Visit me in your next life

It has already been a year since the car crash my family got into when traveling around France. My father was driving the car, and he still feels so guilty, even though the accident wasn’t his fault, that I have been keeping in secret from him the fact that, from the very first day I opened my eyes in the Hospital, I have been seeing strange dreams that haunt me till today. Fortunately, no one was harmed, and the only thing reminding me of the accident is those visions. However, I finally found the courage to meet a psychologist, as I believe those dreams are just symptoms of some post-traumatic stress. But I want to make them disappear, as they start to become too realistic and make me feel tired after awakening, as if I haven’t had any sleep at all.

“There is one dream that I keep seeing on repeat most frequently. I am lying on a bed in some old house, I believe it’s a several-floor mansion, as from the open door in my room I can see a beautiful staircase going down. And there is this fireplace in the corner of the room. It is warm, sometimes even hot, and I feel my desire to get to the balcony, but every time I aim to leave my bed to get to the fresh air, I feel an inexplicable fear. Other nights, I see lots of people walking around me; they have strange instruments in their hands, and the dream ends when they approach me with those sharp instruments and aim to cut me. I always wake up sweaty with fear, and I feel unbearable pain in my chest, and the strangest thing is that I’ve got a scar from the accident in that same place. I don’t know what the meaning of those dreams is, but isn’t it strange that I can remember them so vividly?”

“You know, sometimes our mind can come up with different scenarios, and it makes you believe that you have experienced it, when in reality, that’s just a plot of your imagination. Our purpose is to find the reason why your mind wants to create those dreams.” At first, the doctor’s words disappointed me, but when she asked her last question, a possible answer penetrated my mind.

“Let’s talk more about your dreams. What else can you memorize? Are there other people in them?”

“Only one. I sometimes see this one man. He is not very handsome, and he never speaks in my dreams.”

“However, there should be a reason why you remember him after waking up.”

I hesitated for a moment before responding, as my answer seemed strange even in my own mind.

“I guess it’s because of his eyes. His kind brown eyes are full of caring and … love? I know that look. It’s how my father has been looking at my mother for their whole life. I have been dreaming of finding a man who would look at me that same way. But before you get back to your theory that all of that is just a story of my own creation, I want to mention that I have once read that our brain can’t create faces, so every face we see in our dreams we have already seen before, yet I am sure that I have never seen that man before. Never.”

“Okay. I understand you. But tell me more about the man. What is he usually doing in your dreams?”

“Not a lot. He sits by my bed and looks at me with those eyes.” I couldn’t stop my lips from stretching into a smile when I imagined the last scene. I couldn’t explain why I was feeling so warm whenever thinking about a person that I had never seen before.

“Very well, what else?”

“Sometimes he throws sticks into the fire or reads a book; however, I never hear his voice, even though I see his lips moving. But probably the most important thing he did was open the balcony in my room. As I said, in my dreams I am always afraid of open windows, but somehow, when he lets in fresh air, I feel relieved. I am like a mermaid who has finally been thrown back into the sea after a decade of being tortured on land. The latest is the rarest of my dreams. I’ve seen it only twice, maybe.”

My session lasted for about an hour. I was hoping to find answers during it, and the Doctor really tried to help me with that; her suppositions were very reasonable, yet they didn’t give me the piece I was looking for. Even though I was prepared to take the logical explanation of my visions, there was something that wouldn’t let me admit that. However, to my surprise, I slept without interruption for the next couple of days. I saw absolutely nothing, and I was happy. Probably, that woman was indeed a good specialist. But I hate to admit that when Friday came, announcing the 6th day of dreamless sleep, I felt sad. I didn’t want to feel the fear of the air or the doctors with their sharp tools again, yet no matter how pathetic that might sound, I wanted to see those eyes again. Just once more. To get rid of that obsessive desire, I decided to distract myself by visiting an exhibition I had been wanting to attend for more than a month. It was displaying the works of a young photographer from all over Italy. The central story of the exhibition is Italy through the eyes of the woman the artist fell in love with. The couple’s romantic story was what made me visit the exhibition in the first place, but seeing the works, I understood they were worth all the admiration. Examining the very first picture of the exhibition, I realized that at that moment, the photographer was already in love. It might seem that there was nothing special about the image, just a girl taking photos of the sunrise from the train window; however, the way every object in the picture was centered around one little detail, the eyes of the model, made it obvious that the photographer wanted to preserve them in his memory. I was still absorbing the art when I felt that someone was looking at me. At first, I tried to ignore that feeling, supposing it could be my imagination. But after feeling the same gaze for the third time, I decided to catch the eye of the person staring at me. Can you imagine my surprise when I realized that the secret observer was the girl from the images I had been exploring all evening? Probably, my eyes conveyed my indignation, as the girl let out a heavy sigh and headed towards me.

“Hi. My name is Camille. Sorry for staring, I was trying to make sure that you are the person I have been looking for.”

“Looking for? What does that mean? Where do you know me from? And why could you possibly need me?”

“Would you mind if we moved to a quieter place so that I could explain everything to you?”

“Okay. Though you sound a little too mysterious.”

“Sorry, I promise I’ll explain everything.”

Camille invited me to her office. It was a small room, furnished in minimalism, but with a touch of history. It suited her; she herself felt like someone simple, yet steeped in the history she has been studying.

“Please, sit here. Make yourself comfortable. So… Mhm… Sorry… I simply don’t know where to start.”

“Maybe your preface should be about where you know me from?”

“Perfect. Yes. I’ll begin with that. So I have seen you before. Not in real life, but on a picture.”

“Someone has been taking my photos? Or what does that mean?”

“No. I mean… Well, I believe it would be better if I show you the picture.”

The girl took an old photo out of her pull-out cabinet. The black and white portrait depicted on it had already turned yellow in places. I took it from her hands. At first, I couldn’t understand why she was handing it to me until I saw some familiar features. The nose, the eyes, even the always-sad expression in the eyes of the woman, were mirroring me. I turned my wide-open eyes to the girl sitting next to me, not being able to even find the right question.

“I know this seems strange. But I do believe that it is you in the picture.”

“I am sorry, but if you suppose that I am more than 100 years old, then it’s quite offensive.”

“No, no. Of course, it’s not you, you. It’s you in your previous life.”

“Really? You know, the theory with a century-old vampire sounded more realistic to me.”

“I know how it sounds. But I am serious. I can’t tell you everything, but I suppose that in your previous life, you were living in Venice and you died from pneumonia…”

“Even better…”

“No, no… Just listen till the end. I was traveling to Venice last winter, as you already know. And I stayed in an old palazzo there. It is believed to be haunted by the husband of its latest owner. He loved his wife so much that he decided to stay in the castle as a spirit, waiting for the day his beloved woman would be reborn and return to her home.” In any other situation, I’d say the woman was just mad, yet the old palazzo, Venice, and the pneumonia- all of that could explain my dreams. It would explain why I was always lying in bed and was afraid of the outside air. And the doctors with those tools. When I think of that now, they indeed remind me of instruments to perform bloodletting. And as in the 19th century, it was considered a cure for all sorts of illnesses that made sense. Probably, Camille noticed my doubts as she pulled her last trump card.

“Here. Take this. I know it is hard to believe in what I just told you. But maybe if you read this, you’ll remember something.” She gave me an old leather-bound notebook. I opened it and saw that it was all covered in small, neat handwriting. However, I could not understand the content as it was all in Italian. But scrolling through the pages, I suddenly remembered something that made me believe the words of the strange girl. Once in my dreams, I saw the man with those loving eyes sitting at the desk in my room, writing something in a diary similar to this one. I must have forgotten that, as I saw that dream only once.

“Do you have the photo of my husband? I mean her husband.” I needed the last proof to admit the whole story.

“Yes, yes. I must have seen one in the notebook. If you’d let me take it….” Camille took the diary from my hands and pulled out another old photo. And I saw him. He was wearing the same costume as in most of my dreams. His same expressionless face with the most kind eyes, paradoxically enough, was looking at me.

“Where exactly have you found this?”

“I’ll give you the address of the palazzo. You wanna go there?”

I looked at the girl’s eyes, awaiting my response, and nodded. I was afraid to say out loud that I was going to travel to another country, to visit the house where the ghost of my husband from my previous life was waiting for me. Yet it was exactly what I was going to do. Camille’s smile calmed me a little, proving that I wasn’t absolutely crazy. However, maybe she was even crazier, as she believed the whole story without even seeing all the dreams that I have seen.

The next day after the strange talk in the gallery, I woke up really late. I don’t remember when I went to bed- but the open diary lying on my chest and the Italian-French dictionary hiding under my pillow indicated that I fell asleep while still translating the words of Lorenzo: that was the name of my… husband. It still sounds crazy, yet I really enjoy playing this idea over and over in my head.

Here are some parts from the diary I managed to translate:

“… Today is one month since my marriage. I was asked to marry the daughter of my father’s master. Our family has been working on Signore Moretti’s family for 50 years. They are very kind and generous. Yet, all the people in the city keep their distance from them. They believe there is some curse on the family. Well, it is natural for uneducated people to believe in all those superstitions, and the fact that in the last couple of years, almost all the members of the Morreti family died of an unknown disease makes it even easier. However, I suppose the main reason for this series of misfortunes is that those stupid doctors have no idea what they are doing. ‘Keep all the windows and doors closed. She needs warmth.’ But how is this girl going to fight the disease if she doesn’t even get some fresh air? Sometimes, when I come into her room and see how she is breathing heavily, I wish to open the balcony and let her lungs fill with fresh air, but I know what people are going to say in that case. All those evil tongues have already discussed the idea that I have married Federica just for the money. But they don’t even bother to see that I am working day and night to support the maintenance of the palazzo, so my wife can live in the house where she was born, as well as to pay for her treatment. Yes, Federica’s father left enough money, but I don’t know how long it will suffice. The doctors are charging more and more every time, coming up with new treatment methods. The last time they tried bloodletting. I was willing to leave the room as I couldn’t see them torture my wife anymore, but I saw in her eyes that she would wish to escape even more, so I stayed by her side…”

“… Yesterday I read for Federica for the first time. When we got married, I didn’t know how to read or write, but realizing that books have become her only amusement these days, I took some lessons and started keeping this diary to improve my writing skills. Finally, after a couple of months of study, I could read to her. I made a mistake only once, but she kindly corrected me. That day, I saw her smile for the first time during our marriage- I liked it so much that I pretended to make a mistake once more, only to make her smile again…”

“Today I opened the balcony in Federica’s room. I have been opening windows on the first floor for a month to make her lungs get used to the fresh air. I decided that I had had enough of those theories about how to cure my wife, especially after the last visit of the Doctor when he said that Federica had less than a couple of months left. So I believed that it wouldn’t make it any worse. My wife was so happy when she felt the warm spring air entering the room. She inhaled with all her chest. She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the perfumes from the outside, and a rare smile brightened her face. ‘Is this a hydrangea? I remember its aroma from childhood.’ And indeed, there were those flowers in the pots on the windowsill of the next house. Later that day, I went through all the flower shops in the city and bought up all the hydrangeas I could find. I put them on the balcony so that Federica could see them all the time. She was so happy. It was the sincere and pure happiness, the one that only children know how to feel.”

I was still rereading those lines while on the plane to Venice. Every word written by Lorenzo made me fall in love with the man I had never seen or talked to in my entire life. Yet the way he loved me, even if it was only in my previous life, made my heart melt. My soul was bursting out of me, willing to see the palazzo where it had lived in the past, and hoping it could feel the presence of the person whose care and love let me live for more than three years after the doctors’ diagnosis. However, after landing in the city, I hesitated for a whole day before finding the courage to face my past. I was wandering through the small streets, avoiding the one that was leading to my destination. Finally, by the end of the second day, I decided to stop postponing the inevitable. Walking through mostly deserted streets, I realized that I had no more need to use a map; my feet knew where to go, and I obeyed. When I opened the door of the palazzo, all the memories from my past life came flooding back. My memory brought me to the living room, and there on the wall, among all the portraits, I saw him. My husband… My love… I touched his face, and only then did I feel the tears on my cheeks. Suddenly, a warm wind touched my face, wiping away the tears. I looked into the void, but I knew he was there. I finally found my way back to him.

There was something I wanted him to know, so I took his diary from my bag and said: “I remember...”