Dating : Mon Trésor

There was nothing lovelier than Paris on a late, lazy evening after three glasses of champagne. The smell of cigarette ash hung in the air along with that of freshly baked bread from the boulangeries. A lady in a long, red coat sped past her, she smelt of Schiaparelli and August was immediately overcome with a sense of nostalgia that she felt she was discreetly spying on. The woman in the red coat turned around and whispered a hasty apology before dashing away. August smiled, giddy in her reverie and pleasantly tipsy from the booze. Schiaparelli had taken her back to sculpture galleries in the seventies — it was peculiar how she could ascribe a scent to an era in which she never existed, and yet it came with such a sense of ardent, wishful yearning — almost as if she were well and truly alive back then. She turned left onto the Rue Saint Dominique, August ambled aimlessly along the street, caught up in her warm, rosy and mellow haze. The Rue Saint Dominique was filled to the brim with French clichés — patisseries, fromageries, boulangeries and to cap it all off, a slender, young couple passionately kissing each other against the wall of a boutique. August halted to light a cigarette as a chilly breeze blew by her, whistling its hollowed and strained song. She held the lit cigarette between her fingers, exhaling its meagre fumes. The Eiffel Tower was visible at the very end of the Rue Saint Dominique, with people bustling around her, their footsteps and hushed French phrases her only music. A laugh escaped August’s lips as she ran her fingers through her hair. Paris was a high she’d never come down from. Break my heart, Paris, she thought. Ah, but Paris did shatter her. It was an eternity ago. Years, perhaps, since she’d thought about Julien. August steadied herself and exhaled, before she could stagger downhill. Her champagne coloured haze dissolved into the night that had fallen, disappearing, as it was replaced with Julien-infested plague.

He was a work of art. He towered over August with messy and unruly black hair and eyes that were perhaps the most exquisite cross between forest and jade, with flecks of chartreuse that August could gaze into for eternity. He always had a paintbrush in one hand and a cigarette in the other. They were each other’s muses. He’d paint her, she’d photograph him. They rented a tiny apartment on the Rue De L’Université, by a cul-de-sac that faced the Eiffel Tower. The sunlight would filter in through the curtains, and they’d wake up entangled. A mess of limbs and a shower of kisses. He’d make breakfast and she’d play her violin while perched on the counter. Blueberry waffles and Fritz Kreisler. Julien stood next to their record player on their window-seat, his skin glowed under the rays, making him appear golden. He was truly ethereal, August thought as she captured the moment. Julien had a show for his paintings that day. He named his collection Rêverie d’Août — August’s Reverie. He had painted August covered in gold specks, sunflowers and tulips, honey and paperclips, butterflies and silvery glitter. August was his focus — she was his entire world. August, too, had her makeshift gallery set up in their cramped living room. In between his paintings were her photographs. She named her collection The Fantastical After-Drugs, and displayed a frenzy of pictures from Julien to rainy days in Paris to couples under the Arc de Triomphe and museum sculptures. They had presented their masterpieces to several mildly popular gallerists that could offer them a spot in the Parisian art community. Much to their bewilderment, one of the gallerists granted them a place in one of her shows. They celebrated with champagne from Star Wars mugs and leftover lemon cake from Julien’s birthday. They danced to their favourite jazz tunes from the forties and made love that night until they were both depleted and euphoric. August awoke the next morning, clad in Julien’s shirt. She rolled over to face Julien and smiled. He looked so peaceful asleep, his long eyelashes in all their glory, and his lips slightly parted. His stubble darker and perhaps August’s favourite feature of his — Julien’s characteristic, slightly beaked and crooked nose. She straddled the latter and peppered him with kisses. Julien blinked, his nose crinkled in a groggy expression before gaining full consciousness. He wished her a lazy, croaky ‘good morning’ as his fingers traced her curves and ran themselves through her wavy hair. Early-morning Julien Beauchamp smelled of residual magnolia lotion, hints of cigarette ash and Julien. Early-morning and wild-haired Julien Beauchamp was August Seville’s favourite Julien. They went to their favourite café on the Rue Saint Dominique to commemorate the previous night’s menial victory and spent the day in art museums taking pictures of the Mona Lisa and reading Ovid on park benches and smoking lavender cigarettes. They laughingly chased each other into a vintage cinema by the name of Cinéma Paradis and caught a screening of their favourite Katherine Hepburn movie. That night, Julien had taken August to a bar downtown to celebrate with their friends. The duo came home in a murderous rage. ‘Va te faire!’ August yelled, as she pushed Julien away from her. Julien smashed a plate and furiously explained that he did not kiss the woman next to him in the bar. August refused to hear any of his lame reasons and left their apartment barefoot and in a huff. August returned in the wee hours of the morning, her feet blistered, as she stumbled over their doormat and stepped into their shared space. Julien was sat on their bed, with a plate of her favourite mint macarons and a rather suave apologetic expression on his face that was absolutely to die for. Needless to say, they made up exceptionally well that morning.

August was snapped out of her daze by an elderly woman cawing at her to pick up her pace. August sighed and flicked her cigarette butt onto the street and upped her pace as she took a right turn leading to the Rue De L’Université. The ghost of a smile lingered on her face and lit up her russet eyes. Julien Beauchamp was a name she hadn’t heard in ages. She passed a lamppost outside the apartment complex that she recalled as one they had shared many kisses under.

“Mon trésor, je’taime,” mumbled Julien, against her lips. August grinned, a giggle escaping her.

“Je’taime tellement, Julien Beauchamp”

“It’s not a competition, chérie,” chuckled Julien, pulling away. August rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand, leading Julien away from under the dimly lit lamppost. She led him to the cul-de-sac facing the Seine with a view of Paris’ pride — the Eiffel Tower.

“It’s perhaps the ugliest structure in existence,” remarked Julien, gazing at the view before him. August turned to the man in surprise. His flaky statement caught her off-guard.

“Why do you say that?” she questioned, absurdly dumbfounded.

“It’s a big, grey, metallic structure in the middle of the city of love. I think Stephen Sauvestre created it to juxtapose the romance in Paris,”

“Maybe. But I think the Eiffel Tower has become a symbol, if not the epitome, of love and desire over the years. If anything, Stephen Sauvestre and Company failed miserably in their quest to create a juxtaposition,” quipped August. Julien laughed, and pulled a coin out of his pocket and threw it into the Seine. Puzzled, August questioned this sudden action. Julien explained that his mother, Sylvie, used to tell him to throw pennies into the river Seine so that even his wildest dreams would be actualised.

“What did you wish for?” she asked.

“Red wine and hopefully, a new record player,” replied Julien, a mischievous smirk dancing on his outlandishly handsome face. Their laughter echoed through the corridors as the duo made their way up to their flat.

August fished a coin out of her coat pocket. For old time’s sake, she thought, and threw the penny into the Seine below her. Maybe it was wishful thinking — August could not put a finger on it — but she found herself missing Julien. An unsuspecting tear rolled down her face and landed on her purse as she lit another cigarette. The effect the champagne had on her was beginning to wear off. August sank onto the ground. She had been running away from the mere thought of Julien for the longest time, it never occurred to her that one day, he would catch up to her — his face and laugh etched into her mind as clear as day. August grimaced at the irony– Julien Beauchamp once got her high, and yet now the mere thought of him sobered her.

“Julien! Trésor, are you alright? Shall I call ambulance?” cried August, as she held Julien’s hair back. Julien meekly shook his head before violently retching into the toilet bowl once more. August’s hands were trembling; her eyes involuntarily began to water. Julien retched for a third time, spilling blood onto the rim. August yelped and fumbled for her cellphone, but Julien grabbed her hand, hindering her movement.

“There’s no need to call an ambulance, August. I’m okay,” he croaked. August scoffed indignantly.

“You’re okay? You vomited blood, trésor! Blood! That’s hardly what I would call prime condition!” Julien rolled his eyes.

“I said I’m alright, will you just leave me alone?” he huffed, placing his toothbrush back into the cup on the sink. August stormed out of the bathroom, in a defiant rage.

“Why the hell were you vomiting blood, Julien? Just answer the damned question!” exclaimed August. Julien banged his fist against the wall, causing August to scamper ever-so-slightly.

“Arrête ton cirque! I said I am fine! Maybe it was something I ate last night! Why won’t you just fucking let it go?” bellowed Julien. August guffawed.

“Your mother was right about you and your father — les chiens ne font pas de chats,” Julien raised his eyebrows.

“Qu’est-ce que tu viens de me dire? What the hell did you just say to me?” August scoffed.

“Get the wax out of your ears chérie, you know what I meant,” she spat venomously. Julien’s green eyes widened incredulously.

“Va te faire foutre,” he mumbled. August threw her hands up in defeat. Arguing with Julien about his apparent plight was just as much of a losing battle as an amateur taming a wild lion. She watched in ire as he sauntered coolly over to his easel and picked up his brush. August reached for her lighter and made her way onto the balcony. She held the cigarette between her fingers and exhaled slowly, haphazardly watching as the smoke disappeared into the day. August tried not to think about what Julien was hiding from her. Maybe he was right — maybe she was overthinking it. The rest of the day ensued in complete and utter silence. One could hear a pin drop and it would be amplified tenfold. The only conversation that emanated from the couple was when Julien asked her what she wanted for dinner, in an eerily civil manner.

“I’m sorry, chérie,” muttered Julien, after what seemed like an eternity, as he stabbed at his sushi with a chopstick. August let out a sigh, unsure whether it was one of relief or pensiveness. She held her silence, not averting her gaze from Julien Beauchamp. The latter took a sip of his Chardonnay before speaking.

“Je ne sais pas comment-” August cut him off.

“On ne sait jamais,” she quipped with a grin. The corners of Julien’s eyes crinkled, as he let out a small chuckle.

“We need to talk, August,” said Julien, his expression instantly becoming somber. August raised an eyebrow — Julien almost never referred to her by her name.

“What is it?” she asked, barely audible. Julien cleared his throat.

“I’m sick, trésor,” he murmured. August’s ears pricked up.

“You’re what?”

“I’m sick August, didn’t you hear me the first time?” snapped Julien. August’s lip curled.

“Obviously, you were violently retching this morning — of course you’re sick. That’s why I insisted on calling an ambulance or taking you to the hospital,” she rambled, with an edge to her tone. Julien scoffed.

“You can’t cure this illness chérie, it’s too late,” he muttered. August appeared puzzled for a fleeting moment before it all dawned on her. The bloody retching, his sudden bouts of laziness and fatigue. She’d seen it in her mother once before.

“Impossible,” she mumbled. Julien nodded slowly.

“N’aie pas peur, chérie,”

“How can I not be scared? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I wanted it to remain the way it was, the way we are right now, till the very end. Baby, I don’t want the treatment to consume me. I don’t want to die in a pathetic hospital bed, stinking of disinfectant. I want to live with whatever time I’ve got left. I want to spend it with you, mon trésor,”

“How long have you known?” she croaked, biting her lip.

“I’ve known for five months,” he said, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly.

“Stage four, huh?” replied the latter. Julien nodded, gulping down the rest of his wine.

“You still never told me why you didn’t break the news to me before this,” Julien sighed.

“I was still coming to terms with it myself. For fuck’s sake, I don’t think I will ever wrap my head around how I contracted cancer, but I just couldn’t tell you. I guessed if I kept fooling myself, I’d eventually get over it. I know it sounds idiotic, chérie, I know that — but I had no idea how to deal with it, and if I told you, it would make the whole damned thing real. Merde, I didn’t want it to be real,” he said, barely comprehensible through his sobs.

August stared the mess before her in a morbid shock. This was unlike any other state she had seen Julien in before. The russet-eyed female bit her lip, holding back the river of tears, just an inch from overflowing. She knew that if she cried then, there was no way she would ever stop. Julien — her Julien. They were supposed to be forever. They were invincible. They were going to burn out and fade away together. Julien was sobbing, with far more violence than any gale. It was as if every atom in his being was screaming in unison — begging for the horrid condition to end. August embraced Julien as he cried, and decided in that moment, that she would be strong for the both of them.

“It’s okay, Julien. We can get through this together,” she said lightly, her heavy and downcast eyes betraying her tone.

“Je suis désolé, August,” breathed Julien, running his hands through his hair. August’s lips formed a tight line.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything Julien, it’s not your fault,” she said, pressing her lips against his to hush him.

August’s hand trembled, causing the ash from her lit cigarette to dirty her jeans. Streaks of mascara painted her face as she thought about the fateful day Julien broke the news to her. Her hair was a mess, and her champagne-induced haze had completely evaporated. Her tears wouldn’t stop. August Seville looked like a madwoman, sobbing and smoking at the dead end of the Rue de L’Université. Five months, was all the time they had left to make the most of each other. August had spent forever in that first stage of grief that she realised she never truly mourned Julien in her cruel denial and looming melancholy. August’s life ran in three stages, it seemed — before Julien, with Julien and after Julien. Her body quaked and her head thumped softly against the concrete that cradled her.

August awoke that morning to the sound of Beethoven’s Für Elise. She stepped into the living room to find Julien slumped on a chair, facing his easel. His hands quavered as he fumbled for his paintbrush and palette. August rushed to him and helped him gather his art supplies, placing the brush in his trembling hand. The phantom shadow of a smile lingered on his face — now more sallow and gaunt than robust. August held his hand and aided him in creating brushstrokes on the canvas. Upon observing his painting, she realized that the explosion of vibrant colors and seemingly jagged brushstrokes were an ode to their relationship.

“It’s us, chérie,” said Julien, looking up at August, a gleam in his eye.

“I’m ensorcelled, Jules, it’s beautiful,”

“It’s a shame that I’m doing my best work, now that I’m dying,” Julien murmured rather mordantly. August tittered.

“Don’t be silly, old Vincent went in the same direction and look how well it turned out for him,” Julien snorted.

“Qui sait? Maybe I’ll be a posthumous prodigy — you’ll never know, trésor,”

“You’re pathetic, have I told you that?” quipped August, playfully narrowing her eyes.

“Jusqu’à la mort, on fait de l’art,” replied the latter, beaming, a boyish laugh departing him. August smilingly mumbled something about him being dramatic as she made her way into their kitchen for a cup of coffee.

“Julien, would you like another cup of coffee?” she called. No reply.

“Chérie? I asked if you wanted any more coffee!” she repeated. Silence. A distressed August Seville bolted into the living room. Julien Beauchamp was slouched in his green chair, his head hung low and paintbrush on the floor.

“Julien? Julien!” she cried, tapping his face. Julien stirred, reluctantly opening his eyes.

“Je suis en route,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“Attends, quoi?” August asked, not wanting to accept what Julien had uttered. Julien grasped her hand, his grip had weakened considerably, but August held on regardless. Tears streaked her face, and Julien meekly raised his hand and brushed them away. He shook his head — no crying.

“Je t’aime, complice. À tout de suite chérie,” he maundered with a small smile that lit up his eyes. In that moment, August gazed down at Julien Beauchamp, his handsome face, his straight and messy black hair, his slightly beaked and crooked nose and his chartreuse-flecked green eyes. She pressed an ardent kiss onto his lips and muttered a quick ‘I love you,’ before pulling away. Julien became absurdly limp.

“Julien? JULIEN!” she exclaimed. August tapped his face once more, but Julien didn’t stir this time. August felt her breath shallow and her face heat up. Her sobs grew and her body quavered.

“No, this can’t be. Tournesol, wake up! Please, wake up,” August cried, her voice faltering. She pulled Julien closer to her and sobbed, crashing onto the oil paints and palette, the apartment encompassed in a melancholy silence.

—

August Seville could have written a million letters, each one the same as the last in its sentiment and cadence. All of them remaining the same, only differing in the word arrangement. It boiled down to the same thing for August — she missed Julien Beauchamp. He should be there, right next to her. Ultimately, no-one could ever know if she was being selfish or not but even so — to hell with the world and their opinions. To hell with the rest of Paris and its judgemental eyes. Julien should be there — next to August, where he used to be, where he belonged. She yearned for him. His long, dark hair, his alluring green eyes, electric spirit and brilliant mind. August Seville’s heart was missing an integral piece — Julien Beauchamp. He was everywhere and nowhere, she realised. It would dawn on August at the most random times of the day — the load of laundry would be lighter, the absence of a second toothbrush in the bathroom, the untouched side of their bed or even the missing easel from the living room. Julien Beauchamp left her heart in a shattered disarray of pieces, and August Seville could not piece them back together.

The tears came to an end. August flicked her cigarette and dusted the ash off her jeans. She wiped away her tears and stood up, inhaling the pungent, Parisian air once more. Her heartache was still there — it was like the music of an orchestra. At times, Julien was quiet and allowed August to function, whereas at other times — like the present — the violins would play and she would feel bereaved, and at other times the grief would rise to a crescendo and burst out from her chest in a vicious and heart-wrenching anguish, leaving behind a Julien Beauchamp-sized burn. She fished out the keys to their old apartment from her coat, she hadn’t the foggiest that it had remained there for so long, and tossed it into the Seine below her. Right now, there was a flute playing in the metaphorical orchestra and August was able to recall Julien with a certain fondness she was unable to bring herself to before, and she enjoyed the moment, lingering where she and Julien had shared their very first kiss just a little longer as she basked in the Parisian romance of it all.

Je’taime de tout mon cœur, Julien Beauchamp.