[This is the first chapter of a short story called “Seven Days”.]

This story will be in English, though I am French, and he is Dutch, for it was the language we used to talk to each other, and, in a sense, it is the language our love story happened in. I am entirely convinced that, had we been talking in German or Spanish, the events I am about to describe would never have taken place.

The first encounter was, as most interactions in a social event, of no consequence. Our conscience of its importance only grew with time. But, for the sake of clarity dear reader, I will describe it now.

I was in a room, -true to my French roots- terribly late. Everyone was already talking in small groups. The first people we met happened to be compatriots. How awful it is to flee one’s country only to find more of our own kind. A friend and I moved away from the crowd, wondering whom we should approach first for less familiar melodies.

Now, reader, you might need some background information on me before I go any further. I cannot order at a restaurant without feeling highly uncomfortable but for some reason, introducing myself to random people in second language seemed easy that evening. It might have been the formal setting; something about nice clothes and quality alcohol gives you that little boost of ego to think people would actually care to meet you. Therefore, I offered to join a group of men on our left; but my friend took one look at them and declined, a non-compatibility of their “vibes” with ours was invoked. At the time, I rolled my eyes at him for refusing us an opportunity to converse, they seemed natives and I was eager to talk English; now I thank Fortune for the trick She played on me. As I told him to just choose a group and I would speak to them, he pointed his chin at two persons – a woman and a man – talking in front of us. Both tall blonds, not that it matters for the rest of the story, but at the time it left an impression on me.

“Hello, we just arrived, and we don’t know anyone yet – and we didn’t want to spend our night speaking French – so we thought we introduce ourselves to unknown faces”. Bluntness was a way to not let confidence find its way out of my mouth. It worked though, because after a second of surprise they smiled at us and introduced themselves. I must admit I do not remember the woman’s name, or nationality, nor would I have remembered the man’s, had we not been sharing a committee in the conference we were participating in. I was glad, especially as when we joined our table, he doubled the number of non-Gallic attendees.

I just realise now that I haven’t given the identity of this newly met stranger, though you might have guessed already he was from the Netherlands. As I could not understand his name, nor the first time, nor when he repeated it at my demand, and dared not to ask again, he was therefore in my mind “the man from the Netherlands”. I could try to describe him more precisely reader, but I fear that saying he was a tall one with blond hair and blue eyes would not rule out any his fellow citizens. But for more immersion I can add he was wearing a dark marine suit and a mischievous smile all evening. His wit was both his charm and his fault, as one cannot easily trust someone too comfortable with their own words.

We stayed next to each other the whole time, not really by a conscious choice but more through circumstances and chatted about things of little importance. I have no memory of any striking phrase or sentence, though the conversation was light-hearted and clever. Once it was almost midnight, he excused himself and stated that – as he had taken a night train and therefore had barely gotten any sleep – he was going back to his room to rest. I wished him goodbye, no more impacted by this news than by any bare information given to me. How quickly judgements can change, reader; it is almost frightening how one cannot truly know what will affect oneself.