Dreaming Of You // Harry Styles

We strolled about the cemetery and visited a few more graves, first of them the one of Jim Morrison, where Jeanne made fun of me quoting a line from ‘Anyone Can Play Guitar’ about growing my hair to be just like him, making me laugh. She was so into the 90’s music. After that we visited some medieval lovers called Abelard and Eloise, and finally a French journalist with the oddest mythology, Victor Noir.

As she circled the life-sized statue of his grave Jeanne explained to me Parisians have the rare belief that touching his crotch enhances fertility. I found it curious, but I soon noticed as a result the statue had some shinny areas. It was sort of disturbing. Some people approached us near the grave and I jumped, fearing being recognised, but they were there to rub on Noir and didn’t even look at me. And Jeanne; she just walked around not fulfilling the ritual at any moment. I wondered if she had done it before, but I didn’t dare to ask. I assumed she didn’t. She seemed so beyond earthly things.

It took us about two hours to visit the four tombs, but it was still day when we returned to Jeanne’s flat. She undressed and sat on her desk to reread some notes and I did the same on the sofa with my iPhone. I needed to know if somebody had seen me through the streets of Paris or with Jeanne at Père-Lachaise but I found nothing on the subject on Twitter, where usually all alarms begin. Feeling relieved I went to Paul’s thread and saw he was telling me to pick me up at 1PM the next day to sound check and asking for Jeanne’s address.

“11, Rue Cujas, 5ème arrondissement,” she told me but I handed her my iPhone for her to write it down, which she did, smirking. By that time she was fully aware of the fact I only owned my Shakespearean English and nothing else.

Although she seemed fine with sushi I couldn’t manage Mitsuo another time so she made dinner. She asked me if I liked beetroot and I told her yes, so she took a blender and prepared something she called ‘gazpacho,’ a Spanish cold vegetable soup. It was pink and garnished with hard-boiled egg, Persil and sea salt flakes. I was a bit mistrustful about it but as soon as I tasted it I liked it very much.

“Original recipe doesn’t use beetroot–––she explained. Just tomato, cucumber, Italian green pepper, onion, garlic, olive oil and salt…”

“From whom did you learn this?” I discreetly asked. She laughed.

“What are you implying?–––she acted as offended. French people are a lot into soups. Haven’t you smelled the ‘bouillon’ on this very building?” I tilted my head at her. “OK, fine–––she surrendered. Unai. He is Basque.”

“Who was the best one?” I carried on, not sure about what aspect I was referring to. I knew it was sort of judgemental and sexist on my part being so obsessed with her love life, and didn’t feel too proud of myself.

“Gastronomically, the Italian one,” she asserted, unworried. She had them classified. “I’m Mediterranean…”

“Oh, come on–––I snapped flicking my hand at her. Paris is hardly Mediterranean.”

“Well, let’s say I have a Mediterranean soul…” She stated, giving me a caring smile that warmed me up. I don’t know if she realised her effect on me but she stood up from her chair and came to sit on my lap. “Haven’t you dreamt of being somebody else?” She murmured looking straight into my eyes, her cleavage plunging on her chest.

“All the time…”

Jeanne brought her notes to bed and started to translate them out loud for me. She was sitting with her back against the headboard and my head was resting on her lap as I caressed her hip from above her legs. I listened to her longingly almost as if she was speaking about somebody else than me. For moments it was as if I got split from myself and didn’t even recognise me on my own name. It felt good letting me go… It was practically the same feeling I experienced reading Fan Fiction about me. I became a spectator as any other, and for a brief instant I wasn’t the centre of attention. The centre was Jeanne, each word more clever than the previous one, as well as all the girls giving me their time and affection and overcoming me on her stories. I knew Jeanne was curious about this subject, so when the topic of her reading discoursed about sources her researcher side appeared.