Two lovers. One forbidden night. And a ghost who remembers everything
The room was lined with cork. The air smelled of dried lavender, lime-blossom tea and the faint, sweet decay of old paper.
A pale light filtered through the heavy curtains, and dust motes danced in a single beam.
The bed was narrow and firm, made of brass and covered with a blue satin bedspread. Beneath it, a mattress of coiled steel springs offered no comfort.
“It’s cold,” said Jean-Luc, snuggling further beneath the sheets. “Why are we doing this? What if we’re discovered?”
“Relax,” said Marc-Andre, sitting upright and scrolling through his phone.
All he could see was the top of Jean-Luc’s head on the pillow. He reached down and stroked his thick black hair, an affectionate gesture of reassurance.
Marc-Andre knew they were safe.
When Jean-Luc turned on his side, the bed creaked and the sound echoed around the room. He ran his fingers over Marc-Andre’s stomach.
“Are we going to have sex?” he asked hopefully. “We’ve had sex in many strange places, so why not here?”
“No,” said Marc-Andre, resisting the temptation. “I have to write three thousand words before we leave. You must be quiet, Jean-Luc, or I won’t be able to concentrate.”
Jean-Luc sighed and contented himself with sniffing Marc-Andre’s armpit instead.
Marc-Andre felt the deep quiet of the room, the place where the great writer had shaped his memories.
Time felt slow and heavy here.
The scratchy texture of the vintage wool blanket contrasted with the sleek, cold glass of the smartphone in Marc-Andre’s hands. Occasionally he looked up from the screen and felt that the shadows in the corners had deepened and shifted.
Jean-Luc fell silent. He drifted between wakefulness and sleep. He felt safe with Marc-Andre; safe from the fragments of dreams that made no sense but which he could still somehow control.
“Are you asleep?” Marc-Andre asked.
“Hmmm,” Jean-Luc murmured drowsily.
Marc-Andre smiled and tapped furiously at the screen. He wrote about the excitement of being there, about how he felt, about how the completed work would look to others.
If it was successful, he knew they would be in serious trouble.
But that was the thrill of it.
Jean-Luc woke with a start, but Marc-Andre hadn’t noticed.
The air had become thick and cloudy. It smelled of strong cigarettes.
Marc-Andre had switched on the bedside lamp with its green shade and was lying back with his head resting on two pillows.
“Turn the light off,” Jean-Luc whispered. “It will draw attention to us.”
While Jean-Luc had been sleeping, Marc-Andre had found the school exercise books he carried in his backpack. He was writing in one now, propped against his bent knees. The others were scattered across the bed.
“Don’t worry. I’ve nearly finished.”
“How can you possibly write like that?” Jean-Luc asked. “It looks extremely uncomfortable. I thought you preferred using your phone.”
Marc-Andre looked at him with annoyance.
“He took it away with him.”
“Who did?”
“I did.”
The voice startled Jean-Luc.
A figure had materialised beside the small writing desk.
He wore a dark, heavy overcoat. His large, dark, melancholic eyes were fixed upon them both. He gestured faintly towards the glowing screen with a pale hand.
“Ah,” he whispered in a soft, rasping French voice. “Do you carry your entire past in a tiny glowing box as well? Do you also look for lost time there?”
“Who are you?”
The man gestured towards Marc-Andre, who was still scribbling in his exercise book.
“I did not write in bed out of laziness. By shutting out the sensory details of the modern world, I was able to plunge deeply into the world of my own memories. I did not need a magic box.”
“Wake up, Jean-Luc. I’ve finished.”
Marc-Andre was shaking him by the shoulder.
Jean-Luc blinked several times.
The room was cold and dark. The smell of cigarette smoke had disappeared.
“It’s time to leave,” Marc-Andre declared.
“Shit,” said Jean-Luc. “Who was that man?”
“You were dreaming,” Marc-Andre told him. “It will soon be light, and we must leave everything exactly as we found it.”
