Puzzled

“I’m afraid, you’ve misunderstood me”, he replies, smiling. “I’m not trying to turn you into an avid smoker, I’m offering you to experience life sensations.”

He takes my hand and puts his cigar case in it.

“Really? And how would you suggest me do that?” I ask, feeling the cold metal against my skin.

“How else but by senses, mon cher ami[10 - Mon cher amie (Fr.) – my dear friend]!” He replies.

“Yes, but I don’t understand. How can I experience a sensation of smoking a cigar merely by holding your cigar case in my hand?” I ask, bewildered.

“And who’s told you there are cigars in it?” He responds.

“But, this is a cigar case, isn’t it?” I say.

“Yes, it is.”

“So, then it must contain cigars” I insist.

“Well, that’s what you think, but this alone doesn’t prove it actually does.”

“But, if there are no cigars in it why have you given it to me then?”

“For you to experience life sensations.” He replies.

“But…” I start and look down at the cigar case.

It has four cigar channels, engraved with floral scrolls. I touch them, feeling their curviness under my fingers.

The case is in a pristine condition, no rubbing or scratches on it. The cartouche has a monogram, two intertwined letters: “J & M”. They could very well stand for Jim Morrison[11 - Jim Morrison – an American singer, songwriter and poet best remembered as the lead singer of The Doors.].

But I don’t think he smoked cigars, though.

I open the case.

The strong scent of tobacco hits my nostrils, but the four cigar channels are empty. Inhaling the tobacco aroma emanating from the cigar case, I admire it for a few more seconds, pondering over life sensations that Monsieur Moreau mentioned to me, then close it and hand the case back to him.

“You know”, he says, sliding the case into the pocket of his tweed jacket, “when I was your age I also jumped to hasty conclusions and often ended up being tricked…”

“Especially, in those cases that concerned women”, he adds after a pause.

I blush.

Episode 18 – The Source of Wisdom

London, 25 December 2010

I re-read his message several time and start on my reply.

Carefully picking the words, I string them into sentences.

I don’t wish my message to be formal, but, at the same time, try to avoid sounding as if all I’ve been doing is eagerly awaiting him to reconnect.

Finished, I read through my email and click on send button. An image of a dove, slashing through the virtual space, taking my message to him, comes to my mind.

Though I have never met my mysterious date, I have a feeling I’ve known him for centuries, as if he’s come to me from my past life. The life I don’t have a recollection of but nonetheless have a distinct memory of a person who once was part of it.

I put my laptop aside and pick up the book on great mysteries of life.

Here we go, a source of wisdom that seems to have solutions to the perplexities bothering minds of living creatures.

I wish I had this book two years ago. Perhaps, I would have already found the answers to my questions.

I run my fingers across the cover. The short thick pile of its velvet tingles my fingertips.

I open the book and leaf through pages. The answers to my questions don’t seem to jump at me, at least not for the moment.

I press the book against my chest and close my eyes.

A town spreads out before me. The sun shines brightly upon it. A light scent of lilies of the valley wafts in the warm spring like air.

I find myself walking along one of the town’s streets. Approaching an antique bookshop, I stop and look at the window display. A huge book in the velvety cover, lying there, catches my eye. Intrigued, I study it.

Under my gaze the book comes alive and opens up.

Its pages, at first blank, start filling with lines of text. Attempting to read it, I press hard against the shop window.

The next moment I find myself standing on one of the book’s pages, huge neon letters pulsating under my feet.

I try to make words out of them but the pulsating letters cascade downwards, flowing into the book.

I hear a loud chime.

The letters crumble and disappear. Tearing hundreds of pages, I fall into the bottomless depth of the ancient manuscript and wake up.

The room is dark except the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.

In the distance, the sound of chiming can still be heard. I realise it must be the church clock striking the hour. I count the chimes.

Midnight!

Leaping off the sofa, I dash into my room. My plane to Nice leaves early in the morning and I haven’t packed yet.

Episode 19 – Any plans?

Monte Carlo, 25 December 2010

I grab the coffee pot and start pouring coffee into our cups.

“I hope you will forgive an old man’s curiosity, mon ami, but…” begins Monsieur Moreau.