Daniel's Dream (16 page)

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Kate softly, once again placing her hand gently on his arm. Daniel stopped his search and looked up at her. ‘Really, Daniel, it just doesn’t matter. Not here, anyway.’

‘But I...’

‘You really are going to have to learn to relax. Now take it from me: you don’t need a watch. No one in Atheenaton has a watch.’

‘Don’t you have a watch?’

‘No; and neither do you. Now.’

‘How will I know what time it is?’

‘You have an appointment?’ 

Daniel shrugged, then smiled reluctantly; he did not think he was being obsessive about his watch, it was just that he was used to knowing what time it was. Even when he was on holiday.

‘Okay, point taken; but what happens if you do have to know the time?’

‘You ask someone. Look, here’s Vangeli; ask him.’

‘But I...’

‘It’s okay; he won’t bite, and he understands English really well. Go ahead.’

As Vangeli approached the table, a full carafe of wine in hand, Daniel took a cigarette from out of the packet and lit up. He offered one to Vangeli.

‘English cigarette? Thank you, yes, I will take one.’

Daniel struck a match and held it out for the waiter. ‘Vangeli, do you know what time it is?’

‘Time?’ said Vangeli. He looked out to sea, squinting at the bright reflections and then sighed. ‘It is afternoon; maybe three hours before sunset.’ He paused a moment and drew deep on his cigarette. ‘A good time for smoking, I think. And for drinking retsina.’

‘See?’ said Kate, unable to conceal her amusement. ‘You just have to ask.’ It was clear to Daniel that Kate believed she had just won a small victory. ‘Vangeli, Daniel wants to know what “Synaxaria” means.’

‘“Synaxaria?” It is like “meeting place”... something like that.’

Kate looked at Daniel and raised her eyebrows. ‘How appropriate,’ she said, not able to rid her voice of its inflection of knowingness.

Daniel smiled. He had just witnessed a charming, one-act play, a performance put on just for his pleasure. He could not imagine why Kate had gone to such lengths, when it was evident that she had known the meaning of the word all along. Perhaps she just enjoyed the dramtic?

Vangeli replaced the empty carafe with the full one and then disappeared.

‘One for the road?’ said Kate, grabbing the carafe and filling the glasses again,.

‘The road? Are we going somewhere?’

‘Well, perhaps not just yet. It’s going to be such a beautiful sunset. Perhaps we should just sit here and wait for the sun to go down.’ She raised her glass and waited expectantly for Daniel to follow suit.

Oh well, thought Daniel, in for a penny in for a pound. Or a drachma, perhaps. After all, if you couldn’t be reckless in your dreams, when could you be? Besides, it was a very long time since he had tied one on; it would probably do him good.

Daniel sipped some more wine and was surprised to find that the taste had changed again; this time it tasted mellow and fruity. ‘Is this the same retsina?’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Kate. ‘Same same but different.’

‘What was that?’

‘Same same but different... sorry, it’s just one of those local things. You know, sayings that catch on.’

‘Right,’ said Daniel, who didn’t really understand at all. He took another sip of wine and wondered how long he was going to be allowed to stay this time. He felt pleasantly relaxed, even a little tipsy. It was a warm, lovely sensation, something he hadn’t experienced for a long time, and he wanted to find a way to make it last. He felt comfortable here, even though he was among strangers. He decided he had been unfairly judgemental; there was nothing forced about the hand of friendship that had been offered here; it was just that such casual, easy hospitality was so rare these days that he hadn’t recognised it.

How wonderful it would be to stay for a while, thought Daniel, as a hint of pine wafted through the taverna. How nice to live in the sun for a while, to make friends of these charming people: Kate, Vangeli, Barry. But would it ever happen? At the back of his mind, while he had been drinking and talking and smiling, he could not ignore the fact that he was inside a dream, something that, by its very nature, was illusory and unreal, even if it felt like a real, flesh-and-blood experience. How could he get so excited about a dream?

If, of course, it was just a dream, something which even now he was not sure of.

Daniel was scared to think about it too much in case scepticism precipitated his return to reality. And he was in no mood to leave. The wine was starting to take effect. The pleasant buzz inside him had now fizzled out leaving him warm, contented but decidedly dozy. Probably the sea-air, he thought, as he downed another glass of the heady, potent retsina,.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know, but he was nervous of breaking whatever spell held him in Atheenaton. Still, there was one thing that he needed to know for sure, or else he suspected he might carry on fooling himself indefinitely. He decided  to ask Kate straight out and get the matter cleared up once and for all.

‘Kate?’

‘Don’t, Daniel; don’t say it.’

‘But...’ 

‘In fact, you’d do better to put the thought from your mind; it won’t help you. Not here.’

‘Help me?’ said Daniel, baffled. ‘But you don’t even know what I was going to ask?’ He realised then that he was starting to slur his words. The retsina was more powerful than he had thought. Kate nodded slowly, then looked out to sea. She held out her hand and pointed to the horizon, then swept it in a long arc from one end of the sea shore to the other.

‘All this,’ she said, quietly but with a certain reverence. ‘You’re wondering if all this could possibly be real.’ She paused and gazed deeply into his eyes. ‘We know; we’ve all been there, been through that stage. All visitors to Atheenaton arrive in much the same way. So, you see, we understand.’ She reached out, took hold of Daniel’s forearm and gripped it firmly, then offered her free hand, too. ‘Here,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘Hold my hand. There, now tell me that isn’t real. Tell me that this wonderful retsina, with its complex of flavours and colours and aromas is just an illusion. Tell me that the sun isn’t bright, that the sea isn’t warm, that the music - your music - doesn’t resound in the air around you. It’s all here, it’s all real, and it all exists for you.’

But it was too late. As the last of Kate’s words echoed around the patio, Daniel felt his eyelids grow heavy and knew he was about to fall asleep. The air turned hazy, Kate’s outline became fuzzy and indistinct, and the sound of the bouzouki, until then so prominent, faded away.

‘Too much retsina I expect,’ he laughed, as the sky darkened and extinguished the sun. ‘Just too much retsina...’

Lisanne opened the morning’s mail absentmindedly; three requests to read manuscripts, one savage reply from an author she had declined to handle, and a thick, heavy manuscript entitled
Another Chance
that she had been expecting. As she fumbled with the manuscript she knew her usual enthusiasm for the day’s work was sadly absent; her mind was full of Daniel, past events, present transactions. What was wrong with him? More to the point, what was happening to her? The other day’s commotion over the sleeping tablets was just one more fiasco in an ever-lengthening list of muddles and misunderstandings that threatened to bury them both.

Lisanne did not know if she could cope with it any more. For how much longer was she expected to play the dutiful, understanding wife who never complained and took everything in her stride, met every crisis head-on without demur and triumphed over adversity? Who did people think she was? Wonderwoman? Lisanne was strong; she was capable and she was tough But she wasn’t Atlas, and she was no longer able to shoulder the burden of Daniel’s world alone.

Not that she had stopped loving or caring for him. Despite the way he behaved towards her these days, and notwithstanding the almost complete absence of any real love or affection on his part, Lisanne still cared deeply. That was partly her problem. There were times when she wished she didn’t care: that way she could just walk out on him, leave him to sort out his own mess. But that was not an option. Even now, even in their much-reduced state, she was still all too conscious of the fact that Daniel was the most important factor in her life.

Meeting Daniel was the best thing that had happened to her, and even though she suspected his current behaviour was intimately linked, not to guilt over Alex’s death, but to shame of an altogether less dramatic and more prosaic nature, she could not simply leave him in his hour of need. Even if that hour had swollen and expanded to fill half a year.

Besides, she had no proof that Daniel had ever been anything but completely faithful to her. The fact that he had lost interest in her physically could be just a reaction to the accident. There had never been any suspicious tell-tale signs; no strange perfumes or inexplicable female odours, no lipstick traces or other foolish things. Neither were there rumours, chit-chat, tittle-tattle, hearsay... none of the little snippets of scandal that, she believed, would disseminate around the sort of small circles that she and Daniel inhabited. In fact, there had been nothing to suggest to her that her once-loving, now-broken husband had ever strayed from the straight and narrow.

Nothing, that is, save for a disturbing, intuitive frisson that reverberated like a struck tuning fork every time she heard the name ‘Alex’.

Of course, there was every likelihood that her reaction was nothing more than a sort of ghoulish jealousy: Daniel was mourning her, a woman Lisanne had never met, had never even heard of prior to the accident. And even if there had been nothing between Daniel and Alex beforehand, there certainly was now: a bond, a link, an unspoken, unacknowledged covenant between them. He had survived: she had perished, and the manner in which that association now impinged upon Daniel’s conscience clearly acted as a wedge between him and Lisanne. Daniel and Alex were connected in a way that she, Lisanne, would never know or fully understand. And all she could do was look on with mounting unease.

She had thought of confronting him, had played through in her head all the possible scenarios, but as most of these contained tears, screaming or - in one particularly unsavoury version - blood, she had decided against it. Besides, what good would it do? What would it accomplish? Would a confession of infidelity spur her into action, make her throw him out, cause her to walk out, perhaps? Lisanne had thought about all these variants and more, and had come to the conclusion that knowing the truth would, in the long run, probably cause more harm than good. Alex was dead, her existence obliterated, and when confronted with that irrevocable fact, matters such as faithfulness and infidelity paled, if not into insignificance, then at least into something less grave. Daniel was such an integral part of her life these days, that life without him was all but inconceivable.

Lisanne warmed her hands on the half-empty coffee mug. She flicked through the neatly typewritten pages of 
Another Chance
, aware that the manuscript would receive scant attention until she solved the mystery of Daniel’s ever-worsening behaviour. She should, perhaps, call the author and let him know. He would be anxious to hear her response. However, the thought of speaking to Robert Jameson did not appeal in the least. Since his success with 
Greek Idyll
he had become unbearably conceited, and she was in no mood to pander to him just now. She would leave it for a day or two.

Daniel woke up to find himself still stretched out on the sofa, his mouth dry, his head pounding with what could only be the vestiges of a hangover. Confused and befuddled, he made his way to the kitchen sink and turned the cold tap on full. He splashed the water on his face, then drank a pint and a half of the cold, chlorine tainted fluid. Vaguely refreshed, he made his way back to the living room, sat down on the sofa and stared at the telephone.

Should he call her? Whimsical dreams notwithstanding, Daniel knew he had been behaving increasingly badly towards Lisanne and that he had to find some way to make amends. If he continued to lash out at her, take her for granted, keep her at arm’s length, then it was just a matter of time before she walked out on him. And yet, whenever he tried to find ways to make it up to her, he always failed miserably.

Perhaps if he just told her everything? About everything that had happened in India? Would she understand? Or was it too late for such a confession?