“Last night I dreamed I came back to Grand Manolis.” It is not an illusion from the last days I was in P anymore. It is what I say to myself every day when I wake up in the morning, to the patches of sunlight coming through my window in Saigon. It is the thought that I come back to Grand Manolis, lying on that huge bed in the 150-odd years-old house and that I would wake up the day after with the sound of the vendors downstairs and a thin veil of mist from the river that serves as sleeping pills that help me go to sleep every night.
Everything was a dream, I once thought when I first came back to Saigon. Ning dans le sommeil, je niyeah various idiomas, including el idioma étranger que j’ai inventé quand j’étais petit.
With Toru, I went for a hike. I drank the local wine that he brought with him, of which sweet aftertaste I love. I would love to die there, if possible, with him, I told him. He also shared with me the love of the idea that we would die somewhere like this, in the forest, and the death would disturb noone. And we went on, to explore a cave, then we would go farther, as far as there was no beaten path. We would walk on the grass until we reached where mountains stood as great walls to stop us. And we sat by a lake, from which came emerald-like light, surrounded by bushes. He made a fire while the night wore on and I was rambling that we should have made a camp there, and that we should have brought a tent and food.
In the end, we came back home. In the darkness, we were holding hands. And days after, he texted me to tell me that in those very moments, when he held my hands to lead me out of the forest, he thought that perhaps in a second when he looked back, I would disappear. He was so afraid that I would not be there.
I told Patrick and Thomas the terrific news. Thomas did not even reply my text. And I and Patrick had a fight over it, and he did not say anything good about it (yet). We have rarely talked ever since, though we met and made love, one of the best we could have. I also told Toru, who told me that he was sad because I would travel far from him, but anyway he sent me congratulations and wishes. No lovers of mine were happy with the terrific news I told them.
I studied Patrick’s nude photos that I took, again and again, and thought about the good times when we were happy, when he talked and I hardly said anything, when it would rain almost every time we went out and then we would come back to my apartment late at night, maybe soaked, and we would kiss, when we first talked when were on that island… while I was waiting for his messages.
The Grand Manolis, to whom I said, in the local language, before I left it “Goodbye, I hope that one day soon I will be here again. See you.” will be there for me to come back, soon.
I looked up to my bookshelf, on top of which stays a clear bag in which there is a piece of paper on which lays Riht’s name in his hand-writing, an artefact for our first rendezvous when I first kissed him.