Wonderlake

"Clap. Clap. Clap "

Emilie's feet were gently stirring in the water of the Wonderlake as we watched the sunrise peacefully without a word. A fresh breeze was blowing, characteristic of the mornings of late August, which reminded me, unfortunately, that I would soon have to leave this paradise that was Grandeaux.

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I had met Emilie as a child, perhaps at the age of six. Her parents lived on the other side of Lake Grandeaux. As a child, you could already guess the natural beauty she would later become: Her round porcelain-skinned face was always hidden by her long brown hair, and her huge hazelnut eyes had a rich, intense glow. We had become the best friends in the world, although at that age it was a simple matter. Immediately, the lake of Grandeaux became the Wonderlake, and the forests that lined it became a real playground. Even if it was only for two months each time, the time of the summer vacations, I could only look forward to finding this idyllic village that was Grandeaux, and above all, to finding Emilie.

My parents had bought, long before I was born, this small wooden chalet with a teak terrace overlooking the water, and which I think today would be worth much more than it was then. It was a haven of peace for them, a second home that made them forget the noise and bustle of Paris. As soon as I was old enough to spend a day alone, they spent a lot of time in the summer wandering in the mountains and visiting the surrounding villages, knowing that if necessary I would knock on my friend's parents' door. They lived there all year round, leading a life far from the city and technology, preferring the calm and peaceful life of Lake Grandeaux, from which emanated delicate marine scents and where one could hear the song of cicadas during the day in the surrounding woods and the crickets at night.

The years passed, perhaps a little too quickly.

We built a good number of huts, created treasure hunts, held sand ball competitions on the shores of the lake and tried, without ever succeeding, to domesticate fish. We swam like crazy, ran as if we were already trying to escape time to make these moments immortal. Then time passed, as it always does.

Soon Emilie was enjoying reading a book by the water, and I was mostly interested in new technologies, video games and television.

Our parents thought that sooner or later the rhythm of our lives would separate us - it's obvious, Louka and Emilie are far too different - but it didn't happen. She was the one who taught me about every nook and cranny of the lake, including the little islands you could find in the middle of the water, where only a shrub grew. She taught me how to crawl, and how to cook when I was trying to feed myself without my parents' help.

As for me, I don't think I taught her much, except maybe how to play Mario Kart with my Nitendo DS, but when I think back, I think she played mostly to please me. Dreamy and discreet, she was one of those singular people, who seem to belong to another time, or perhaps to another world. Without any hesitation, she would have been a nymph guiding with her crystalline laughter the wanderers of my kind on the calm waters of Grandeaux.

On a hot Wednesday afternoon in August, both of us, aged fifteen, we decided to take her parents' bark, then our main means of transportation, to row to one of our favorite islands, the biggest one on the lake. It must have been about thirty square meters, and was well shaded by trees, "alders" had taught me Emilie. Sitting behind her on the boat, I was busy replacing a packet of cookies under the wooden slats when I heard a distinctive noise: Her oars had just fallen into the water. Emilie fell backwards and hit me hard on the chin. I thus cushioned her fall, which could have been more dangerous if her skull had hit the wood of the boat. I didn't have time to understand that she had lost consciousness that she was already coming to her senses.

"Oh, Louka, I'm sorry! What happened ?”

She stood up painfully in front of me, a hand on her head where she had hit my chin, her face even paler than usual. Worried, I leaned out of the bark to grab her oars that were floating beside us.

"I think you just fainted, it might be the heat. Drink some water, I'll take you home. »

This was our last escapade.

The week following her fainting, I decided to give my friend some rest, as she still felt sick and nauseous. I left with my parents for a hike in the mountains, an hour's drive from our chalet. This hike lasted until Friday, when I was able to enjoy my parents, who worked constantly the rest of the year. I spent my student life alone, having only a handful of real friends in Paris. Saturday evening of that same week marked our last day in Grandeaux this year. I said goodbye at Emily and her family warmly, already sad at the idea of returning to Paris.

I didn't correspond with her: we didn't feel that need, keeping our friendship as a well-kept secret, which only blossomed once a year, for two months. Our relationship, in spite of the days, months and seasons that went by, didn't seem to deteriorate, and when we found each other, it was as if nothing had changed.

The year that followed, when we turned sixteen, I dropped my luggage at the chalet and ran to the other side of the lake as fast as I could.

Emilie had grown up, as I had expected, even matured, losing her childlike air. Impatient, I was getting ready to jump in a boat with her, to run aground on an island, or any beach, to tell her about my junior year, to hear about hers. Just to be able to be in the company of my dear friend, quite simply.

I couldn't even hug her, for fear of breaking her.

Her thinness petrified me.

I understood right away, and everything became clear to me.

She had a sad smile. Her big hazelnut eyes had lost their shine, her delicate skin was livid, it seemed to me that I could see through each of her bluish veins.

"Louka..." she whispered in a breath.

It felt like I was falling appart.

It was already too late for her when they discovered the disease that was taking her away. The sweet nymph with a crystalline laugh that she was, the great adventurer of Grandeaux was about to pass away.

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I turn to Emilie, no longer hearing the lapping in the water. But Emilie is not there, and I haven’t saw her in years. I sigh.

It is night now, the singing of the crickets replaced those of the cicadas. I contemplate the moon, almost full,  round with a porcelain complexion, reflected in what used to be the Wonderlake. Time has passed, as it always does, too quickly and without waiting for us, and suddenly I am far away from my teens years, and the lake seems smaller. To be fair, there is nothing magical or wonderful about it. I haven’t sailed on its waters since. However, on nights like these, on mild summer nights when you can see the moon reflected in the water, I swear I can hear her crystalline laughter, and I swear that on those soft, still nights, it is the one who comes to wrinkle the surface of the water.

(This story was originally written in French. I tried to translate as best I could, but I am not fully bilingual :) )