The Sand Dunes of Paris

1

 Albert first became aware that Anais existed before he’d seen either her face or her body. That first time she’d been only a voice. That first time, which would be etched clearly in his memory, he’d only heard her voice and sat up in bed, terrified by sudden passion, listening to her moans.

Ohhhh —

Then quiet. And, again, Ohhh —

And the silence which had wrapped the old building in which he lived — and all the neighboring buildings, the entire 4th arrondissement, the whole beautiful city — grew denser and deeper. He grasped the end of the blanket to wrap it around his back because — even though the heavy rains that had been falling on the city for an entire night and half a day had suddenly stopped, and the weather had warmed, and it seemed as if, now, summer had come — that night the chill had again invaded the tiny apartment in which he lived, made him shiver, aroused a dull pain in his back.

Ohhh —

He dropped the blanket, tensed.

Ohhh —

A gentle, pure, fragile moan — a solitary note in the silence — escaping from a barely open mouth through lips parted above a taut chin.

Is a woman crying behind her half-closed, faintly-lit window? Is she moaning in pain? His hand seemed to recover, resumed the movement that had been interrupted in mid-air. He wrapped his bare back in the blanket and his body, which had stiffened, relaxed slightly and his head fell back on the pillow.

Ohhh —

Albert rose on his elbows, fully awake. He bent his head toward the voice and listened intently. The syllables he heard as they arrived one by one seemed to him like ripples spreading after a stone is thrown into the water; they reached his ears gently, softly, emerged from deep in the throat as if pleading, at...