I’ve remembered a dream where we were together

      The sun once again disappeared behind a dark cloud. A gusty wind blew and the leaves above me shook. I was laying on the ground with tiredly closed eyes, and listening to the whisper of the grass near my ear. The book lied discarded and the wind was gently moving thin pages. The silence, interrupted only by the howling of the wind, gave me the peace I needed. Ten meters away from me the dark sea roared, and I lied on the cold ground, lulled by the singing of the waves.       “Alastair!”, I opened my eyes. Yvon loomed over me, smiling brightly. I sighed and sat on the ground; she sank down weightlessly next to me, tucking her knees to the chest and resting hands on the ground behind her back, “I actually lost you.”       Yvon turned to me, giving me a disapproving look and furrowing her brows. It was mid-October, but despite the cold, she was wearing only a long-sleeve plaid dress. I shrugged and said nothing. Yvon chuckled offendedly and shivered.       “How can you enjoy outside in this weather!”, she was indignant, “you’re not even moving! How do you manage not to freeze?…”       I shrugged again. Yvon's chatter, even if it contained questions, did not require an answer. She loved to talk; I preferred to listen.       “You know, I generally love rain,” Yvon spoke again, laying her head on my shoulder, “there’s something... romantic about it, you know? Walking in the rain, holding hands... Or dancing... And then warming up together by the fireplace in the living room and drinking hot chocolate... And if you were afraid of a thunderstorm, I could hug you and calm you down,” she sighed dreamily, “but you are not afraid of a thunderstorm. Are you afraid of anything at all?” Yvon stared at me questioningly, but suddenly her face lit up with understanding, “just like I could have forgotten about the chandeliers,” I shuddered, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” Yvon added guiltily. She looked into my eyes sympathetically and took my hand, intertwining my fingers. “You know it’s not your fault, right? Alastair?”       I took a deep breath and clenched my hands tightly. Yvon jerked in fear. I looked down and noticed how Yvon’s hand, which I was squeezing, had turned white.       “Sorry,” I unclenched my hand and stood up. Yvon nodded, pretending smile, and also stood up, “Do you mind if we take a walk?”       Without waiting for an answer, I walked towards the sea. I heard a rustling sound and out of the corner of my eye I again saw Yvon, walking thoughtfully next to me. The water splashed noisily: greenish waves rushed furiously onto the rocky shore, trying to reach my shoes, and then, hissing in frustration, crawled back. I looked up at the sky: the leaden clouds were about to burst into rain. Yvon pulled me towards the pier - I didn’t even notice when she managed to take my arm. The boards creaked under the weight of our bodies. I licked my salty, chapped lips. Yvon walked silently next to me - an incomprehensible melancholy covered her usually happy face with a veil. The wind raged beneath us, driving the snow-white foam of the waves.       “Do you love sea?” Yvon suddenly asked and turned her head towards me. We were standing at the end of a long, rickety pier. The waves raged and crashed onto the supports. Salty spray scattered in the air. Another particularly violent wave jumped onto the pier, hissed, licked the soles of my shoes and rushed back into the water. I raised my eyebrows in surprise.       “I suddenly became interested,” she walked to the very edge and leaned forward slightly, “we’ve known each other for eight years, but I don’t know a damn thing about you. Nothing at all. You eat the same as me. You wear clothes that match mine. You are reading the books I want to discuss. Even when you are playing piano, you choose composers I know,” she turned sharply on her heel, and I jerked, alarmed by the possibility of falling, “do you love the sea?”       I was silent. Insight was something Yvon had and that I didn't. I couldn't read people. I could listen for hours and not understand a word of what the persom opposite was trying to convey to me. I didn't understand the hints. This was probably the reason why I blindly followed Yvon in the hope that I would do everything right. I didn't understand where I went wrong. I did what I had to do, right? I tried to please, to adjust, because my father told me this eight years ago. That being an ideal husband is my direct responsibility, goal, and that I should not have any other. But what was “ideal” in Yvon’s understanding? The only thing I understood was that my calculation had collapsed miserably, that I had made a mistake, had miscalculated.       “Sorry,” my voice broke for some reason. I was told to be your dog, and I was. Tolerate and submit. I could have killed her right now, but I continued to grovel before this weak creature. I took two steps forward and found myself two centimeters from Yvon, “I love the sea.”       It was probably a lie. Over all these years I have forgotten how to love. Although, perhaps, I never knew how to do it correctly. I skillfully pretended to love what I should love. That I love cats, which my mother adored. That I love the works of Hippocrates, which my father was interested in. That I love to play in the garden, because all eight-year-old boys prefer to spend their time that way. That I love Mozart, and I will play him with pleasure, because he is the favorite composer of the old lady who blessed my marriage. That I love the sea because Yvon loves it.       “And I hate it,” Yvon smiled coldly. She suddenly grabbed my tie and pulled. I lost my balance and we both felt down.       A spasm went through my body. The scalding cold water entered my nose, and I coughed stupidly, taking a mouthful this salty liquid. In the dark, I tried to find Yvon by touch. Finally, I grabbed her hand, pulled her towards me, and our heads appeared above the water. A stinging wind immediately hit my face, and I wanted to dive back. Yvon leaned on me with her whole body, clasping my shoulders, and was silent. It was deep and every second wave threatened to pull us back into the darkness. I don’t remember how I dragged Yvon to the estate. Memories flashed by of how I frantically tried to climb onto the pier, but my numb fingers did not obey and slipped; how brushed wet, blond hair from her forehead; how wrung out my coat to wrap Yvon up; how walked barefoot along the sand and stones, clutching body in my hands and wondering whose heart was beating so deafeningly, whether she was breathing, or whether it was just the wind. I remember someone screaming shrilly and how Yvon was taken from me; how it darkened before my eyes and I fell into a soft, enveloping silence. Yvon's behavior could have cost us our lives. And she knew this better than me.

***

      “You know, you are weird,” Yvon turned to me and smiled. The day turned out to be unexpectedly fine - a light wind was blowing, a bright, cold sun was shining. Yvon was sitting next to me on the bench and wrapping herself in a burgundy shawl. Twenty meters away from us, near a tree, the maid was located. She was embroidering, periodically casting an attentive glance at us. I sat with my head thrown back, my eyes closed and ready to listen, “You’re not like everyone else. Special. You don't idolize me, but you do everything I say. You are both indifferent and submissive. You don’t like noisy parties, and, when you were child, you didn’t like to play at all.”       I chuckled.       “Perhaps I don’t like receptions because I’m not welcome there?” I suggested, smiling, turning my head slightly towards Yvon, “I’m not a good conversationalist: I have absolutely no understanding of fashion, politics or horses. I'm gloomy and quite specific.”       “But handsome at the same time,” said Yvon. I sat upright, raising my eyebrows in surprise, “peculiar, not classically, but you attractive. I wouldn’t say beautiful, but you are definitely gorgeous.”       Yvon looked at me completely seriously, without a drop of mockery. My lips twitched in a surprised smile. Every morning, looking in the mirror, I thought that beauty is not a big price to pay for talent in music. A humped nose, tired, droopy eyes, pale skin, dark bags under my eyes that seemed to be with me since birth, dark, straight hair - I wasn’t even “nice” or “cute”. Yvon raised her hand and gently stroked my cheek.       “You have absolutely no taste,” I chuckled, and Yvon laughed loudly.       “You too. Because you don't like me.”       “I don’t deny your beauty,” I shrugged. Yvon's attractiveness was obvious - thin, graceful body features emphasized by smooth movements and carefully selected dresses, a shock of soft, blond hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin - it seemed that she was collected from ideals selected by nature over the centuries. Everything about her, from her long eyelashes to her thin ankles, was measured according to all beauty standards, “but you, like me, are also special.”       “Do you mean “strange”?” Yvon smiled playfully. The shawl slipped off her slender shoulders. I ignored the remark.       “Usually seventeen-year-old girls do not rush into the sea during a thunderstorm. And nine-year-old children cry at their mother’s funeral, and don’t look at everyone with contempt,” I noticed, watching Yvon. She, like a cat, basked in the rays of the sun, dangling her legs in the air. I remembered what she looked like that day: a doll, in a black dress that only emphasized her fair skin. She glanced at me from under her brows and grinned, causing a storm of emotions in me, which was reflected on my face. She raised her eyebrows in surprise in a silent question - “Why don’t you like me?”.       “And how many nine-year-old children did you see at their mother’s funeral?” she asked with a smile.       “Only one.”       “Then how can you judge the normality of my behavior?” Yvon suddenly froze and looked at me. Her face took on a serious expression. I swallowed, “I felt sorry for her, yes. But at the same time, I was incredibly disgusted by this whole farce. Do you think anyone was sincere to me that day? I couldn't bring myself to cry because of everyone's pretense. If all these people who mourned the day of her death cared, they should have helped her sooner. Do you know why she died?”, She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. I shook my head briefly, “because of my father. She loved him, and he married her for money. As he became rich and powerful, he began bringing other women into her home. And she simply endured and watched as they replaced each other one after another. Maybe she thought that since they were married, she was somehow different from them,” Yvon pulled her legs to her chest and immediately seemed to shrink all over, “and then he did it with Marie, my governess. Both my mother and I loved her very much - she was like a sister to her, and to me also. Marie eventually killed herself. I found her body in the garden, under the balcony of the room. the incident was hushed up to prevent rumors - she wasn’t even buried properly,” Yvon’s voice trembled, she turned to me, “my mother couldn’t stand it - she got sick and died two months later. And he cried at her funeral. The man who killed her cried, and told everyone, what a wonderful wife she was, and how much he loved her. And what kind of damn normality are we even talking about?”       Yvon's lips trembled in silent anger. Her eyes were full of hatred. Yvon was a wronged child: a child seeking justice; a child who learned to hate too early; a child who knew what it meant to lose. She sobbed and tears slid down her cheeks, leaving wet trails. She immediately wiped them away with her sleeve. I tilted her head to my shoulder, weightlessly hugged her with one arm, and turned away. Yvon sobbed, and I felt my shirt quickly getting wet where she buried.       For the first time I saw Yvon was crying. Crying absolutely silently - like any good child.