I¹m walking through the streets of Reims, France, at night. The town where I was born, the town where I had spent the seventeen years, eight months and one week of my still short life. Some people, away from their home city, miss it. I know I wouldn¹t. It¹s all so cold.

    There are only two places I¹d miss here. First, the cathedral. Quite famous, I suppose, Notre Dame de Reims. But of course so is her sister of Paris, which I don¹t really like. Our cathedral is a true work of art. A monument to gothic style. A wonder. Too bad scaffoldings more than often ruin its beauty.

    The other place I¹d miss would be this bar, le Bureau. Yes, it does mean the office. A strange name for a bar, huh? But they don¹t call themselves a bar after all, rather Œun pub à bières¹. Yes, a Œbeer pub¹. Even more strange.

    Pus, it surely doesn¹t look like a pub. Just like a nice place enough. The working staff is great, too. I know most of them; most of them know me. Yes, I come here often. Most of the time with my boyfriend.

    But today, I¹m walking over there on my own. My boyfriend¹s out of town and I feel like having a good beer. I could have called some friends, or rather I should have ; some of them are waiting for some sort of life sign from me. But I feel like being alone. Maybe meeting new people. Oh well.

    Here it is. I go in and tobacco smoke immediately assails me. I don¹t mind it. Though nobody in my direct family, and certainly not me, smoke, I got used to cigarets some years ago. You get used to everything; it¹s just a question of time.

    The main room is quite empty. No wonder; today¹s Easter Monday. People are not exactly likely to spend that evening in a bar. Fine by me; I prefer it empty; then I can have a chat with the waiters.

    Here¹s one of them, Michael. My favourite one. Cute, in a stuffed animal kind of way. He died his hair blonder; he looks even cuter like that. He walks up to me, smiling.

    We kiss. Ok, I mean we kiss each other¹s cheeks. Or rather the air around each other¹s cheeks. Common way of saying hello over here, don¹t ask me why. No misunderstanding. I love my boyfriend.

    We walk up to the counter, exchanging the usual questions about our respective lives. I draw a stool and ask him for a beer. Too bad, he tells me his service is over in a few minutes, and he has to go. He hurriedly gives me the requested beer.

³C¹est pour moi.² He tells me with a smile the beer¹s on him. Always so nice. Always so cute.

    A few minutes later a tall blond girl comes in. He walks hastily up to her and kisses her -- really kisses her, this time. She¹s cute as well, I notice. He blinks at me, takes his coat and gets out, arm in arm with her.

    On their way out, a dark figure, wrapped in a nice long leather coat, hustles them. He -- for the figure is definitely a man -- mumbles some apology in an outdated French.

    The man, all dressed in black, drops himself on the stool next to mine. He asks the waiter, a new one I don¹t know, for a beer. I keep staring at him. He has a pale and very define face, with high cheekbones. And a horrible hair colour, bleached blond. Usually I plainly hate this, but in this case it still doesn¹t ruin his awkward beauty.

    His lips¹ corners lift up into a grin. A most attractive grin, I have to admit.

³Have a crush, pet?² he whispers, still looking straight in front of him, taking a sip at his beer.

    I smile and blush. He must have counted on the fact that most French people don¹t give a damn about foreign languages, caring too much for their own. He¹ll have no such luck with me. I love English, especially when spoken with such an accent.

³Not really,² I answer, rejoicing when I see surprise spreading over his clean-cut features. ³You simply look like you¹ve got a story to tell. And a fascinating one, that is.²

    I don¹t know what is coming over me. What happened to the shy teenager I was but two minutes ago, I don¹t know. But the look of surprise and approbation in the stranger¹s icy blue eyes was worth coming out of my shell.

³A story to tell,² he dreamily repeats. ³I guess that¹s true. But not a story for you to hear.²

³I could surprise you again, you know,² I reply. If he does have a story to tell, I am going to hear it. ³My name¹s Fanny,² I introduce myself. ³Please, I know what it means in English, no bad pun, I¹ll appreciate that.²

³I¹m William,² he answers with a grin, really looking at me for the first time.

    I¹m very uncomfortable while his eyes discover me, my whole body and face, and my own eyes. He smiles again. A smile full of charm.

³Fine, you want my story? I¹ll give you a light version, one which doesn¹t need any rating. Let¹s go in the back room.²

    That¹s a proposal I can¹t refuse. I follow him, beer at hand, in the luckily empty room at the back of the bar. Coincidence or not, he sits right at the table where my boyfriend and I usually sit. I sit down next to him, almost reluctantly.

³What were my chances of finding a French girl understanding English, I wonder,² he softly declares, rolling his eyes. I cannot repress a smile. ³And now I have to tell you my bloody story.²

    His eyes become serious again, despite the still lively tone. His eyes can¹t lie, there¹s his weakness. He¹s trying to put order in his thoughts, I see many emotions in the blue depths. Hatred, love, betrayal, pleasure, anger, lust, everything mingles until nothing is left but melancholy.

³Let me help you start,² I propose. ³There was this girl...²

³If only,² he sighs heavily. ³But there wasn¹t just her. There was her little gang of friends. I hated them all, it¹s in my nature, I couldn¹t do otherwise. You see the Romeo and Juliet pattern? Well, same thing here, I couldn¹t stand them because of -- complicated reasons. Only, it wasn¹t love at first sight between my Red and me. Hell, I¹m not even sure it was love.²

    He pauses. He¹s lost in his memories again. Memories of hatred and pleasure.

³My Œgang¹ and theirs, let¹s say, we fought. We kept fighting. We couldn¹t avoid it. I never really hated her, I guess, even came to her for help once. That¹s when I discovered the fire in her. The kind of fire I have always loved. From then on, I had a crush on her. Me, falling for a bloody mor--member of their gang.²

    I wonder what the adult version of this story would be. What did he almost say? What is he still hiding away from me? I guess that, even when I¹ll know his whole story, he¹ll still be a mystery.

³I ignored it at first. But then, strange matters happened. Things were done to me, which -- forced me to associate with their gang. My true nature had been taken away from me, but at the same time I learnt many things about myself.²

    He stops again. Now pain and confusion mingle and dance in his eyes. He takes a gulp from his beer.

³I couldn¹t deny the growing feelings any longer. She was the only one of their gang who did not totally despise me. One thing led to another, and we became lovers. That¹s all I thought we were, lovers. Shagging and uncaring. That¹s all I tried to convince myself we were. But in lovers stands the root word love, doesn¹t it?²

    Now pleasure and lust in his eyes, still confusion though. Another sip.

³I don¹t think she ever really loved me. I know I didn¹t acknowledge my love for her until it was too late, until I had irreversibly lost her. But our natures were different, though our fires weren¹t. It just couldn¹t have worked out.²

    Pain dominates now, mixed with love and hatred, in his blue eyes. Not icy anymore but fiery. I didn¹t know such a thing as fiery blue even existed. This man -- William -- is a mystery.

    He gulps down the rest of his beer. My glass has been empty for quite some time. Without a word, I take both glasses and walk up to the counter, asking for two more. I know he needs some time to put his thoughts together, for here comes the hard part of his story.

    When I come back, full glasses in hand, he doesn¹t even notice it, too much lost in his thoughts, lost in the observation of the smoke escaping from the cigaret he had lit up. He takes a drag from it.

³I hated their gang so much,² he finally says, grabbing one of the glasses, his eyes shooting daggers at the table. ³This situation which was forcing me to associate with them ended, and I--² He interrupts himself for a long moment, obviously looking for the right words. ³See, Romeo and Tybalt? Romeo killed Tybalt, Juliet was mad at him, then she forgave him who was her husband. Only I know my Red will never forgive me.²

    I won¹t ask what he did to her friends. Something is preventing me from doing so. Maybe my sanity, which wants to stay intact, and is already very much endangered by what my eyes tell my brain they are seeing: red tears rolling down William¹s cheeks. My imagination takes over: blood tears?

    His long and pale hand quickly wipes the tears away. It must have been my imagination all the way, I try to convince myself, avoiding looking at his bloodshot eyes.

³I fled the States. For my Romeo story didn¹t happen in nice Verona but in a little town near LA. I¹ll even borrow good ol¹ Willy¹s words: for never was a story of more woe, than this of William, and his Willow.²

³A weeping Willow,² I softly add. ³Another image ŒWilly¹ appreciated.²

    He slowly smiles. A very sad, tired smile.

³I went back to England, my home country, after I made sure someone was going to take care of my little Willow. But even there, there were too many memories I wanted to ignore. Since I hurt her, since I left her, I could not stay in a place very long. Her eyes, full of tears and yet so cold for me, are always haunting me, chasing me. I wonder whether she cast a spell on me.²

    I smile at this remark, only to notice he seems most serious. I shiver and look at my watch. It¹s later than I thought.

    He saw me doing so. His sad smile shows he understands.

³You know, Juliet did forgive Romeo. You could always give it a try. Maybe...² I cannot finish my sentence. His eyes look too painful.

³Maybe what? Maybe she¹ll bloody forget everything and come running back in my arms? We cannot forget.² His tone is suddenly very cold.

³Then you should at least let her see you again. If you do love her--²

    I¹m interrupted by a growl. I¹m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat.

³Considering you love her,² I correct myself, ³you should let her get revenge.²

    He lifts up his right eyebrow. He actually seems to consider this opportunity. Once again many opposite feelings mingle in his eyes, in the middle of his impassive face. Then he suddenly comes back to reality and looks up at me.

³You should go home now, pet,² he tells me kindly. He almost seems grateful. ³Streets are not so safe at night. The drinks are on me.²

    I guess this is his way of saying thanks and bye. I get up and leans down to his side. I whisper in his right ear what I think is best for both of them: ŒGo to her.¹ Before going, I quickly kiss him on the cheek. Then I blush and leave hastily.

    I know I will never see him again, now that I am rushing back to my place. I just hope he will go and see her. She deserves it. Romeo and Juliet, only apparently less tragic. No one died. But I¹m not even sure of that.

    A darker Romeo and Juliet then. The point being, their story was lost in advance. The odds were against them, the conclusion foregone.

    I quicken up my pace. What he said about the not so safe streets at night comes back to my mind. Somehow, I know he did mean that. Now, call me paranoid, I feel like someone¹s watching me.

    Curiously, I don¹t feel threatened by this unknown observer. I simply sigh in relief when I open my door and enter my house. Call me credulous and easily frightened.

    I suddenly laugh. I didn¹t tell him my first beer had been offered to me by Mike. Well, now the new waiter is sure to get a tip. I turn on some lights in the house. I look out the window, for a few seconds.

    Then I draw the curtains. Did I really see that dark figure leaning on the wall of the house opposite to mine? Did I really see William¹s face when the figure lit up a cigaret?

³Adieu et bonne chance,² I whisper. Farewell and good luck.

    Now that I¹m in my bed, I know I was only half-right. He is still a mystery to me, that is for sure. But not him only. Also his past, his background and, most of all, their future.
 

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