Daniel's Dream (9 page)

But not dreams like this. He had never heard of anything quite like this, where you returned to the same place and picked up where you left off. That wasn’t a dream, that was a soap opera. Besides, the whole place felt far too ‘real’ to be a dream; all his senses were intact; he could taste and smell and see everything vividly. The sound of the music was clear, and the table had substance, the coffee was hot and fragrant, and even the breeze could be felt brushing across his skin. But if he were logical about it he knew it wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be, and that, as he had already found, one little shove, one abrupt fall, was all it needed to jolt him back to reality, to wakefulness, and - if he was completely honest about it - a world that he cared little for.

With that admission Daniel realised that he wasn’t about to test this idea, because if this was a dream, with its strangeness and sunshine and sweet, sweet smells, and reality was a darkened room in a terraced house in a  busy, crowded street in north London, then despite the strangeness, despite the mysterious circumstances, despite the lack of answers, he’d rather stay than return. At least for a while.

Daniel looked back towards the doorway. There must be someone other than the waiter working there, he thought; he couldn’t be alone. What if someone wanted to eat, or a whole family came along? Perhaps the owmer was there, or a cook or someone? 

In the darkness, Daniel could see the shadows move. ‘Excuse me!’ he called, quite loudly. The shadows stopped moving for a moment, and then the waiter appeared at the doorway. 

‘Yes?’ he said cheerfully. ‘You like some baklava now?’

‘Ah... no. I was just wondering who owns this place,’

‘Eh?’ replied the waiter.

‘This place... taverna,’ continued Daniel undaunted, ‘it belongs to you?’

The waiter smiled again and then started to laugh. ’Belong me?’ he chortled. ‘No, no. Taverna belong Berry.’

‘Berry?’

‘Yes yes, Berry. You not know Berry?’ Daniel shook his head. ’You wait, I bring Berry!’

Daniel nodded. Berry? Well, perhaps this Berry might be able to answer some of his questions. He sipped some more coffee and reached into his pockets to see if he had brought any cigarettes. At the same moment, a rather prosaic, but none the less relevant question arose: how would he pay for the coffee? It had only just occurred to him that he probably hadn’t any money with him, and even if he had, it would certainly not be in the right currency, whatever that might be. He feared an embarrassing situation.

But that’s plain daft, he thought. After all, it’s just a dream and, what’s more, it’s my dream.

In his pocket, much to his surprise, Daniel discovered a full packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, and a few dirty, crumpled banknotes. He spread them out on the table and examined them carefully. There were three notes, all the same size and colour - a sort of dull pink - and they all had “100” printed on them. The rest of the script looked similar to that he had seen on the sheet of newspaper that had tumbled towards him along the dirt track outside.

Drachmae? Daniel had no idea whether possessing three hundred drachmae made him rich or poor, not that it could possibly matter. After all, was he really expected to concern himself with such mundane matters as conversion rates and paying bills? Surely one did not have to worry about such things in dreams.

And yet, this place, the circumstances that surrounded him, seemed to demand that he take it seriously; after all, it had few qualities to distinguish it from waking life, so how was he to know that he was in a dream at all?

Daniel opened the packet of cigarettes, tore out the carefully folded rectangle of gold paper that covered the filter tips, and eased a cigarette out. He placed it carefully between his lips, ensuring that his actions were not sudden or dramatic. His last fast move had knocked him from his seat and sent him hurtling back to his home in Cyprus City.

He held the matchbox in his left hand between his thumb and forefinger and, with a match resting against the edge, closed his eyes and struck. This, he thought, is when I wake   up; the intensity of this action, the release of this energy, will be sufficient to hurl me back to reality. He felt the resistance of the match-head rasping against the roughness of the striking surface, the tiny, intermittent hesitations as it caught, the friction activating the chemicals into combustion. The match spluttered and sparked.

Daniel opened his eyes, stared at the compact, concentrated focus of silver and gold explosions as they spat and crackled, then settled into a familiar, silent, yellow and blue flame, a wavering teardrop of hot gas and fire.

And then he lit his cigarette.

Daniel drew deeply on the nicotine, The powerful drug coursed through his system instantaneously. He looked at his hand holding the cigarette, at the red-and-white tablecloth beyond, and smiled. Nothing had changed; he was still sitting on the patio at the open-air taverna, and all was right with the world. There was still no sign of the mysterious Berry, but now that Daniel had satisfied himself he was not about to be shot back to his other life, whatever and wherever that was, he was content to sit there and enjoy his surroundings.

With his vision restored he was able to study the menu more carefully. He was attempting to decipher the prices when his concentration was interrupted by a noise from the taverna. He looked up to see a now familiar figure.

‘Hello, Mister,’ came the voice of the waiter from the doorway. ‘This Berry, man who belong taverna.’ Daniel looked up to see a tall, slender, handsome man with deep-blue eyes and light-brown hair. The man reached out his hand towards Daniel and smiled.

‘Hi,’ said the man, in an unimistakably American accent. ‘I’m Barry.’

Ever the Englishman abroad, Daniel stood abruptly and held out his hand. Whether or not his swift movement was to blame Daniel did not know, but for a second, just before the two hands came into contact, Daniel experienced a brief dizzy spell. Everything around him started to soften at the edges, to become blurred. He had a strong sense that time was slowing down, as if he were caught in a slow-motion playback of a real-time event, and as he looked around for some sort of confirmation of this, he noticed that everything - the tables, chairs, vines - looked pale and translucent, as if they might disappear at any moment.

In a moment of insight Daniel knew that if he touched this man’s hand everything would fade away, that he would lose his dream, that he would be thrown back to reality.

But it was too late to do anything about it.

As they clasped hands, everything in the taverna dissolved into a misty haze,.Daniel fixed his eyes on Barry’s face, and had just enough time to call out, ‘I’ll be back...’ before blackness descended.

Daniel awoke in a panic. He opened his eyes but found only darkness. He fumbled anxiously for the light-switch, his heart beating furiously. The white taverna had disappeared, as had Barry and the waiter. He was in his bed, in his room, in London. His breathing was deep and rapid.

‘Dan? What is it? What’s wrong?’ Lisanne was sitting up, squinting uncomfortably.

‘Uh... nothing,’ said Daniel. He was thoroughly disoriented and confused, but sensed that it was important not to alarm Lisanne. ‘It’s okay, love, nothing at all. Bad dream. Sorry I woke you.’ He leant across and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then turned the light off immediately, to assure her that there really was no need to worry.

But Lisanne was not so easily mollified. On many occasions in the past few months she had been woken in the night to find her once calm and contented husband in distress. In fact, his torment was often so advanced that for several minutes after waking, despite her greatest efforts, he remained inconsolable. Admittedly, it was a couple of weeks since he had had a truly bad attack, but other occasions were still too fresh in her mind to allow her to dismiss his claims so easily. She also knew that to show any indication of panic was to court trouble.

Timing her moves carefully, she paused, then reached out and gently ruffled his hair. She then waited a further few moments before speaking so that it would not sound as if she were panicked or being pushy.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, Dan?’ she whispered, her tone even and calm. ‘We can talk if you like.’

‘I’m fine, really. It’s just the same old nightmare,’ said Daniel, hoping to reassure her. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Lisanne hesitated, She did not want to pry; she had leamt that, since the accident, if Daniel was in one of his uncommunicative moods, pushing him to talk would only aggravate him.

‘Well, if you’re sure...’

‘Just a silly old dream, Lisanne. Please don’t worry.’ Daniel leant over once more and gave her a kiss. ‘Now go to sleep or else you’ll be a wreck in the morning.’

Lisanne bit down gently on her lower lip to stop herself from prying further. She turned on her side and repeated a now familiar mantra to herself several times in order to stay calm: ‘He’s safe and fine and all is well, he’s safe and fine and all is well, he’s safe and fine and all is well... Over and over she repeated the words, silently in her head, an exercise in hope, a prayer for the living.

She could not now remember when she had first started using the repetitions, but she knew that at times like these it was the only way she could stop herself fretting. ‘He’s safe and fine and all is well,’ she said again, hoping that whatever magic was contained within these few simple words was working at full power. In the morning she would have forgotten all about this; in the mad rush to get up, get dressed and go to work, the disturbance of the night would fade into insignificance. But in the meantime, Daniel, his fears, worries and concerns preoccupied her. Even his dreams, it seemed, had become her responsibility.

Certain that she would get nothing more in the way of explanation that night, Lisanne stroked Daniel’s cheek once more. Then, with a whispered “Goodnight”, she turned over, sighed silently, and prayed that sleep would come quickly, so that she would not have to spend the night fretting and worrying like an old fool.

Daniel did not know why he had lied to Lisanne. He had long ago told her the contents of his regular, nightly roller-coaster ride, had explained what it felt like being forced to turn somersaults in an endless procession, about the forces which slammed him up against the walls, only to peel him off, roll him up and send him spinning over and over yet again to meet the same fate against another immovable object. He had not shied from describing in detail the experiences of his terrifying nightmare, despite the fact that it could only unsettle her.

So why did he now keep secret from her the extraordinary contents of these new dreams? Twice running he had travelled somewhere new in his dreams, but he was loth so much as to suggest that anything had changed in his nightly excursions. And it was not because he did not want to bother her. His decision was much more deliberate, much more active than that. This new dream was something different, something special, and he did not want to share it with her.

Daniel waited quietly until he heard the reassuring sound of Lisanne’s deep breathing, indicating that she had fallen asleep, and, satisfied that she was not about to wake, settled down once more.

He waited patiently to be drawn back into sleep, trying to keep his mind clear of his troubles and confusions so that his descent would be swift and easy, but the sound of the bouzouki in his head kept him awake for hours, and it was not until the first glimmer of dawn crept through the gap between the curtains that Daniel slipped peacefully into unconsciousness. 

At ten, Daniel awoke for the second time. He vaguely recalled having woken in the night, but could not remember why. He knew he had woken Lisanne, but could not recall anything else about the disturbance. Had it been his usual nightmare? He thought not. Once again he had woken with his head clear, his body cool and dry, free of the black thirst that usually plagued him after a night’s sleep. He looked at the ceiling, searching for clues, his concentration distracted momentarily by half-remembered visions of Mediterranean vistas. Just a dream, he said to himself, just a dream.

On the kitchen table was a note from Lisanne, reminding him of his appointment with Dr Fischer. Great, thought Daniel, just what I need. He considered the possibility of telephoning Fischer and making some excuse, but he knew that Lisanne would be upset if he missed his appointment. Fischer was, after all, a great family friend, a pillar of the  community and a rock of ages in these troubled times. Such a pity, then, that he doled out the sort of healthcare treatment that Noah (or, indeed, any one of his animals) might have expected on emerging from the ark.