Chapter Eight

The Cryptic Clue

Clementine managed to make it three whole days before retrieving the book from her wardrobe. She told herself it had nothing to do with Jean Prouvaire, and that it had everything to do with the fact her internet was down and she needed to reread Catullus 16.

The minute her fingertips touched the soft, worn leather and felt the weight of hundreds of pages on her hands, something within her relaxed. The anxious knot that had formed somewhere in her chest the morning after she hid the book slowly loosened and then disappeared altogether.

The dreams hadn't stopped in those three days, either; if anything, they'd become worst. For the first two days, she relived the same dream again and again – gunfire, Jean kneeling on cobblestones, and a proud shout of Long live the future echoing around her head.

Then the night before she removed the book from its hiding place, she had the worst dream of all. She was looking down upon Jean's corpse. His body was riddled with bullets, and there was blood, so much blood, but his eyes were wide open and defiant. Even in her dream form, however, she wanted to break down and cry, throw herself to her knees and shake his lifeless form. He didn't deserve it: he didn't deserve to bleed and die a violent death, not this gentle man who wrote poems about kittens…

She'd struggled to force the image of Jean's blank eyes to the back of her head throughout the day. Then she'd checked her to-do list, saw she had to reread Catullus 16, and that was when she realised that the internet was acting up and she didn't have access to a hard copy of Catullus' poems. And the library was so far away, whilst she knew there was a French translation of the poem inside Jean's book.

It had surprised her, the first time she'd seen it, because Catullus 16 was one of the Roman poet's more vulgar examples of poetry and Jean wasn't a vulgar person. But after looking at it closely she realised that it was written in a different hand altogether, and someone had made a vague attempt to scribble out the black lettering with pencil.

Still, it was a copy of the poem, which was all she needed.

At least, that was what she was telling herself, even if the easing of the ache in her chest was a blessing all on its own.

III

She didn't tell Noémi she'd started to read the book again, because she knew that Noémi would disapprove. She just became more discreet about it. She no longer read it in the kitchen or took it to lectures with it.

Instead, she reserved it for her room alone, particularly when she lay in bed at night and didn't want to go to sleep in case she dreamed of Jean's lifeless body again.

Fortunately, ever since she'd retrieved the book, her dreams had returned to a somewhat happier place. They were still of Jean, and occasionally, him in the midst of battle, but there were more of him with his friends, laughing, joking, drinking, reciting poetry. Those dreams made her wake up with a smile on her face, and she wasn't scared to sleep if she was having those dreams.

III

Nearly two weeks later, Clementine found herself walking past the fortune teller's once more. It was a warmer day, and she'd decided to go out and buy herself some bread and cheeses to make herself a simple lunch.

It hadn't been the first time she'd walked past the fortune teller's since she'd been in, but today, it was different. The front door to the stall was propped open, and the fortune teller herself, Margaux, sat outside on a rickety, white plastic chair. She looked a bit different today; her red hair was piled up on top of her head, her wide staring eyes were lined with thick kohl, and her lips were painted a deep purple. There were huge white feathers hanging from her ears, brushing the tops of her shoulders, and she wore a dress of rich navy satin that fell to her ankles. She had a black shawl draped around her shoulders, and her feet were bare, revealing toenails painted silver.

She was also staring at Clementine, who couldn't help but slow down and stare at Margaux.

"We meet again," Margaux drawled, drumming her fingers on the arm of her plastic chair. "The weather is nice today, isn't it?"

Clementine didn't speak, but found herself drifting closer to the fortune teller.

"Still, I know you don't enjoy the days any longer," Margaux continued. "How are your dreams?"

Clementine felt her face flush at the woman's words, although she wasn't sure why. "They're fine," she replied stiffly.

"He's stopped dying in them now, hasn't he," Margaux guessed. "Now that fate is certain it won't be ignored."

"What do you want, Margaux?" Clementine snapped. In her anger, she'd said the question in her native English tongue, and immediately rephrased it in French. Margaux grinned.

"There's really no need to get angry," Margaux said. "I'm only trying to help you. And I can help you, Clementine; have no doubts about that." The fortune teller's eyes narrowed a little. "There is something on your mind, isn't there? You might as well tell me."

Clementine inched closer. Dropping her voice, she said, "Is it all in my head? Is it a figment of my imagination? Is it real?"

"It is all in your head," Margaux said slowly. "But that doesn't mean it's not real. The mind and reality are not two separate entities; more often than not, they are the exact same thing. It is just learning to recognise that."

"So Jean…existed?"

"Of course he existed," Margaux said. "You own one of his books. You own his poetry. You know the man existed."

"But the man I see in my dreams," Clementine said. "What about him? Is that Jean Prouvaire?"

"Of course it is Jean Prouvaire, who else can it be?" Margaux sat forward and cupped her chin in her hand, bangles on her wrist jangling with the movement.

"But…It doesn't make any sense," Clementine murmured, shaking her head.

"It makes perfect sense."

"It really doesn't," Clementine said. "I don't understand, anyway, and seeing as the dreams are happening to me I find that very troubling. Wouldn't you?"

"If I were ordinary like you then of course I would," Margaux agreed. "But I am not ordinary. I see what normal people do not. So I don't find it troubling at all. There are some things humans are not meant to know straight away, it causes too many problems. But I can give you a clue."

At that point, Clementine was willing to take anything she could get. Anything to try and ease the confusion speaking to Margaux had caused.

"And that clue is?" she prompted.

"The verse of Jean Prouvaire must not end," was Margaux's simple response. As she spoke, the fortune teller raised her hands to her hair and began to remove pins from the mass of red curls, letting the waves tumble around her shoulders. She brushed a hand through her hair.

"The verse of…it mustn't end? What does that mean?" Clementine's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Margaux shrugged, holding the collection of hairpins in her fist. "I personally think it is self-explanatory, but as I said, I am not ordinary like you. But, I will add this: you will not be happy if his verse ends."

The woman stood, the plastic chair creaking following the relief of Margaux's weight. "I think I've had enough sun for one day," she said as a goodbye, picking up the chair and sauntering back inside her tiny shop.

For a few minutes, Clementine stood there, staring at the still open door. A part of her wanted to storm after Margaux and demand more answers, but then her stomach rumbled and she remembered she needed food.

Maybe her questions could wait one day more, she decided, and set off for home, mulling over Margaux's curious words in her head.

III

That night, she dreamed she was in Jean's little apartment. Specifically, she was in his room, perched on a chest beneath his window. She was alone at first, but then the door opened and Jean came in.

He had his nose buried in a book; not their book, but another one she didn't recognise. After he nearly walked into the bed, he closed the book with a snap and dropped it onto the bed. She watched as he loosened the spotty scarf at his throat and dragged it off, swallowing as she watched his fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt.

She wanted to look away, but she wanted to see him too. Whilst she tried to decide what to do, she shifted on her seat upon the chest, the heel of her foot thumping into the edge of the chest with a dull thud.

Jean's head snapped up, and his eyes bored into hers. Then they widened, and he stumbled backwards. The scarf drifted to the floor.

"C-C-C-Clementine?!" Jean gasped. "What – what – what on earth are you doing here?!"

Clementine nearly fell off the chest in shock.

A/N: Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter, they are much appreciated and helped put a smile on my face during my revision for exams :D