Magnificent Delusion

Short Story

Dear Isabelle,

It may surprise you to no end to hear from me after all this time, but I know you remember me—probably as a faint memory, nothing of significance. I’m still somewhere in there, aren’t I? Even if I’m nameless. Which is rather likely.

Your memory is, of course, different from mine. It must be. Not only do I remember your name, I remember everything else about you: the pale blue eyes, the straw-colored hair in a thick plait, the shape of your body, everything. Your lips.

It’s easy to remember all that. Your picture was chosen by the local portrait photographer for the display window. Enlarged and framed. Of course, we had all known that you were the prettiest girl in the neighborhood long before that picture was taken. We—the boys.

It’s pointless to remind you what I looked like back then. It must be all a big blur to you. You were a year older. I was still twelve. I didn’t exist. To you—a thirteen-year-old woman—boys didn’t exist. Fourteen- or fifteen-year-old men did. The eight-graders. With facial hair. With fuzz.

Children of that age should measure their years in dog years. So much happens so fast, so many mysteries are solved and new ones emerge, each year lays on new experiences so thick it’s tough to process it all—and most of it makes absolutely no sense. So, one year in a kid’s life equals seven adult years, more or less. That’s how I see it now.

I want to tell you about just one of those years—the year when I was twelve. I lived directly across the yard.

My window was one story below yours, so I rarely spotted you. In fact, the only times I could get a glimpse of you were mornings and evenings. Opening and closing the drapes.

On an average school day, you got up between seven and seven-twenty. I was already there, watching and waiting. Any week when I could see you more than once was a great week. And when you opened the window and leaned out, it was glorious. That happened rarely, mostly in late spring and early autumn. Winter was difficult. It was still dark at that hour, and if you didn’t turn your lights on, all I could see was a shadow. But it was your shadow, and that was enough.

The timing of the evening curtains varied. It was just pure luck. Even at that age, I understood the odds were against me. Still, dusk could be thrilling. Sometimes I won another brief glimpse.

Now, don’t get me wrong, but the balcony was something special. It faced south-west. Like so many neighbors in your building, you and your parents enjoyed the sun when it came. Obviously, summers were best.

The balcony was tiny, just three feet by three, as you may recall. But it was enough to pull up a chair and take in some rays. Your mother usually went first, then you, lastly, your father. For obvious reasons, I would patiently wait for you, reading my comics while your mom got a nice tan. I noticed that she looked a lot like you, just a little fuller.

I have to be careful now. I want to make something clear: at that time, my actions were innocent. By that I mean they were not of a sexual nature. They couldn’t be. I know, because all that sticky stuff came around the next year, when I hit thirteen. But that’s another story which doesn’t involve you.

Anyway, so I enjoyed watching you from afar. But after a few months, I took it a step further.

I didn’t know your class schedule. But at least two or three times a week we both had to be at school by eight, when most classes started. I took my chances, and, sure enough, one morning I spotted you leaving for school. I followed. And I continued to follow you for a month. At the time, I still carried a school bag, double-strapped, while you had a nice leather shoulder satchel. I loved watching you shift it to the other shoulder halfway through the walk. Your plait always got in the way.

There were two ways to walk to our school. One took exactly five minutes, while the other took thirty-five seconds more. I’ve never seen you take the longer route. Why would you? But that gave me an idea which I thought was amazing. What if I take the longer way and time my arrival with yours? This way, we would be entering the school at the same time. And I could see you face to face, coming nearer and nearer, open the gate for you, the gentleman that I was, maybe even say ‘hello.’ After all, we grew up in the same yard. Surely, you wouldn’t mind. And you didn’t, remember?

Timing my arrival with yours wasn’t easy. I had to run to make up the thirty-five seconds and hide a few times. There were wide gaps between the buildings where you could’ve spotted me. Did you know what I was up to? If you did, don’t tell me. But you probably didn’t.

Our school gate encounters happened maybe three or four times. One would think it should’ve been more frequent, with all the planning and effort. But you tended to leave home rather late and make it to the changing room right at the first bell. After I brought home a few tardiness notes, my grandmother made me leave five minutes earlier. And that was the end of my school gate chivalry—the end of meeting you face-to-face.

When the summer break came, our yard became empty. We all had different vacation schedules. I don’t think I saw you even once. Those two and a half months felt like almost two years. Dog years. In September, I began to sprout whiskers.

Why am I telling you all this now? I’m not sure.

All I know is that for that one school year, every night, I went to sleep with the thought of you beside me—but not in bed, mind you. We went off on adventures. We explored jungles and high seas together. Deserts and perilous mountains. Danger was always present, of course. For it allowed me to rescue you from certain death. Every night.

I dove into crocodile-infested rivers for you. I pulled you up from many a precipice. I sheltered you from sandstorms and bush fires. Somehow, we’ve never gone into outer space. That would be just plain silly, I suppose.

The general plot of these adventures was simple and never varied. We began as complete strangers, bound together by fate. Then, some disaster struck. Naturally, I felt compelled to help you. After a wild and frequently bloody crisis, I would save you at the very last moment. But the price of such rescue was steep—I was always mortally wounded. By a crocodile, a fall, or a spear.

Invariably, in the end, I died. My mortal agonies were prolonged but never weepy. I only expected one thing before my last breath. I expected you to embrace me and kiss me ever so gently, so I could die in your arms, happy. That’s all.

Make of this confession what you must. I just wanted you to know that those moments you gave me—or rather, which I abducted without your awareness—were not tainted by anything other than a boy’s affection. Yes, it may all seem to you now like a magnificent delusion of a child. Curiously, all my subsequent delusions after I hit puberty turned out to be nothing but crude misconceptions. And they continue to be.

I miss that year with you. I really do.

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