Gatsby and I

Don Quijote, sketches and lies

So I stood up all through that night and tried to write a poem. I wound up writing in fact two of them. Two lousy little poems - a haiku and a sonnet. And it's for the sonnet that I stayed up all night. That haiku I wrote in a flash:

Just a thing I say: 
All I am, inside and out,
You make it complete.

But I thought it would make little to no sense if I just showed up with a tiny little poem that I spent little to no time composing. It was just a trifle, really! And this is why I stood up all night composing the following sonnet:

Good is the day whenever you're around me
And sweet's the moment when I think of you,
True, I was lost and there it is you found me
So as to be to you forever true...
By stars I wish to be with you 'til death -
You are the essence of my every breath!

Pretty pathetic, eh? That's because I was too tired to think of anything else better or worse. But it was the fruit of my labour, so I would have to show it to him. Near 2 AM I finished these texts and I fell asleep with my head on the desk.

And it was somewhere near for in the afternoon that I woke up. It was late, alright, but I still had to go show my work to him. I didn't have a single moment to lose. I ran out of the house again when Celestine intercepted me at the doorway.

"Where are you going?"

"Out for a walk."

"I know in fact where. You can't hide it. You're seeing you-know-whom, aren't you?"

"You got me. I can never hide anything at all from you now, can I?"

"Of course you can't. I've got eyes too good to miss anything. You know I'm fine with it. But don't tell anyone in his entourage or anyone that I'm in cahoots with. Or most of all don't let him tell 'em. Do not tell them that you know me, that is. If they find out, I'll have to move away from here where all my opportunities are and where Darcy is, all the way to Winnipeg. There, they don't know anything about me and I know three different Celestine Warwicks all from Winnipeg."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell nobody, not even me  that you're going where you're going. This as just a little safety precaution. Because if anyone hears that you're going there, it's all the papers will be talking about. See?"

"I see. So I'mma have to lie to you, right?"

"Right. Don't even tell me. I know where you're going, but still the door would be open and anyone would hear that. In a word, only I myself am to know where you go."

"Got it."

"Fine. And one more thing - make sure that nobody sees you coming from here and going there. I'd rather see you seem to pop out of nowhere than out of here. You know my reputation, right? Rumor even has it that I am demented myself. You may go now."

And go I did, I literally ran out of the house without ever looking around and I was still in my probably sweaty emerald green dress. The gate was wide open so I could straight up waltz into the yard and there was Jay, in the shade of a tree, reading something I couldn't make out the title of. Then all of the sudden, he saw me and went:

"Hey! Look who's here - miss Willows herself. Have you got the poem?"

"Of course. In fact, I have two poems on this slip of paper in my hand. Wanna see?"

"Sure I do! After all, this is something I asked for."

There it was. That smile again. The smile that "understood you and believed in you as you wanted to be understood and believed in", to quote Fitzgerald and what he said in the book. The book where... I was now located. I knew I was there more than I had initially known it. Now I was dead certain that I was trapped between the pages of my favourite book, quite literally. This fact truly surprised me once again as we both treaded along down the cobblestone path.  I felt like I was never going to get out of there and I loved it. I knew whom I was going to marry in ten years, alright. It was the gentleman next to me.

When we arrived at the door, he asked me to pass him the sheet and that I did with a dreamy, elegant gesture. The same surprising sight was in front of my eyes. I felt like I was flying on the wings of an unknown feeling I can't define. I believe they call it love. It's a feeling between euphoria and sadness, between being alive and almost asleep.

Now let me get back to the story. When he rad the poems, I was feeling like really enjoyed that minor writing of mine. In fact, he even remarked:

"It's really brave of you. In fact, I've never heard of a love poem from a woman to a man."

"I guess this sight is really rare."

"Well who'd you write these for? If I'm not too indiscreet."

"Well, for you."

I looked to the floor when I said that. But he didn't mind that.

"I always admire bravery in a young woman. In fact, I really love that you made the first letter of each of the lines spell out my name. And yeah, I feel the kind of things you wrote about in here for you, as well. Understand?"

"I really understand that. So... When are you going to start on that portrait of mine?"

"Right away. It'll take about two weeks starting now, maybe less if I complete the sketches fast.But regardless of how long it'll take, I first want to present you with a book."

"What sort of book?"

"A really wonderful one. In fact, I think it's my favourite book."

"Which book?"

"Oh, you'll see. Come to the library!"

And I did follow him all the way to the library, to the second level of it.

"This one is a trifle, really. But I really hope you'll like it as much as I do."

He picked up a book off a shelf and gently placed it in my hands. The title was "Don Quijote de la Mancha" by Miguel de Cervantes and I could tell it was translated into English for my convenience. I had heard of it - the demented windmill fighting guy who still had a girlfriend and a sidekick. Somehow, it reminded me of him - he himself was chasing something out of reach when I had read about him in the book. But now I guess he changed... What the Heavens was going on? So things can change in books but just a little. But all the places stay the same. And the time stayed the same.

"I didn't ever read this book, but I really love it so much because you gave it to me. that's all I need to love a book."

"I'm glad. You know, it reminds me of how some people are so stubborn as to believe that only what they see is the truth. This is why I really like it."

"Nice! I like 'Jane Eyre' the most. You know, the one by Currer Bell..."

"I know. But take this book."

What's better than receiving a book from anyone at all? If that "anyone" is replaced with "the love of your life", perhaps. Then, he says:

"Let's go to the studio upstairs so I can get started on the sketches, shall we?"

"We shall."

Then up the spiral staircase, to the left, in through a heavy ebony door, and into a studio much bigger and tidier than the one Celestine had at home. And brighter. There was an easel somewhere in the center of the room, landscapes on the right wall, portraits on the left one, and a not too successful Last Supper on the wall in the back. It was good - not exactly Da Vinci, but still good.

There was a chair in front of the easel, a cabinet in the upper left corner for canvases and windscreens, a table with all sorts of painting supplies behind the easel and a big canvas on the easel, ready to be painted on.

In this room, he sat me down on the chair in front of the easel, took a pencil in his hand and started sketching away at my portrait, starting with my eyes. I could see a twinkle in his own eyes when he said:

"Look at me. Into my eyes. Don't be afraid to show what you feel. I know anyhow."

I looked right into his forest eyes and I knew that I would be forced to tell Celestine lies for the next two weeks. Because I just had to.