back to earth. No greeting, no special recognition, no sweet glance. Welcome to reality, I said to myself. How stupid of me to think the opposite! That's why I had never dreamt before. Because I had no beliefs, no hope; I didn’t dare to hope. I had to go back to being the same Melisande I was before I came to that house, before that meeting, before that illusion.
But maybe I'll dream about him again. That thought warmed me more than Mrs Mc Mililani’s tea, or than the blinding sun beyond the window.
“Well? What are you doing, standing there like a statue? Sit down, for crying out loud.”
I obediently sat down in front of him, his reproach still stinging.
He passed me the letter with a serious expression. “Write to him. Tell him he’ll have his manuscript on the due date.”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to finish it by then? I mean... You’re rewriting everything...”
He reacted angrily to what he thought was a criticism. “My legs are paralyzed, not my brain. I had a moment of crisis. It’s over. Definitely.”
I prudently stayed silent all morning, as I watched him press the computer keys with unusual energy. Sebastian Mc Laine got annoyed easily, he was moody and quick-tempered. It was easy to hate him, I considered, studying him secretly. And he was also gorgeous. Too much so, and he was aware of it. This made him doubly detestable. A non-existent person had appeared in my dream, the projection of my desires, not a real man, in the flesh. The dream had been a lie, a wonderful fairy-tale.
At a certain point he referred to the roses. “Change them, please. I hate to watch them wilt. I want them to be fresh at all times.”
I found my voice. “I’ll do it right away.”
“And be careful not to hurt yourself this time.” The harshness of his voice astonished me. I hadn’t prepared myself adequately for his repeated outbursts, loaded with spite.
I picked up the vase and brought it downstairs. Halfway down I met the housekeeper who rushed to help me. “What happened?”
“He wants new roses,” I explained breathlessly. “He says he hates to watch them wilt.”
The woman looked upwards. “He finds a new complaint every day.”
We brought the vase into the kitchen, and then she went to pick fresh roses, strictly red. I dropped to a chair, as if I had been contaminated by the mood of the house. I couldn’t stop thinking of that night’s dream, partly because it was the first of my life, and I could still
