I’ve remembered a dream where we were together

      I notice her by chance — surrounded by a crowd of admirers, she was hidden from view. But when the small gap within the wall of people appeared I immediately realized that it is her. She shines, shines brighter than crystal chandeliers, brighter than expensive jewelry on the necks of ladies, and brighter than golden champagne in glasses on the tables. The white bunny mask covering the top of her face only gave me confidence. I knew it’s her, but I still was standing, leaning against the wall next to the heavy curtains and watching the Rabbit smiling in response to pleasantries.       As soon as the music started, she, refusing the outstretched dozens of hands, broke out of the ring. I watch the Rabbit frantically turning head through the slits of my own brown, pointy mask — the edges of the slits luckily didn’t block my view. Finally, she noticed me and a smile creeped across her concerned face. Fluttering, in a split second she ended up next to me.       “Would you like to invite me?”, she is asking playfully, tucking a strand of pearlescent hair behind her ear. I feel the gaze of many eyes on me. Unlike Rabbit, I don’t like to be the center of attention.       “You know, I don’t like to dance,” I’m saying softly and shaking my head slightly, “and besides, I don’t know how to do it at all.”       “Even the best partner will not bring me as much pleasure as dancing with you. Alastair, you wouldn’t even be one of the top hundred dancers I’ve ever danced with, but isn’t that fascinating?”, she is smiling sadly and her graceful face becomes vaguely thoughtful — she takes champagne from the tray and mechanically sips. I’m sure there are plenty of men in the hall who dance better than me, who are quite courteous and not too annoying. But Rabbit just stands next to me, holding a glass with two fingers and making it clear to potential partners that she is not in the mood to dance. I sighed and placed my glass on the table.       “Shall we dance?” I extended my hand to her and the Rabbit raises an eyebrow in surprise. Her lips spread into a sly smile — she is in no hurry to put down her glass.       “What if I refuse?” The Rabbit tilts head slightly and waits for my answer. I shrug.       “Then I just wasted a glass of wonderful, expensive red wine.”       The Rabbit laughs: through the slits of the mask, sparks light up in her blue eyes. She places hand in mine and floats, dragging me along with her to the center of the hall. I put my hand on her waist and we find ourselves very close: she is looking me in the eyes and presses her whole body against me. I swallow nervously and we begin to spin around the hall, illuminated by other people’s gazes more than by massive chandeliers. The Rabbit is saying something, but I can’t hear it over the noise of the music and the beating of my own heart. We are one organism, an intertwining of arms and legs, a creature spinning in a frantic rhythm. Everything around blurs into a radiant cacophony and only she remains clear. Her face half hidden behind a white mask and framed by ash-pearl strands… Thin shoulders and waist, which I barely touch… Small palms with which she gently strokes my shoulders… Her rustling dress, which slides along the parquet and periodically touches me… Plump lips stretched out in a smile… The whole world shrank to the size of the girl in front of me and soaked her, making my meaning, reference point. She is saying something, laughing, but I can’t hear and just watching how her lips are moving.       “Are you sleeping?” the Rabbit asks, smiling mockingly. I shudder. The waltz is over and we are standing in the middle of the hall, frozen in mute stupor.       “A little,” I whispered. She sighs, shakes her head and, taking my hand, quickly walks into the shadows, towards the wall. I lean my elbows on the cool marble and wearily massage my temples. The rabbit catches a guy passing by with a tray and, smiling disarmingly, starts a leisurely, short conversation, after which she takes two glasses of whiskey and returns to me. She gives one to me — the second drinks herself almost in one gulp.       “Let’s leave,” she says, tilting head slightly in my direction, “I’m tired of this circus.”       I grin.       “What if they notice?” I’m interested. The Rabbit turns to me — lips are pursed and eyes are full of seriousness.       “Do you really think that anyone cares about us?” her face is hidden by the mask, but I’m sure that now her light eyebrows have shot up, “everyone here is too busy with politics, dresses, and themselves to pay attention to others. Especially on us.”       She nods towards the door and quickly, against the wall, we cross the ballroom to slip out into the spacious corridor. The huge door closes with a quiet creak, cutting us off from loud laughter, music, dancing and splashes of champagne.       The corridor is quiet — even our hasty steps are eaten up by the red, soft carpet. Expensive paintings, patterned marble columns, Chinese vases with lush bouquets flash by… Golden candelabra and chandeliers dazzle with their radiance no worse than those left in the ballroom. The Rabbit leads me through the labyrinth of the estate, tightly clinging to my hand. Finally, she swings open the door of a small room and pushes me into the darkness, slamming the door forcefully.       I didn’t have time to look around — she came closer, hustling me away towards the table that suddenly appeared behind me, and pushes me in the chest. I felt back, feeling the cold wood through my thin shirt. Out of the corner of my ear I catch the rustle of a dress — her face appears in front of mine, and the weight of her body noticeably presses on my hips. The Rabbit fidgets and hastily pulls off her mask, revealing cheeks that are burning either from his whiskey or from running. I swallow nervously as she frantically unbuttons her shirt with trembling fingers. Having dealt with half of it, Yvon, squeezing my chin, rushed down, digging into my lips. Her hair tickles my forehead, and while Yvon tries blindly to undo the remaining buttons, I tuck unruly strands of shimmering hair behind her ears.       “I love you,” she mumbles in my ear, “you can’t even imagine how much.”       I swallow, unable to answer. Our glances intersect — only now I notice that Yvon is looking at me with cutting despair. I look away and hear her chuckle. Unbearable. Yvon is right, I really can’t lie. I have no right either to love her or not. This is how this world is.       “Alastair, what do you feel?” Yvon asks quietly, running her hands over my chest, “you are completely different. I can never understand what you’re thinking.”       I don’t know what to tell her, because telling the whole truth would be a crime. Fear. Trembling. Delight. The desire to kill. Worthlessness. Calm. Everything mixed up, scattered with colorful sparks and burned, not allowing you to say a word. I feel like I’m shaking slightly. My mouth is dry.       “If today you decide to be a dandelion, then today I love dandelions,” I say quietly, but in the silence of the room this stupid phrase that suddenly flashed in my head sounds frighteningly loud.       Yvon’s eyes widen in surprise — sadness dissolves into some incomprehensible, new feeling, with an admixture of tenderness. I see how she is trying to restrain herself, but her lips treacherously spread into a smile and now she is laughing, squeezing the bottom of my shirt and burying herself in my neck. I sigh — Yvon, having calmed down slightly, leans to the right and falls onto my arm. I turn my head — she smiles widely and gently, slightly squinting, examines my face. Her hand suddenly appears on my stomach — she hugs, pressing her whole body against me.       “Where did you hear that?” she asks softly.       “I don’t know,” I shrug, “maybe I read it in one of the novels that you slipped me… Art is a strange thing, right?       “Art is one sheer vulgarity,” notes Yvon, looking meaningfully into my eyes, “I mean everything that concerns people.”       I raise my eyebrow in silent question and wait for her to continue. A vague, thoughtful expression appears on Yvon’s face again. The only difference from what I saw in the hall was the alcoholic scarlet cheeks.       “Remember Rubens or Bryullov… Yes, the entire period of the Renaissance is an exaltation of people and their appearance. We draw naked women because they are beautiful, because that is how people love — with their eyes. It is impossible to convey the soul of a person on canvas — so you have to paint naked nymphs so that art can be called art. How many of those men who are dancing in the hall now, do you think, would buy an expensive painting in which there is no woman?”       “I’m afraid no one,” I chuckle and turn my head up to the ceiling.       “Exactly,” Yvon agrees, “art is about love for people. And love for people is usually platonic. In any case, it is generally impossible to love without platonic love. Men choose women either for beauty or for money. And women… Women don’t choose — they can only dream of a handsome prince. And that is why we run away with officers, instead of marrying flabby old men whom our fathers choose for us.”       I shrug.       “So, what then do we have? Also platonic love?” I ask, turning again to Yvon, and smile. She falls silent, sighs thoughtfully and finally, before kissing weightlessly, barely audibly says:       “And we… We, Alastair, have everything is not like normal people. We have dandelions.”