Dating : ۷. Eyes into the past

Et maintenant, pour une histoire de nuit … écrite par une jeune fille de 13 ans, qui avait déjà l’imagination d’une femme de 33 ans.

“My story is one of intrigue and mystery. The very thought of it reignites memories of the past, and puts all these memories in question. In the past and especially during my childhood, I thought and believed all that my relatives told me. They were dear to me, and a word from their lips was like a word from God. However, one event in my life brings all my thoughts to a standstill and leads me to ponder if my whole life is based upon tales and misbeliefs. If so, have I lived at all? Or have I merely played the role of a fictional character in the set of a dreamworld?

But now, let me begin my story. It was 14 juillet, 1887 and the beautiful fireworks of Paris were just commencing to illuminate the sky. The windows of my apartment overlooked the Champs-Elysées which was crowded with merrymakers and drunkards. For most people, 14 juillet is an anniversary of independence and festivities. However, for me July 14 was the anniversary of my mother’s death. Somehow, the most dreadful and dismal thing had befallen upon the most wonderful and joyful holiday of the year. Instead of joining the jubilant scene of the street, I prepared to go to my mother’s grave.

I reached over and removed a dusty picture frame from the mahogany mantelpiece. I gazed at it for a few moments when I was suddenly called back from my reverie by the loud striking of the grandfather clock in the hall. I withdrew my father’s tattered black and white picture from the frame and stared at his astounding eyes and wondered what colour they must have been. I had not known him at all and often thought of what he would have been like had I known him. Then I tucked the precious photograph in my left pocket and set out for the graveyard.

Outside, the air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and burnt firecrackers. I slowly made my way through the masses of shouting people, and after a short time became pensive again. My mind drifted back to the summers spent picnicking in the Bois de Boulogne, the winters spent ice-skating at the Palais des Glaces, and finally my thoughts rested upon one specific night.”

…A demain soir, mon chéri — quand je te raconterais le reste de l’histoire de cette nuit…