Lovers

She always knows exactly when the cab driver is going to turn left after the intersection. Her watch shows the same time, like any other evenings when she comes to his place. The last nine months. The cab driver stops exactly in front of the address she indicates. She always rings the bell of the building at around 20:00, sometimes 20:05, sometimes 20:10. The weather could be good or bad, rainy or blue sky, she always arrives at his place around that time. She never needs to ring the bell when she reaches the 3rd floor. He always leaves the door open. The TV is most of the time turned on when she enters the apartment. Most of the time he is there, waiting for her. He has his usual smile. He always greets her in a joyful way.

Winter has arrived the last two weeks, yet, his skin still gets this color of honey. He only lives in this city in the North a few days a week. The rest of the time, he is living in the South where the sun never stops shining. He must have spent his weekends under the sun or out there by the beach, or somewhere near the coast. He told her that he has recently bought a small fisherman boat. That would explain his all-year round tanned golden skin.

After all those months, she is still surprised she finds him each time that gorgeous. She is almost scared to become that superficial because she always finds him too handsome and that would be the only reason making her come to his place or liking him. His beauty, she takes it as a ray of sun, a snowflake, or even sometimes her own breathe. His features, his skin, his eyes. Once beautiful, always beautiful. That is what people say. A face that has lived the pleasure, the dreams and the impetuosity. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever been hurt or vulnerable?” It is hard to tell. He is standing there, right across the kitchen, joking about his talent of cooking a unique tomato sauce. He is smiling to her. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever hurt someone with this smile?” It is hard to tell. Maybe at some point, in his past, there have been some left scars for him and for others.

The questions she asks are not relevant or important. Every time they enjoy each other until exhaustion. Spontaneous physical passion. Kissing him is like licking a thousand flavor of ice cream all in one, trying to detect which flavor is the best. Each kiss, sweet and deep with his soft tongue, tastes like a small piece of roasted peach, having its own soul. It is like he knows that the only way to reach her is to kiss her.

The windows with no curtain, the lights from inside the apart show the shadows of them slowly taking off their clothes, guessing the steady desire of making love. They hold each other close, and never stop kissing. Their hands looking for their naked skin under the clothes, the skin that vibrates with each caress. There is a raging fire spreading through the room but also a controlled ardor to prolong the moment. They know they cannot leave until they finish consuming the heat inside them. Fire has sealed off all windows, leaving them only one thing to do: make love madly. This magical craziness of desiring someone so strong, the need of flesh so savage and so primitive. At least that is what she feels each time. There is always a moment when she loses consciousness of time and space, where am I? Am I on earth? Or in heaven? But there is always also a moment when she stops thinking and only focusing on her five senses, allowing her to fully feel each movement of his hips when he is inside her.

She starts to call him “the best” lately. He has become the best lover she has ever had. Lately, he puts on Bach when they make love. When she comes, several times each time they are together, she remembers exactly with which piece of Bach, which melodies, which instruments. Each time it is divine. Having an orgasm with him, with Bach music in the background, is self-redemption. That is what she knows and feels. When he is inside her, she feels like she has never made love before. She feels new and fresh. When he comes, his pleasure is intense. When they finish, it is not finished. The abnormal magical pleasures they feed each other turn other pleasures into some normal, insignificant ones. The red wine, the dish of pasta with his unique tomato sauce, a soccer game shown on television or a movie he chose but never gets to watch until the end.

Yet, they are different types, she guesses. He seems full of energy and ambition. Young, he would surely see the world as a scented fruit waiting to be eaten, as the world certainly has been opened up to him and his beauty easily. She is a nerd and, for her, life is something rational, like a cake with layers of cream, organized and sweet but predictable. She has learned with him not to ask lots of questions or to think too much. She always knows that most of men do not like women who think and ask too much questions. There is no frustration to not asking questions. On the contrary, it is a way to preserve mystery after having shared that fire of physical passion. She believes their differences increase their mutual attraction. They have developed a certain intimacy, not the physical one only, but also some closeness. It is quite unavoidable once they share a regular physical intimacy. But not asking too many questions keep them from falling in love. Because falling in love is letting go and they never really let go. The reasons behind it are multiple. One of them is that it is not easy to fall in love. It demands availability, willingness and there are not so many ways to fall in love but there are many ways to avoid it. But there might be one drop or two of loves or affection in there, when they are together, enough to feed, let’s say a bird or a plant. Who knows? And this does not mean that they do not care for each other. She cares about him and she believes he knows that without her formulating it. Should he ever need her if his close ones are not right beside him, he could always call her. After all those months, he might know that already.

It would be unfair to say it is just lust between them. To enjoy the sex with someone that much and the way they do, there must be more than just lust. The way she kisses him, it is like to show him how important he is in the world. The way she receives him inside her, it is like to acknowledge that he is creative and has such an imaginative mind. Look at the buildings he built, making love to him is like embracing those creations. You cannot make love with that kind of passion unless you soak up the other person’s thoughts, mind and dreams at the same time. Lying there on his bed, like a lizard basking in the sun, she can feel life in all the shades and tones. Each story of each person, once being someone’s lover is a fairytale, a variation of mental and physical unique experience. Self-discovery, experimental kissing, self-examination, orgasmic introspection; that is what it is, every single week, when they get a chance to see each other. There will be no boredom, there will be no routine as they have to re-invent themselves each time. Even the red wine tastes differently each time. The pasta sauce with another touch each time. The intensity of the kisses varies. The songs sung by their bodies sound differently each time. Without being sentimental, and even being in the distance, the differences are felt very profoundly.

The sublimation of the sexual desires is part of the beauty and the delight of the story, allowing them to go apart, living their lives separately after that. There is no sorrow but only longing until the next time they meet, that is totally salutary for them and the hopes that their desires will not expire too soon.

Routine

The alarm of the clock on the wall was set to end each training session after five minutes. 9pm sharp he finished the training and came toward me. I was sitting at the reception area. He touched me from behind the neck and asked if I would like something to drink. He said that the coffee here was good and strong. I said: No thanks. Wait for me I will go shower, he added.

Before he left for the shower he introduced me to the owner of the gym and his partner, then some of his sparring partners. When he came back he asked me if I wanted to visit the gym. I said yes. He told me that he liked the color of the wall, a kind of old pink color. He said he came here every evening, mostly because he is the principal coach but also because this place is his second home.

We left the gym and waited for the bus to come. The night was bright as it was full moon. It was not cold at all for a month of October. We went downtown for a drink. He did not talk a lot this time. Normally when we met each other he seemed happier. He told me not to worry as he was not in good shape. I told him that it was okay, we don’t need to talk a lot. For some reason I did not feel the need to talk a lot either. We had each of us a green tea. We looked at each other in silence. But there was no embarrassment in the silence. For the first time since we have known I asked first if we could leave. The idea of seeing him with a sad face made me even sadder than him. It was 11.30 pm. The last bus would be only in one hour. Usually we stayed until there was no more buses passing by. He said ok and held my hands for less than thirty seconds. We walked slowly to a square where all the buses stop. My bus arrived first. I kissed him very quickly on the cheek and entered the bus. He waved at me and sent me a kiss. I smiled at him and waved back.

Later in the night he wrote to me a private message on Facebook: “I am sorry. Bad mood lately. Always a pleasure to see you…”

I answered him early in the morning: “Don’t be sorry. It was nice seeing you though I never like to see you down…”

Then I opened my blog and wrote again after one year and four months of absence. About him. My inspiration.

Later on during the day I wrote him a long letter. I did not say in the letter how much I still love him. Just how much I care.

Later on that night he sent me a good-night song just like he did every night since one year and four months.

What would make me happy a day like this ?

What would make me happy a day like today?

It is so dark outside and the snow is falling again. This winter is terrifying. I had a bad lunch that hurt my stomach for hours. I had a lesson of harpsichord, my fingers were stiff. The piece was all about the beginning of the romantic era and I could not play it with stormy feelings. My teacher told me that I was cold today. Truth is I was a bit lack of sleep, lack of vitamines, lack of sun. Monday is always tough. And a German class is waiting for me this evening. Nothing really fancy today, really.

What would make me happy a day like today ?

I would love to run on the beach, feeling sand in between my toes. I would love to feel sun on my face. I would love to have a good vietnamese soup prepared by my grandmother. I would love to sing tonight in a karaoke bar, maybe just to spend my energy, move my voice. I don’t know.

What would make me happy right now?

I would love to be hold in his arms and hear his laugh, listen to his music, watch Youtube endlessly with him and laugh on silly things.

I want sun, I want beach, I want vietnamese food but most of all I want him. Nothing has much changed since the last 24 hours.

He is the sun, he is the beach, he is the vietnamese food, he is the song I want to sing. He is the piece of Bach I want to play. He is the stormy feeling I want to express. He is all the Mondays I will like if he were here.

In-flight time

Yesterday I had ten hours ahead in-flight. I had prepared books and work to do, and I was looking forward to having plenty of time ahead to think of him.

One of the music in the radio program was the soundtrack of my favorite movie ever “Love Story”. It was just a movie on love in the 1970s. But I love everything about it. Maybe also because it happened in a campus. In Boston where I had lived for two years. The movie starts with the line “What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.” (extracts from the book of Eric Segal “Love Story”).

Yesterday when I listened to the soundtrack, I thought, if I ever made a movie, I would start it with a very short line: “I love him and I love Bach”. I don’t know what it would be about. But Bach would be there and him too. No matter what.

Ten hours in-flight. With him in my thoughts. As usual.

Salvation

There is Bach

But there is also Mozart

There are always alternatives

And other perfections

That is the beauty of life

Looking at life from another perspective

Leaving behind my endless obsessions

Could it be my salvation in love?

***Writing this piece listening to…….Bach, Concerto in D minor for harpsichord….*************

Give me a moment

A Bach concerto for harpsichord.

Maximum of volume.

Rain outside, once again.

I am hypnotized by sadness.

The kind of sadness that empties my brain

And my heart too

I can’t feel anything this morning

I hope it is temporary

This kind of sadness

If I don’t fight back

It will vacuum me to further emptiness

I am not the kind of person

Who can be corroded by sorrows

I will get out of my home now

I will take a walk

I prefer

To be eaten into

Grey landscape outside

Under the rain

Washing my brain

Cleaning my heart

So I can scream to the world again

“I AM READY TO BE BACK IN LIFE”

Summer and balcony

That summer never came. For some reasons. All these water pouring down from the sky. The temperature hardly went beyond 15 degrees Celsius. She got used to it and she imagined people in her village as well. When there is no more hope, it’s just a matter of time when to get used to a perpetual unchanged situation.

She looked out onto her small balcony. She moved to this apartment two years ago and had never decided to buy a table and chairs for the balcony. She had always known about the kind of summer over here, in her country.  A great summer lasted usually three weeks. She thought it was unnecessary. Then a few weeks ago she finally decided to do like everybody else who has a balcony. She went to a big furniture store and brought back a simple table and two chairs, metallic of course. She could never forget the rain.

There they were. Posed quietly. Plain and simple. Since the day she had brought them home, there had never been one dry day or evening.

First thing in the morning, she glanced at them from the windows. Puddles of water here and there, all over the table. She remembered the eve. She had tried to clean the table, knowing that it could be in vain, but still felt the need to do it.

She looked at them. She might have given them all a name. She had thought of Johann, Carl, Wilhelm, thinking of Bach and his sons. She loved Bach but had never been a fan of Germanic-sound first names. She went for Juan, Philipe, and Carlos instead. She was happy she had personified them.

Her attempt to be a normal woman like anyone else all these years was similar to her attempt to furnish her balcony. Similar to that summer trying to stop the rain like a will of surviving a battle.

That summer never came. She had not been once outside. Juan, Philipe and Carlos had never gotten a chance to dry up. They stayed the whole summer outside in emptiness.

Artists of love

Heaven exists on earth. Indisputable.

Make love to the person you love than more yourself

With Bach music

Make love to the person you trust more than yourself

Let him guide you

Let him teach you

Trust him more

Limitless explorations

Blossomed senses

Flesh is not weak

Lust is nothing

Multiplied vertigos

You look back

Those insignificant one-night stands

There, passive and sad flesh

You look at him now

Blissful and grateful

Now you know

The taste of heaven

And you are home…

Every evening I get back home quite late, after a long day, either after yoga or German class, I always cook something simple. I am not fond of eating cold food in the evening. It takes a bit more time but I feel relaxed when I cook. There is a kind of ritual, I always have dinner with a green tea, in front of the TV. I lost the habit of sitting at a table and eating ever since I have not been in couple anymore. Eating in front of the TV is not healthy apparently but it gives the feeling of having someone talking to you during the meal, or having someone in the apartment. I think people living alone probably have this same habit as me.

But there is always a moment once I finished my dinner, and once the episode of a TV show ended, that suddenly I felt a strong need to talk someone. To share my day, to talk about easy things, about the weather, about anything. But then I also realized that I did not just want to talk to anyone. It became crystal clear that I wanted to talk to HIM. And only him. It’s not just talk, it’s talking and looking in his eyes, those deep green grey eyes. These unreasonable needs were there almost every evening during this winter, while he was away. I could not do anything against it. I could pick up the phone and just call a close friend, if I need to talk. My verbal desire, my need of communication to the world is tightly linked to him. Usually at that moment, I hit the button “play” for another episode of TV show, feeling a bit frustrated, of course.

Yesterday, I went through the same ritual. The only difference was that at that precise moment when I felt the need to talk, I did talk with my voice. And not only in my head. I talked, I told stories, I shared my day. I looked into those green eyes. Because he was there. In flesh and bones. And he listened. I could not stop talking, I had four months of things which had happened in my life to tell him. He listened and swallowed my words. I talked and fell into the depth of his eyes. Sometimes I wanted to say “I love you” in between sentences and words, but I was still a bit intimidated. Sometimes I touched his hands, squeezed his arms, gave him a long kiss on his cheek. I hardly believed he was real. Let alone that he was back.

I put on a Bach concerto, came closer to him, stopped all the words, let him kiss me and undress me. Was I on earth? Was I in heaven? Death, immortality, do I want to live forever for that moment? Or do I want to die right away after that kiss, that touch? I could say “yes” to all these questions.

All I know is I love Bach and I love him. And yesterday evening was one of a kind.

Tribute to a noble profession

I started my day with a sad news. In the mailbox, a grey envelop. For a second, I was scared. Grey envelops never bring good news. I looked at the stamp. It came from a place which did not remind me of someone in particular. I opened it. And it was indeed not good. The kind man who had fabricated my harpsichord passed away a few days ago, at the age of 66. I was affected by the news.

I always have a deep admiration for these string-instrument makers. There is something very special about this profession. It has more to do with a passion for music than to make money. Besides, they are so rare.

Early December last year, when I was looking to purchase a harpsichord, I hardly found ten of them in all over the country. Then I went to this atelier, the closest to my city. That Saturday afternoon was heaven for me. The atelier was in an old house near the station. Mr. Käppeli (the manufacturer’s name) lives in the house and made it his atelier apparently. Three entire floors with harpsichords. He showed and explained to me each of them. He had let me try each one. All were made by his own hands. The one of the Italian period, painted in a beautiful dark red, produced a warm sound, yet the clavier was hard to play. The British harpsichord, in a pastel green, with flowers inside as ornaments, was distinguished. Its sound was languishing, like the voice of mermaids, sitting on some rocks, far away in the ocean. The French one, I remember, was smaller, with double keyboards, gave a pompous, slightly acute sound. They were all marvelous. My favorite was the one in the attic, not yet finished. A well-known harpsichord concert performer had ordered it. He said it would take him some more months to complete the work. Everything was hand-made. Each tiny piece, each string delicately posed. I just wonder if finally he had had enough time to finish it. Six months had gone by.

I chose a small spinet, which is manufactured exactly the same way as a harpsichord but much smaller. I did not have enough money  to buy the “real” harpsichord and it was also a matter of space for my flat. But I was happy with my choice because it was a good deal for a beginner. The sound was perfect. My teacher told me to always choose a hard clavier, which I did. A harpsichord needs as much care as a human being. Special attention is involved. The room must be humid by 50% so during the winter, a humidifier is required. No direct light should be on the instrument. But it was a real pleasure and it was my Christmas present. My spinet weighted around 60 pounds. I remember I helped Mr. Käppeli carrying it up to my flat on the second floor. He showed me how to tune it. I did not know that harpsichords have the same mechanic as guitars.

Today my spinet is orphan. I have discovered the most wonderful instrument. It has a special meaning to me because  when I am sad and lonely, my only remedy to that is practicing, playing hours and hours and it is the only moment I forget all sorrows.

When I started harpsichord after twenty years of piano and was completely carried away, my stepfather said to me: “It suits you well, I think, because this instrument is distant, cold, in a strange and noble way. The piano is more warmhearted. Harpsichord is like a silent movie and piano the one with dialogs. It suits you because you are cold and distant. You never let them out, your emotions, right?”.

I took the day off, practiced Bach the whole morning. Sorrows could not escape. I kept it all inside. My stepfather was right.