Dear Julien,
It’s been a while since I wrote to you, no? The last time we saw each other – we really didn’t end on good terms, did we.. You, lying there and I – I, crying big ugly tears. But the past is in the past, and I don’t even know if this letter will reach you. Or, should I say, whether or not I’ll have the heart to mail it. Even if I do mail it – where would I mail it to?
I’m in Paris, the place you’ve told me about all the time. The Eiffel Tower, Champs-Elysées, the Seine River, the Parc Monceau – I’ve been there, just as you were five years ago. I’ve roamed the streets of Paris, just like you did five years ago. I’ve thought of you while painting Paris, just like you thought of me while playing the cello in the Opera Royal de Versailles five years ago.
Yes, the Eiffel Tower is breathtaking – it looks even more beautiful than how you described it once, but somehow, I can still smell the wine from that night whenever I walk past the Tower. A few days ago, I was painting the Tower near sunset when I caught myself painting the sky violet as if wine was bleeding through the canvas. The sky was orange that evening.
Champs-Elysées – yes, the coffee from Boutique Nespresso was full of flavor, and just sitting there while watching people scurry by is becoming one of my favorite pastimes. A few weeks before I painted Champs-Elysées under the glaring afternoon sun. When I went home, I noticed a fair-haired boy with green eyes staring right back at me from my painting. I don’t remember seeing a fair-haired boy running around Champs-Elysées, but my dear Julien, the little boy in the painting looks just like you.
The Seine River – ah, yes. How many times have you told me how you used to stroll down the banks of this river with a drink in hand? I did the same just yesterday just to see what it feels like – it seems as if I simply cannot bear to forget you. How could anyone? Lately, you seem to be the subject of my every painting. Maybe it’s because I’m in your homeland. Maybe it’s because this place was the place you loved most.
Did I ever tell you about my bizarre dream about the Parc Monceau? No, I haven’t been here before – this is my first time. But I was at a museum one time looking at this painting, yes, I think I told you. It’s weird – it looks just as it did in my dream, but it’s my first time being here! Sometimes I find myself wishing that you were here with me – but that’s too foolish to think about, and the very thought of it saddens me.
Sometimes, as I stroll down the streets of Paris I hear cellos. I hear your cello – the sweet, low rumble of your bow gliding against the strings. I would give anything to hear you play the instrument again, but the most I can do is paint a lonely cello in my paintings, sitting alone without anyone to play it. Sometimes a little boy with blonde hair and green eyes appears, but not even he can fill the void that you left in my heart.
I know you know everything I’ve said in this letter Julien, and I know I’ll never see you again – for better or for worse, neither of us will know. Soon I’ll have to let you go. That’s why I came to Paris – to relieve myself of the pain you’ve inflicted on me, but also to relive your memories of Paris. You live within me, Julien, and I live through your memories. I’ll visit you soon, in America. Until then, I’ll always think of you.
Suvin
From Paris, your favorite city.
