In the dim living room, wide open on a tropical meadow, we prolonged the pleasure of our encounter on that Christmas Eve.
We were at the man’s house we would have fought for in other circumstances. The tribal art objects displayed in the room, shrouded us in disconcerting charm. There was magic in the air.
Michael sat right across from me, Tatya beside us, on a step, as on a pedestal, between two Dayak masks, bewitching and frightening. We were like the Trinity, a love triangle, and we let the magic happen in the heat and dampness of the night.
One after the other, we exchanged our views on things of life, love, relationships ... the mix of cultures. We drank his words; he revelled in our presence.
I observed his every move, each of his expressions. I wanted to read him, to know him. I sensed the passions that had heartened him. His love of life, women, his respect for others. His commitment, his sense of exploration, adventure and sharing seduced me. He was my Errol Flynn.
As the drunkenness of the night reached its climax, Michael asked me what was the colour of my eyes? Thus breaking the thread of our conversation.
Confused, I replied, “- Uh, they’re green.”
Followed from the other end of the triangle, by a burst of gargantuan laughter.
Tatya flared up in the revival of a dialogue from a Woody Allen movie.
We could re-title it “Natali, Tatya, Bali”.
We were the protagonists of a French-American adaptation of this dramatic-romantic comedy.
I assume we would have followed him to Oviedo for a weekend. To the end of the world, for all eternity.
