...of a daydream

San Remo, she wrote, the square in the shade of the tall trees in full bloom, the fountain, the clouds above the sea, the scarabs in the warm air.
I feel the breeze on my eyes.
In my hands I hold the prey of silence.
I wait for the quiver of pleasure from your gaze on my body.
I dreamt last night that I saw you at the foot of the lane of charms, in Fiesole. You were like a blind man searching for his home. Outside I could hear voices murmuring insults, or prayers.
I remember, you spoke to me of the death of children, of war. The years they have not lived gouge gaping holes in the walls of our houses.
She wrote: Geoffroy, you are in me, I am in you. The time which has kept us apart no longer exists. Time had effaced me. In traces on the sea, in whitecap signs, I read your memory. I cannot lose what I see, I cannot forget what I am. It is for you that I make this voyage.
She dreamt as the cigarette burned away, as the sheet of paper filled with words. Her letters became entangled, and there were large, white gaps between them. Aurelia used to say she had a slantingm affected handwriting, the tall letters struck with a long curving train, the t's crossed diagonally.
I remember the last time we spoke, in San Remo; you spoke to me of the silence of the desert, as if you were going to go back against the flow of time, as far as Meroë, to find the truth; and now I myself, here in the silence and the wilderness of the sea, feel I am going back in time to find the truth of my life, there, in Onitsha.

[Onitsha, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]