Testimony by Paolo, recorded by Laure Dasinieres

He spent his final days in the smoking room of Geneva University Hospital, where only a cleaning lady visited him — a sign of how much fear AIDS and people with AIDS inspired at the time. His case was listed in the hospital’s “black notebooks,” where all the abuses and indignities suffered by AIDS patients were documented. Still, he was well cared for, but there was only AZT back then, and it just wasn’t enough.

It feels like Clément died only yesterday. When you’ve loved someone, they don’t disappear just because they’ve died. You carry them in your heart for the rest of your life. I met Clément in 1988 — I was 21, he was 23. We met one evening in a park; he left with someone else. But the next day I went back — and so did he. A week later, I had the keys to his apartment, and we were never apart again.

He was known in Geneva as the “white wolf,” and for me, he was the white wolf. Our love was real, passionate, fortissimo. It was an extraordinary time — people around us were dying in droves. We lived each day as if it were our last. We didn’t care what anyone thought — we kissed in the street, even when people hurled insults at us. Even though he came from a very wealthy family — the kind that eats caviar with a silver spoon — he told me I made the best sandwiches in the world. The simplest meal, when shared with someone you love, becomes the most wonderful dish. I’ve kept that philosophy in life: despite everything, I love life and have never stopped believing in love.

When Clément died, his mother — who had always treated me with subtle cruelty — did everything she could to push me aside, as if I had stolen her son. She tried to take everything: his belongings, even his ashes. She wanted to rewrite his story, to claim he had been heterosexual. She even invited his ex-wife to the funeral. In church, there were two groups: our friends on one side and Clément’s family on the other. Only his grandmother came to me and, with a tender, knowing look, said: “I wanted to meet the person who shared all those moments with my grandson.”

After Clément died, I had to learn to live with his absence — and with loneliness. When we were together, we often dreamt the same dreams. And even now, I still dream of him. Sometimes he’s happy, sometimes angry. My dreams are part of my life — they’re a way to tame the solitude. And I keep a few things at home that remind me of Clément. They might be ordinary objects, but that doesn’t matter.