the world in its corners, folds and grooves, not in the large centres.”
“Your wisdom equals your beauty,” he said seriously. “And what are you discovering in this lovely Scottish village?”
“I haven’t seen the village yet,” I reminded him, with no resent. “But Midnight Rose is an interesting place. I feel like the world could stop right here and now and I wouldn’t miss my future life.”
In response he shook his head. “You have perceived the most intimate essence of this home in such a short time... I still haven’t succeeded in doing so...”
I didn’t answer; the fear of spoiling our regained intimacy curbed my tongue.
He studied me closely, as always, as if I was the content of a slide and he was a microscope. The next question was pondered, explosive, and the premonition of an imminent disaster.
“Do you have a family, Melisande Bruno? Are any of your relatives still alive?”
It didn’t sound like an idle question, made just for the heck of it. There was a keen and authentic interest in it.
I hid my hesitation by sipping some more wine, and in the meantime I was thinking about how to answer his question. Revealing that my sister and my father were still alive would give rise to a series of other insidious questions that I wasn’t ready to deal with. I was realistic: he had invited me to dinner that evening just because he was bored, and he was searching for a break. I, the still unknown secretary, was ideal for the purpose. There wouldn’t be another dinner. I chose to lie because it was easier, less complicated.
“I'm alone in the world.” Only when I stopped speaking, I realized that it wasn’t exactly a lie. As a matter of fact it was a lie only in part.
I was alone, regardless of everything. I couldn’t count on anyone except myself. This fact had made me suffer so much that I thought I would lose my mind, but I had gotten used to it. It was absurd, sad and painful, but it was true.
I was accustomed to not being loved. I was misunderstood and alone.
He seemed absurdly satisfied with my answer, as if it were the right one. Right for what I couldn’t say.
He raised his half empty glass of wine to make a toast.
“What are you toasting to?” I asked, imitating him.
“I’m hoping that you’ll dream again, Melisande Bruno. And that your dreams come true.”
His eyes smiled at me over the glass.
I gave up trying to understand him. Sebastian Mc Laine was a living enigma, and his charisma, his animal magnetism, were adequate answers for me.
That night I dreamt for the second time. The scene was identical to the previous one: I was in my nightgown and he was at the foot of my bed in dark clothes with no trace of the wheelchair.
He held out his hand, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Dance with me, Melisande.”
His tone was mild, sweet and soft as silk. It was a request, not an order. And his eyes... For the first time they were pleading her.
“Am I dreaming?” I believed it was just a thought, but I had said it out loud.
“Only if you want it to be a dream. Otherwise this is reality,” he said categorically.
“But you’re walking...”
“In your dreams anything can happen,” he replied, guiding me in a waltz, like the first time.
I felt an angry rage. How come in MY dream other people’s nightmares were erased, while mine still remained intact? It was MY dream, but I had no influence on it, nor could I alter it in any way. Its self-sufficiency was bizarre and irritating.
Suddenly I stopped thinking, because being in his arms was more important than my personal drama. He was unbelievably beautiful, and I was honoured to have him in my dreams.
We danced for a long time, to the rhythm of a non-existent music, the bodies in perfect sync.
“I thought I wouldn’t dream of you anymore,” I said, stretching out my hand to touch his cheek. It was smooth, warm, and almost hot.
His hand rose to entwine with mine. “I also thought you wouldn’t dream anymore.”
“You seem so real...” I said breathlessly. “But you're just a dream... you're too sweet to be real...”
He burst into an amused laughter, and he held me tighter.
“Do I make you angry?”
I looked at him, dourly. “There are times in which I’d like to punch you.”
He didn’t seem offended, indeed he was satisfied. “I do it on purpose. I like to tease you.”
“Why?”
“Because it's easier for me to keep you at arm’s length.”
The shrill sound of the pendulum invaded the dream, causing my discontent. Because he was retreating, again. As if it was a signal.
“Stay with me,” I begged him.
“I can’t”.
“It’s my dream. I decide,” I replied.
He stretched out his hand and stroked my hair, his fingers lighter than feathers.
“Dreams escape us, Melisande. We create them, but they don’t belong to us altogether. They have their own will, and they end when they decide to do so.”
I insisted, like a little girl. “I don’t like it.”
His face was crossed by an unusual seriousness. “Nobody likes it, but the world is typically unfair.”
I tried to hold back the dream, but my arms were too weak, and my scream was just a whisper. He disappeared quickly, like the first time. I found myself awake; my ears dull with loud noises. Then I realized, with dismay, that they were the arrhythmic beats of my heart. It was also going on its own way, as if nothing belonged to me anymore. I had no control over any part of my body.
But the thing that upset me the most was that I also didn’t have any over my mind, and my feelings.
The letter arrived that morning, and it had the disruptive effect of a stone thrown into a pond. It falls in a certain spot, but its effects reverberate to surrounding spots, in concentric and very extensive circles.
My mood was sky high, and I began the day humming. Definitely it was an unusual thing for me.
Mrs Mc Millian served breakfast in a religious silence, pretending not to be curious about the dinner of the previous evening.
I decided not to lose any time. I had to clear her doubts before she could create her own ideas, which could damage my reputation, and perhaps even Mr Mc Laine’s. Any wishful thinking toward him was solely in my dreams, and I mustn’t yield to its evanescent magnificence.
