Agnes: Love of My Life - Pt. 03

Part III - Silver Dreams, Golden Reality

For the Kind Reader:

This story is the third part of a multipart series. To fully understand the story, it is recommended that you read the first and second parts of the series.

A Strange Dream

It feels as if I am awake; yet in my dream, I know I'm sleeping. It's as if I'm watching a movie: events unfold on a film screen, and I perceive everything with full awareness. After a long time, I find myself experiencing that recurring dream again, but this time with more detail:

I am lying on a bed, but not in my own bedroom. Instead, it's the former bedroom of my parents' house, the one I used to share with my sister, Agnes. Of course, since she was already a fully grown woman, I only shared it with her on weekends when she came home from university.

Right now, I am lying on my old bed, yet I still have no idea how I got here, even in my dreams. Besides, after our parents' death, we sold this apartment, so I shouldn't be here. Yet, here I am!

Somewhere, soft music is playing--an old French song: Adamo's "Tombe la neige"--echoing from somewhere. Through the window, I can see that it's not just in the song; it is also snowing heavily outside. Of course, Agnes studies French, and these romantic chansons are her favorites. But why is she listening to them in the middle of the night? She isn't even in the room; maybe she didn't come home this weekend. But now the door opens, and Agnes steps in. She is wearing only a short, transparent nightgown that barely reaches her thighs.

The sight stirs not only me but also my previously sleeping sexual arousal.

"Did you just arrive?" I ask.

"Not long ago. I just took a shower."

"It must be cold outside."

"Yep, but it's not warm in here, either."

"Come on, my bed is already warm."

On the single bed, she could only fit next to me by turning sideways, drawing her right thigh up and resting it gently on top of me.

As the nightgown slides up over her, I can feel her bulging pubic mound and her tits pressing against me. I kiss her lips passionately. She wraps her fingers around my manhood, stroking gently up and down. Then, she shifts her thigh on my hips, sits on top of me, and places my penis against her wet vagina then slowly sliding into it.

I grip her breasts hovering in front of me, teasing her hard nipples with my thumbs. Her upper body leans over me as her hips make small circles, her vagina rhythmically squeezing. I pull the blanket over us and wrap my arms around her bare back.

"I'm so glad you're here. I always wait for you when you're gone," I say.

"If you miss me, just call, and I'll come."

The old question arises in my mind--one that I have never been able to ask before because I always woke up before I could say it, and afterward, I didn't remember what I wanted to ask. But now, I finally have it:

"Tell me, when we're making love, have you ever felt embarrassed that we are siblings?"

She stops moving and opens her eyes, which glimmer with a strange, sad light. After a brief silence, she responds to my question with another question:

"And what if I said we're not actually siblings?"

"What?! What do you mean by that?"

"As I said. But do you really want to know?"

"Go on, since you've started."

She sighs, then falls silent for a few moments again.

"Just don't regret it later... The trust is... well, we're not from the same parents, little bro. I was adopted."

This is interesting; sometimes her voice is heard from closer, and sometimes from further away.

"Adopted?! When? Why?"

"It is an old story. Our mother, who is my stepmother, had a very close friend--my biological mother. My parents died in a car accident when I was just one year old. The people I know as my parents adopted me, as my real parents had no relatives who could take care of me. You were born two years later as their only child. I grew up believing that I was also their child."

"And when did you realize that it wasn't like that?" I ask, feeling a tremor begin in my stomach.

"When I was fourteen, I accidentally found the adoption papers deep in a drawer. I've known it ever since. Of course, I created the impression that I was unaware of anything; after all, they raised me, so I considered them my parents. But I searched for and found the grave of my biological parents in the city cemetery."

I can hardly speak. Hesitantly, I ask the obvious question:

"When you first slept with me and knew we weren't siblings, why didn't you tell me?"

"There would have been no point. You grew up believing we were siblings, and I wanted to leave our parents with the same belief--that I didn't know they weren't my real parents. I succeeded in that until the end of their lives. And there was another reason: as I mentioned back then, I was also attracted to you. Perhaps I wanted to test your feelings, to see if you would truly be drawn to me or if it was just a dream for you. I know it was a selfish thing for me to do, but I hope you can forgive me. Do you forgive me?"

"I don't want to know any more!" I thought. I turn her under me and penetrate her again. To distract myself from what I just heard, I start making love to her at a frenetic pace, unlike usual. She seems to feel the same way because she takes over the rhythm, her panting turning to loud moans. Her body writhes lustfully beneath me, but before we climax, I awaken, as usual.

With a rapidly beating heart, I stared into the darkness of my bedroom. The red display of the alarm clock read half past two. My swirling thoughts made it difficult to fall asleep again, and I was tormented by chaotic dream images until morning.

2. In the Library

Some say that dreams never lie; I say that dreams are just dreams. Yet, this matter won't let me rest. Let's think about it for a moment. I remember that our mother really did have a childhood friend whom she mentioned from time to time, but she never revealed what had happened to her. Perhaps she only mentioned that her friend got married and moved abroad, which caused them to drift apart. I don't remember if my mother ever revealed her friend's name, and since she has passed away, there is no one to ask.

It's Saturday morning, and I'm wandering the narrow streets of my hometown. I returned here 0hesitantly, because of that strange dream I had. I don't even know where to start my search, but my legs seem to lead me almost automatically to the city library. In the reading room, I request the archived microfilm copies of the local newspaper that were published during Agnes's birth year and the following year. I sit down in front of a terminal and go through the articles one by one, primarily focusing on past car accidents. Since I'm searching in a daily newspaper, it takes a while before I stumble upon an article reporting on a fatal car accident involving a couple, miraculously survived only by their one-year-old daughter. I read in astonishment that the wife was driving, and it doesn't reassure me that the tragedy wasn't her fault but rather that of a truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel and drifted into the opposite lane. As usual, no names are mentioned; however, two issues later, I come across an obituary that reveals the names of the deceased. But what does this prove? It could be a mere coincidence, I tell myself, already outside on the street as I leave the library.

The Peace of the Dead

Once again, I wander aimlessly from street to street, and suddenly I find myself at the gate of the city cemetery. I'm not sure if I want to know more, yet I step through the large wrought-iron gate into the eternal silence of the graveyard. At least I can visit my parents' grave, I tell myself as I justify my presence here. After a brief look around, I realize that the plots are numbered in reverse chronological order; the graves of the victims of the accident I read about in the library must be farther away, well beyond the area that contains my parents' grave. The cemetery caretaker helps me; he can locate a grave's whereabouts in the computer records by name. He finds it, and I head toward the specified site with a sense of tension, which lies at the far end of the cemetery. As I walk, the graves become increasingly older and less well-tended, and the dates engraved on the tombstones reflect much earlier periods as well. Here, they are densely arranged, and the names on them gradually blur before my eyes; perhaps I won't even find what I'm looking for. But here it is! Gray granite, long-faded artificial flowers in the flowerpot. Above the names engraved in the stone, there is an oval, gold-framed, slightly yellowed photograph of a young couple. In the woman's eyes and features, it's as if I am seeing Agnes! The world fades around me; this cannot be true! Yet this is not a dream anymore; this is reality. Through the whirlwind of thoughts overwhelming me, I can barely see the path as I make my way back. I stop by my parents' grave to place the bouquet of flowers I bought at the entrance, and then I move on, almost fleeing the cemetery. Once outside, I sit on a bench and try to calm myself. A little later, after buying another bouquet, I return to the supposed resting place of Agnes' parents and placed the flowers on the grave.

At home, I was under the influence of what I had seen for days. It suddenly became clear to me why Agnes had become withdrawn during her teenage years and why she was somewhat distant from our parents, even though she remained respectful all the while. I remembered that during that time, I often saw a thoughtful, pondering expression on her face, but as was her habit, she did not share her feelings with me or with others.

Now I also know what she was doing one Sunday afternoon in the park in front of the cemetery, where I happened to notice her while passing by, though she didn't see me. I watched from a distance as she bought a bouquet of flowers from the vendor next to the cemetery entrance, and then she disappeared beneath the huge evergreen trees of the graveyard. Although I didn't understand what was happening, I didn't dare to follow her there.

And for the first time in my life, I notice that there is little resemblance between Agnes's features to either our parents or myself. In three months, I will meet Agnes, this time in Paris. I decided that I would talk to her about these things then.

Days later, I found myself in the cemetery again in my dreams, but this time it was during the evening twilight. Almost every grave had a candle burning, as if it were All Saints' Day. The lantern I held illuminated the narrow dirt path before me only dimly, but the light of the rising moon, filtering through the branches of the tall pines, helped the candle. Once I reached the presumed grave of Agnes's parents, I placed the lantern on it and watched as the flickering flame cast trembling beams of light onto the gravestone, glinting on the picture frame. Suddenly, I heard a faint sound behind me, and something brushed gently against my ankle. I turned around, and a large black cat was staring at me, its green eyes shining. It was a gorgeous feline, surely a resident of the cemetery. As a cat lover, I bent down to pet it, but it hissed and, with an accusatory meow, suddenly disappeared into the thicket of bushes. I stared after it for several seconds before slowly turning back toward the grave.

I flinched in fright. Standing next to the grave was the blurred figure of an elderly woman dressed in white, her long, gray hair falling to her shoulders.

"Are you an acquaintance of the deceased, sir?" she asked in a barely audible, distant voice, not much louder than the gently rustling wind among the leaves above my head.

"Oh, no. I wasn't even born when they had already died..."

"Then why don't you let them rest? Why do you disturb the peace of the dead?"

"I... I just brought a candle for their grave. And... I wanted to tell them that their only daughter is happy with me..."

At that moment, high above among the leaves of the trees, an owl stood out sharply. I involuntarily turned my gaze toward the source of the sound. When I looked back, the ghostly apparition in white had already vanished. Suddenly, I woke up in my bed, and the question echoed in my mind again and again: "Why do you disturb the peace of the dead?"

City of Light

I am lying on my back while Agnes is on all fours above me, her body inverted. Gripping her firm buttocks, I spread her outer labia caressing her rapidly moistening inner slit with my tongue. When I reach her clit, she makes soft circular movements with her hips against the tip of my tongue, letting out a moan. I feel her caress my stiff manhood, and then she takes it softly between her lips. Her moans intensify as I quicken the pace with my tongue. Her lower body trembles more and more, and then suddenly, flooded with pleasure she screams, her juices almost covering my face.

I roll out from under her, kneel behind her, and push my penis into her vagina. Her face buries into the sheets as I move in and out of her writhing body, and every time I penetrate her deeply, she almost screams with pleasure. She rises as high as she can, turns her face towards me, our lips meld together in a wild kiss, as I grip her breasts. Then, she leans forward again, resting one arm on the bed, while reaching back with her other hand and rubbing her clit at an accelerating pace. She tries to muffle the screams of her another orgasm with a pillow as I fill her throbbing vagina with my cum.

We are in Paris, at the location of our current meeting. It has been five years since she visited me while passing through. After being swept away again by the desire we felt for each other--a connection that, according to a strange theory, seemed inevitable--we agreed to meet once a year in distant places where no one knows us. However, we soon reduced this interval to six months...

We arrived at Orly a day ago and rented a small attic apartment near the Saint-Martin Canal. We planned to spend six wonderful nights here. The muffled murmur of the city seeps in through the open window as we lie next to each other in the twilight glow. It is early October, but the weather remains pleasantly sunny. This is my first time in Paris; until now, I have only explored the famous places, districts, streets, squares, and entertainment venues of the city through the pages of my favorite Maigret novels, following the investigations of the diligent Chief Inspector. However, Agnes spent a longer time here during her university years when she received a scholarship as a student of French literature at the Sorbonne. She knows Paris, the City of Light, well from firsthand experience.

Back then, she lived in the Quartier Latin, where Sorbonne University is located. Now, she shows me the vibrant little streets filled with cafés bustling with students, including her former student residence on a small side street off rue Saint-Jacques, where her roommate was a Ghanaian medical student named Kumba. However, her classmates jokingly referred to her as 'Makumba,' inspired by the black female character in the Luis de Funès comedy film The Gendarme and the Gendarmettes. We walked along Boulevard Saint-Michel and reached the neighboring Jardin du Luxembourg, near the Odéon. We entered the park, the place where Agnes often sat in the afternoons, flipping through her school notes or listening to the muffled, distant sounds of the pulsating metropolis.

She recalls that it was here, in the park, where she met a French boy named Pierre, who was also a university student, majoring in art history. One afternoon, as twilight approached, he happened to be passing by just when Agnes was about to head back to her student residence. She still vividly remembers everything since then. Pierre, with his French assertiveness approached her, and Agnes was impressed by his confident demeanor and good looks. They were talking for a while when Pierre unexpectedly asked: "Aren't you hungry? How about some quick bites? I know a little Vietnamese bistro nearby where they cook well." Agnes only now felt how hungry she was. She had last eaten at the university cafeteria that day at noon. Nevertheless, her good manners prompted her to decline the invitation. However, Pierre encouraged her with such sincere kindness that she eventually accepted it.

As it turned out, Agnes was familiar with that bistro; she had previously ordered food for herself there a few times, but only for takeout in a paper box so she could eat it in the dormitory.

Now, in the nearly empty room, dimly illuminated by colorful lanterns, they settled into a cozy corner table and ordered stir-fried noodles with pork and vegetables. While the chef skillfully handled the wok behind the counter, preparing their meal, they chatted in a good mood about various topics. Pierre, with his great sense of humor, was easily able to make Agnes laugh.

After the quick supper, they crossed the pedestrian bridge Pont des Arts, adorned with thousands of 'love locks,' and strolled hand in hand along the brightly lit banks of the Seine in the evening. Pierre kept talking and talking, explaining the sights around them, and the 'secrets' of Parisian life. Returning to the Latin Quarter, they sat down in a small night bar where, apart from them, there was only a cheerful group of Africans; based on their lively conversations in Portuguese, they must have been Angolan or Mozambican students.

The colorful lights, the reggae music, Pierre's attentive kindness, and the two Caribbean rum-based cocktails enchanted Agnes. She felt that after so much studying, she could allow herself to relax a little. So might be forgivable that she ultimately spent the night in Pierre's small, rented attic apartment. When she got home in the morning, Kumba was already seriously worried about her, as Agnes had never stayed out all night before. She thought on her way to the university that what had happened was just a one-night stand. However, Pierre was waiting for her in front of the Panthéon in the afternoon, after the lectures were over. From then on, he waited for her there many times. I remember that back then, she sent a photo of a handsome, black-haired guy posing in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and aviation sunglasses on a palm-lined beach promenade somewhere down on the Riviera.

Now she shared more about him. Pierre was from Nice, the capital of the Côte d'Azur, and accordingly had a passionate Southern French temperament: easy going but sophisticated, sensual but not sentimental, and on top of all that, an attentive and experienced lover. He took Agnes to such small, secluded student clubs, the existence of which she had not even suspected before. Where the scent of cannabis lingered in the air, indicating that the guests smoked a joint now and then. Pierre was no exception, who on such occasions felt the urge to race along the banks of the Seine on his Yamaha motorbike.

Life was vibrant in these clubs, with rock and roll constantly playing and playful laughter ringing out among groups of university students gathering here and there, sipping red wine, debating the present, and planning an optimistic future. The boys, with long hair, wearing jeans and colorful shirts, had textbooks under one arm and a current, dreamy-eyed girlfriend, usually from the humanities department, under the other. For Agnes, studying vocabulary not necessarily found in French dictionaries was more valuable than any course she had taken before.

Besides the clubs, Pierre often took her to museums, especially to avant-garde exhibitions. They also went to the movies, where the films provided further opportunities for useful language learning. Agnes's biggest acting idol was Alain Delon; I believe it is no wonder why. After the movies, they regularly visited the small Arabian bistros of the city, where Agnes could taste dishes from the French colonies, such as the couscous and the tagine. From the restaurants, their way usually led to Pierre's small attic apartment, which served them as an intimate hiding place.

Still, strangely enough, Pierre's favorite date spot was the Père-Lachaise Cemetery; reportedly the most visited cemetery in the world and the final resting place of many celebrities, such as Molière, La Fontaine, Chopin, Balzac, Oscar Wilde, Édith Piaf, Yves Montand, Gilbert Bécaud, and many more. However, the main purpose of his 'pilgrimages' was the grave of the legendary American musician Jim Morrison, the frontman of the Doors, who ended his life in Paris at the age of twenty-seven. Agnes initially enjoyed going out with him to visit the graves of writers, poets, composers, and performers she knew--among them, Oscar Wilde's tomb proved to be the most interesting. It is now surrounded by a transparent plexiglass wall to keep away female fans who, out of superstition, left lipstick kiss marks and written wishes on paper slips on the enormous gravestone.

However, over time, she began to feel uneasy about her friend's attraction to the cemetery. When Pierre once tried to persuade her to make love with him in an old, abandoned crypt, the always rational Agnes had enough. Referring to her exams, she began to meet Pierre less and less, and due to her expiring scholarship, soon left Paris. Pierre begged her to stay with him, but it was in vain. After returning home she corresponded for a while with her former roommate, Kumba, who was an acquaintance of one of Pierre's fellow students and friends, André. She learned from him that Pierre gradually neglected his studies after Agnes's departure, and he eventually dropped out of university. He did not want to move back to Nice to his parents, instead, he went to Marseille, where he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion.

Kumba provided a detailed account of the events to Agnes. Two months later, André received a postcard from Pierre, sent from Algeria, in which Pierre informed him that after completing his training in Oran, he would soon be redirected somewhere in the Sahara, likely to Sudan. Kumba wrote to Agnes about this as well. Since then, they have not known or heard anything about him.

"Have you never inquired about him?" I ask.

We are walking on the Pont Neuf. Agnes stops, pushes her sunglasses up onto her forehead, and thoughtfully watches a tugboat slowly passing beneath the bridge, pulling two barges loaded with river gravel.

"Never. Card players say that a laid down card should not be picked up again.

"He's probably doing just fine without me," she ponders. "If he has served his time and survived in Africa - and why wouldn't he have survived? After all, he was a tough guy, and there were no conflicts in the Sahara for all those years. So since then, he might be living somewhere down south, in the Midi, where he flirts with young girls in the parks," she adds with a laugh.

Behind us, the bell of Notre-Dame Cathedral toll deeply. She glances at her watch, takes my hand, and pulls me along with her.

"Eh, bien (Well), let's leave him! It's aperitif time now; come on, let's drink and eat something. I'm hungry." We sat down at the terrace of the first café on the other bank of the Seine and ordered a Pernod--an anise-flavored liqueur--and a croque monsieur--a French-style ham and cheese sandwich. While we were waiting for our sandwiches, I pondered as I watched the strong drink change from an amber color to a cloudy, opalescent hue because of the ice cubes. Pierre was still on my mind.

"Don't you regret leaving him?"

"Who?"

"Pierre."

She hesitated for a moment.

"Do I regret it? Oh, la la, certainly not."

"But did you at least love him?"

"Did I love him? Maybe... although I'm not sure. Wait, let me explain. What I felt back then, I would interpret differently today. You know, despite all their machismo, French men give women the chance to truly feel like women when they're with them. It was the same with him. He was, at his core, a well-meaning guy with a restless artistic soul. Damn it, to be more precise, I should say he was a bit crazy--someone who probably wouldn't meet a good end. There was something in him that drove him to challenge fate, and sometimes, fate accepts the challenge... That would have been too much for me. At home, during my childhood, I grew accustomed to inner peace, and I longed for it ever since."

Our sandwiches were served.

"Deux bières s'il vous plaît!" (Two glasses of beer, please!) Agnes said to the patron.

"Oui, m'dame."

"Inner peace..." I continued. "Which you ultimately lost next to your ex-husband."

"That is completely true, but fortunately, I found it again with you. There must be something fateful about this. Or don't you think so?"

"You are my destiny," I hummed Paul Anka's old hit.

"And you share my reverie - or rather my loneliness?" Agnes burst out laughing. "But wait until it gets dark," she added in a seductive tone, hinting at another, also old hit.

"I can't wait. Let's drink to that!" I raised my glass.

Passing the huge "glass pyramid" of the Louvre, where a long queu of visitors waited to enter the gallery, we continued our walk through the Tuileries Gardens. We paused for a moment at the Bassin Octogonal, an octagonal artificial lake at the upper end of the spacious park, where wild ducks and seagulls floated on the water. After crossing the noisy traffic of Place de la Concorde, making a slight detour towards the Madeleine, we continued our walk on the Champs-Élysées. As we were gazing at the astonishing prices in the windows of luxury goods shops, we slowly approached the proudly towering Arc de Triomphe, the symbol of Paris. Throughout our journey, we encountered crowds of East Asian tourists almost everywhere, taking pictures of everything they could with their smartphones mounted on selfie sticks; mostly of themselves as they were posing in front of monuments.

"A lot has changed here, too," Agnes remarked in resigned voice.

We decided that we had seen enough for the day, so we took the subway at George V and returned to our apartment.

We had set up a true little love nest at our accommodation; I think the antique, metal-framed double bed will remind us for a long time, just as we will remember the passionate nights spent in it and the mornings when a new day awaited us in the sun-drenched streets, squares, and parks. While Agnes was making coffee, I went down to the narrow little street to buy a baguette and pastries at the nearby boulangerie--bakery. The foggy Parisian autumn poured in through the open window, and the breath of the yellowing and reddening leaves mingled with the scent of coffee and croissants as we sat at the small table deciding where to go that day.

We avoided the typical tourist attractions; instead, we spent long hours sitting on the terrace of cafés, bistros, or brasseries, watching the never-ending hustle and bustle of the boulevards. In the evenings, we would go to the lower banks of the Seine, where the pale moonlight reflected like a shimmering bridge on the dark surface of the quiet river. We also enjoyed looking at the paintings of amateur artists on the upper quays, and there, nearby, Agnes showed me one of her favorite places: the former house of Serge Gainsbourg on rue de Verneuil, where the exterior street wall is decorated--or rather, defaced--by the graffiti of fans. One afternoon, we also went to Père-Lachaise Cemetery, which was once the infamous date spot of Agnes and Pierre.

On our last day, we climbed the steps of Montmartre up to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. After exploring the massive, white limestone church inside and out, we successfully navigated through the outdoor crowd, evading the scammers who targeted tourists. They pressed unsolicited roses as 'gifts' into the hands of unsuspecting women, while their men were diligently followed and pressured to pay for them. They also wove colorful thread bracelets onto the wrists of unsuspecting tourists, primarily young girls and children--for hefty prices. As we descended the steps, we paused to admire the panoramic view stretching out to the horizon. The Eiffel Tower seemed almost within arm's reach, even though it was significantly farther away.

"We haven't even been there yet. You can't leave without seeing it up close," Agnes said. We took the subway near Place Pigalle, and after a longer underground journey, we could finally walk around the enormous tower--the 'Iron Lady,' built for the 1889 World's Fair--one of Paris's most famous symbols. I was surprised to see that its pinnacle sometimes disappeared into the low-hanging clouds.

Dusk was slowly approaching. We crossed over to the Trocadéro and sat on the steps leading to the park, where we admired the Eiffel Tower once again, now bathed in vibrant light, and the beam of light that sometimes appeared at its peak, stretching far and scanning the sky. Until now, whenever I saw the tower in films or pictures, I always thought that the fountains of the park were right next to it, although the Seine and two busy roads are situated between them; it just appears so close due to its enormous size.

We sadly said goodbye to the city, then took the subway heading toward our accommodation. We sadly said goodbye to the city and then took the subway back to our accommodation. From the west, the direction of the ocean, clouds had already begun gathering on the horizon in the afternoon; by that time, they had slowly arrived, and we could feel the fresh scent of rain as we climbed the underpass stairs at Strasbourg Saint-Denis, although only a few drops were glistening on the sidewalk yet.

"We might get soaked," I remarked.

"No worries; at least I won't wither away," Agnes laughed. "I want to be as beautiful as the Parisian women."

"You're already more beautiful."

"You don't mean that..."

"I do!"

We stopped by a small Tunisian bistro and had a kebab. The friendly Arab owner offered us a glass of mint tea while his large, red cat lazily prowled between the tables, searching for bits of leftover food.

Suddenly, we were hit by the breeze of imminent separation. Perhaps that's why we were both so unusually silent as we walked home down the narrow street. In the stairwell, we ascended the old spiral staircase one last time to reach our attic apartment.

We packed everything we wouldn't need until our departure. Agnes went to the bathroom, and I settled into the armchair with a glass of cognac in my hand. I could hear the water running and Agnes's voice as she sang in the shower, as she usually did:

'Besame, besame múchó, como si fuera esta noche la última vez' (Kiss me, kiss me a lot, as if this were our last night...)

"You always find the right song for the occasion," I thought gloomily.

I took a sip from my drink, and in the dimly lit room, I recalled the days that had passed: "Paris is a fantastic city, Agnes is a fantastic woman. If I had to die for some reason, I would want to finish my life here beside her, on the bed of this room.              

By the way, why did Jim Morrison commit suicide in Paris? And why did Pierre visit his grave so willingly?

Pierre... What has he been doing since then? Does he still think sometimes of the foreign female student who was once his lover and who eventually left him--or rather escaped from him under the pretext of returning home? What did he feel standing on the platform of the station Gare de l'Est when Agnes waved goodbye for the last time from the window of the train heading to that oddly named, distant country, leaving him once and for all, for never to return? Or was it just a brief episode in his life, the significance of which has slowly and surely faded over time--just like the red taillights of Agnes's departing train eventually disappeared on the horizon?"

My questions prompted further questions:

"Why did Agnes's husband risk their marriage for fleeting affairs with young women? After all, Agnes is a great lover in bed. Or just when she is with me? Furthermore, Agnes is an extremely intelligent woman--or was that exactly the problem? He must have known that he had only one chance with Agnes; why did he risk it?

And why did Agnes seek shelter with me after their divorce? Was it solely due to Liskov's theory, or would we have found each other again regardless? One thing is certain: our relationship seems inseparable, but I increasingly feel that our time together is insufficient, and the days between our meetings feel like a waste of time. Or has our absence kept us connected all along?

Although these are just thoughts; yet the most important question for me now: what is true about that strange dream I have dreamed? And what about the facts I have found in the library and the cemetery? By this time tomorrow, we shall be far away from here and from each other as well, but until then, I need to find out the answer. Or it would be better not to seek answers?"

A few minutes later, she appeared again, wrapped in a large white towel.

"Voilà!" she exclaimed with a laugh, and as she turned around with a dance step, the towel fell to the floor. At the sight of her naked body, I took a deeper breath, but she didn't allow me to admire her for long and quickly put on her bathrobe.

"First, massage my feet; they hurt from walking all day. And pour some of that cognac for me, too."

I sat across from her, massaging her exhausted legs. With her eyes closed, she enjoyed the foot massage, and it seemed she had relaxed enough by now for me to bring up what I had seen in my dream.

"Agnes, I'd like to ask you something..."

She opened her eyes.

"I know what you want to ask; I've felt all evening that you were preparing for this."

"I recently dreamed something unusual. I only want to know..."

"Why do you care for dreams, 'mon chéri'? Dreams are just dreams, isn't that what you used to say?"

"But I dreamed that we were not... well, we were not siblings."

"Don't care about that. Does it even matter, even if that were the case? What matters is that we bring each other joy. Are we siblings or not? It's just a matter of genes. Are we committing incest? It's just a matter of morals, laws, and religion--constructs that humans have invented. "We got caught in this trap once and for all, mon petit frère, and we are only half responsible for it."

I listened in silence, and she continued:

"Don't complicate your life, and don't go among the ruins of the past. A laid down card should not be picked up again, this is what I always say, you know. I love you this way, and you love me the same way, and the most we can hope for is that it stays this way. And I believe this is not only because of Liskov's theory; it would have happened similarly even without it... Now, why are you looking at me like that? Do you think I haven't heard about quantum psychology? The time comes for a person to learn certain things, and whether you want to or not, you will come to know everything about them. And another thing: please don't go to cemeteries unless you have to. You'll be there long enough.

The unspoken question arose within me: why do only women with such abilities appear beside me, reading me like an open book?

"How... how do you know about the cemetery?!"

She took a sip of her drink.

"It's not important. If I were to say that I heard it from someone whose earthly remains rest in that grave, would you believe me? No? Yet there is some truth in it; sometimes I have strange dreams too."

I remembered the figure of the woman in a white dress standing by the grave that I had seen in my dream, but I didn't say anything. Agnes continued:

"You see, that's why we don't need to search for the forces that control our fate; we simply need to be aware of what comes to our knowledge on its own. Because it's not just Liskov's fields of 'love energy' that exist; there are also evil energies that can connect people, even for a lifetime. Come close to me! You are here with me now, but tomorrow we shall part again for a while; let's make the most of this night."

"I will always love you," I said, as I untied the belt of her bathrobe.

Generally, we follow the principles of sex tantra, where the goal is not quick satisfaction but a prolonged, meditative intertwining. However, in Paris, the sex-crazed spirit of Serge Gainsbourg haunted us again, leading us into a series of passionate lovemaking sessions. In these moments, Agnes transformed from an intellectual woman into a true untamed female, experiencing a chain of uninhibited, ecstatic orgasms.

Later, when we were lying beside each other again, I said, "Agnes, I want to be with you."

"You are with me now."

"But not just occasionally. Always, everywhere. I want to live with you."

"Let things happen as they will. Don't force it, and don't plan anything! But be ready to recognize and seize the first opportunity that arises. What is meant to be will come."

"How can you take things so easily?"

"A Chinese philosopher said: 'Only those who take leisurely what the people of the world are busy about, can be busy about what the people of the world take leisurely.' I see you can't follow. Never mind; at first, I couldn't grasp such wisdom either, but over time, I realized that these insights should be understood not with the mind but with the heart

"I have a lot to learn from you," I thought later, feeling Agnes's warm, calming body beside me. She was already asleep while I was still reflecting on our evening conversation, which ultimately left me without certainty. Agnes neither denied nor confirmed what I had seen in my dream and in the cemetery.

Above us, a quiet rain pattered on the tin roof. Perhaps the Parisian sky was crying for us, too?

To be continued...