The Dream Master (9 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I could take a fairly stable person and in his mind construct any sort of dream that you could name, and many that you could not—dreams ranging from violence and sex to sadism and perversion—dreams with a plot, like a total-participation story, or dreams which border upon insanity itself: wish-fulfillment dreams on any subject, cast in any manner. I could even pick a visual arts style, from expressionism to surrealism, if you’d like. A dream of violence in a cubist setting? Like that? Great! You could even be the horse of Guernica. I could set it up. I could record the whole thing and play it back to you, or anyone else, any number of times.”

“God!”

“Yes, God. I could make you God, too, if you’d like that—and I could make the Creation last you a full seven days. I control the time-sense, the internal clock, and I can stretch actual minutes into subjective hours.”

“Sooner or later this thing will happen, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What will the results be?”

“No one really knows.”

“Boss,” asked Bennie softly, “could you bring a memory to life again? Could you resurrect something from out of the past and make it live over again in a person’s mind, and make it just as though the whole thing was real, all over again?”

Render bit his lip, stared at her strangely.

“Yes,” he said, after a long pause, “but it wouldn’t really be a good thing to do. It would encourage living in the past, which is now a nonexistent time. It would be a detriment to mental health. It would encourage regression, reversion, would become another means of neurotic escape into the past.”

The
Nutcracker Suite
finished, the sounds of
Swan Lake
filled the room.

“Still,” she said, “I should like so to be the swan again…”

She rose slowly and executed a few clumsy steps—a hefty, tipsy swan in a russet dress.

She flushed then and sat down quickly. Then she laughed and everyone joined her.

“Where would
you
like to be?” Minton asked Heydell.

The small doctor smiled.

“Back on a certain weekend during the summer of my third year in med school,” he said. “Yes, I’d wear out that tape in a week. How about you, son? he asked Peter.

“I’m too young to have any good memories yet,” Peter replied. “What about you, Jill?”

“I don’t know… I think I’d like being a little girl again,” she said, “and having Daddy—I mean, my father—read to me on a Sunday afternoon, in the wintertime.”

She glanced at Render then.

“And you, Charlie?” she asked. “If you were being unprofessional for a moment, what would your moment be?”

“This one,” he said, smiling. “I’m happy right where I am, in the present, where I belong.”

“Are you, are you really?”

“Yes!” he said, and he took another cup of punch.

Then he laughed.

“Yes, I really am.”

A soft snore came from beside him. Bennie had dozed off.

And the music went round and round, and Jill looked from father to son and back again. Render had replaced the fast-cast on Peter’s ankle. The boy was yawning now. She studied him. What would he be in ten years? Or fifteen? A burnt-out prodigy? Master of some as yet unexploited quantity?

She studied Peter, who was watching his father.

“… But it could be a genuine art form,” Minton was saying, “and I don’t see how censorship…”

She studied Render.

“… A man does not have a
right
to be insane,” he was saying, “any more than he has a right to commit suicide…”

She touched his hand and he jumped, as though awakened from a doze, jerking his hand away.

“I’m getting tired,” she said. “Would you take me home now?”

“In a while,” he replied, nodding. “Let’s let Bennie catch a little more shuteye first, though,” and he turned back to Minton.

Peter turned to her and smiled.

Suddenly, she was really very tired.

Always before, she had liked Christmas.

Across from her, Bennie continued to snore, a faint smile occasionally flickering across her features.

Somewhere, she was dancing.

Somewhere, a man named Pierre was screaming, possibly because he was no longer a man named Pierre.

Me? I’m Vital, like it says in
Time
, your weekly. Move in for a close pan-shot, Charlie. No, don’t
you
pan!
My
pan. See? There. The expression always comes to the man on the cover after he’s read the article behind the cover. It’s too late then, though. Well, they mean well, but you know… Send a boy to bring me a pitcher of water and a basin, okay? ‘Death of the Bit,’ that’s what they called it. Said a man could work the same bit for years, moving about a vast and complex sociological structure known as ‘the circuit,’ and letting the thing fall upon new and virgin ears on each occasion. Oh, living death! Worldwide telecommunications pushed this wheelchair downhill countless elections ago. It bounces now among the rocks of Limbo. We are come upon a new and glorious and vital era… So, all you people out there in Helsinki and Tierra del Fuego, tell me if you’ve heard this one before: It concerns an old-time comic with what they called a “bit.” One night he did a broadcast performance, and as was his wont he did his bit. Good and pat and solid was his bit, and full of point, balance, and antithesis. Unfortunately, he was out of a job after that, because everyone then knew this bit. Despairing, scraping himself with potsherds, he mounted the rail of the nearest bridge. About to cast himself down into the dark and flowing death-symbol below, he was suddenly halted by a voice. ‘Do not cast yourself down into the dark and flowing death-symbol below,’ said the voice. ‘Throw away your potsherds and come down from that rail.’ Turning about, he saw a strange creature—that is to say, ugly—all in white, regarding him with a near-toothless smile. ‘Who are you, oh strange, smiling creature all in white?’ he asked. ‘I am an Angel of Light,’ she replied, ‘and I am come to stop you from killing yourself.’ He shook his head. ‘Alas,’ said he, ‘but I must kill myself, for my bit is all used up.’ Then she raised a palm, thus… ‘Despair not,’ she said. ‘Despair not, for we Angels of Light can work miracles. I can render unto thee more bits than can possibly be used in the brief, wearisome span of mortal existence.’ Then, ‘Pray,’ said he, ‘tell me what I must do to effect this miraculous occurrence.’—‘Sleep with me,’ replied the Angel of Light. ‘Is this not somewhat irregular and unangelic?’ he asked. ‘Not at all,’ said she. ‘Read the Old Testament carefully and you will be surprised at what you learn of angelic relations.’—‘Very well,’ he agreed, throwing away his potsherds. And they went away and he did his other bit, despite the fact that she was scarcely the most comely among the Daughters of Light. The following morning he arose eagerly, tapped the skin he had touched to love and cried, ‘Awake! Awake! It is time for you to render me my perpetual supply of bits!’ She opened one eye and stared up at him. ‘How long have you been doing your bit?’ she asked him. ‘Thirty years,’ said he. ‘And how old does that make you?’ she inquired. ‘Uh—forty-five,’ he replied. She yawned then and smiled. ‘Is that not rather old to be believing in Angels of Light?’ she asked. Then he went off and did his other bit, of course… Now let me have a little soothing music, huh? That’s good. Really makes you wince, doesn’t it—You know why?—Where do you hear soothing music these days, anyhow?—Well, in dentists’ offices, and banks and stores and places like that where you always have to wait real long to get served. You hear soothing music while you’re undergoing all this massive trauma. The result of this? Soothing music is now about the most unsoothing thing in the world. It always makes me hungry, too. They play it in all those restaurants where they’re slow in waiting on you. You wait on them, that’s what it is—and they play you this damn soothing music. Well… Where’s that boy with the pitcher and the basin, anyhow? I want to wash my hands… You hear about the AF man who made it out to Centauras? He discovered a race of humanoid creatures and got to work learning their customs, folkways, mores and taboos. Finally, he touched upon the question of reproduction. A delicate young female then took him by the hand and led him to a large factory where Centaurians were being assembled. Yes, that’s right—torsos were going by on conveyor belts, and balls screwed in, brains dropped into the skulls, fingernails inserted, organs stuffed in, and so on. He voiced his amazement at this, and she said, ‘Why? How do you do it on Earth?’ Then, taking her by her delicate hand, he said, ‘Come with me over yonder hill and I shall demonstrate.’ During the course of his demonstration she began to laugh hysterically. ‘What is the matter?’ he inquired. ‘Why are you laughing at me?’—‘This,’ she replied, ’is the way we make cars.’… Fade me, Babes, and sell some toothpaste!

“… Aiee! That I, Orpheus, should be torn into pieces by such as ye! But in a sense, perhaps, it
is
fitting. Come then, ye Corybantes, and work your will upon the singer!”

Darkness. A scream.

Silence…

Applause!

She always came early and entered alone; and she always sat in the same seat.

She sat in the tenth row, on the righthand aisle, and her only real trouble was at intermission time: she could never tell when someone wanted to get past her.

She arrived early, and she remained until the theater was silent.

She loved the sound of a trained voice, which was why she preferred British actors to Americans.

She like musicals, not so much because she liked the music, but because she liked the feeling of voices which throbbed. This is also why she was fond of verse plays.

She liked the Elizabethans, but she did not like King
Lear.

She was stimulated by the Greek plays, but she could not bear
Oedipus Rex.

She did not like
The Miracle Worker
, nor
The Light That Failed.

She wore tinted glasses, but not dark ones. She did not carry a cane.

On a certain night, before the curtain went up for the final act, a spotlight pierced the darkness. A man stepped into the hole it made and asked, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

No one answered.

“It is an emergency,” he said. “If there is a doctor here, will you please visit the office in the main lobby, immediately?”

He looked around the theater as he spoke, but no one moved.

“Thank you,” he said, and left the stage.

Her head had jerked toward the circle of light when it appeared.

After the announcement, the curtain was rung up and the movement and the voices began again.

She waited, listening. Then she stood and moved up the aisle, brushing the wall with her fingertips.

When she reached the lobby she stopped and stood there.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“Yes, I’m looking for the office.”

“It’s right there, to your left.

She turned and moved to her left, her hand extended slightly before her.

When she touched the wall she moved her hands quickly until they struck a door jamb.

She knocked upon the door and waited.

“Yes?” It opened.

“You need a doctor?”

“You’re a doctor?”

“That’s right.”

“Quick! This way!”

She followed the man’s footsteps inside and up a corridor that paralleled the aisles.

Then she heard him climb seven stairs and she followed him up them.

They came to a dressing room and she followed him inside.

“Here he is.”

She followed the voice.

“What happened?” she asked, reaching out.

She touched a man’s body.

There was a gurgling rasp and a series of breathless coughs.

“Stagehand,” said the man. “I think he’s choking on a piece of taffy. He’s always chewing the stuff. There seems to be something back up in his throat. Can’t get at it, though.”

“Have you sent for an ambulance?”

“Yes. But look at him—he’s turning blue! I don’t know if they’ll be here in time.”

She dropped the wrist, forced the head backwards. She felt down along the inside of the throat.

“Yes, there is some sort of obstruction. I can’t get at it either. Get me a short, sharp knife—a sterile one—fast!”

“Yes, ma’am, right away!”

He left her there alone.

She felt the pulses of the carotids. She placed her hands on the heaving chest. She pushed the head further backwards and reached down the throat again.

A minute went by, and part of another.

There came a sound of hurrying footsteps.

“Here you are… We washed the blade in alcohol…”

She took the knife in her hands. In the distance there was the sound of an ambulance siren. She could not be sure though, that they would make it in time.

So she examined the blade with her fingertips. Then she explored the man’s neck.

She turned, slightly, toward the presence she felt beside her “I don’t think you had better watch this,” she stated. “I am going to do an emergency tracheotomy. It’s not a pretty sight”

“Okay. I’ll wait outside.”

Footsteps, going away…

She cut There was a sigh. There was a rushing of air.

There was wetness… a bubbling sound.

She moved the head. When the ambulance arrived at the stage door, her hands were steady again, because she knew that the man was going to live.

“… Shallot,” she told the doctor, “Eileen Shallot, State Psych.”

“I’ve heard of you. Aren’t you…?”

“Yes, I am, but it’s easier to read people than Braille.”

“I see—yes. Then we can get in touch with you at State?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you,” said the manager.

She returned to her seat for the rest of the play.

After the final curtain, she sat there until the theater was emptied.

Sitting there, she still sensed the stage.

To her, the stage was a focal point of sound, rhythm, the sense of movement, some nuances of light and dark—but not of color: It was the center of a special kind of brilliance for her: It was the place of the
pathema-mathema-poeima
pulse, of the convulsion of life through the cycle of passions and perceptions; the place where those capable of noble suffering suffered nobly, the place where the clever Frenchmen wove their comedies of gossamer among the pillars of Idea; the place where the black poetry of the nihilists whored itself for the price of admission from those it mocked, the place where blood was spilt and cries were uttered and songs were sung, and where Apollo and Dionysius smirked from the wings, where Arlecchino perpetually tricked Capitano Spezzafer out of his trousers. It was the place where any action could be imitated, but where there were really only two things behind all actions: the happy and the sad, the comic and the tragic—that is, love and death—the two things which named the human condition; it was the place of the heroes and the less-than-heroes; it was the place that she loved, and she saw there the only man whose face she knew, walking, symbol-studded, upon its surface.… To take up arms against a sea of troubles, ill-met by moonlight, and by opposing end them—who hath called forth the mutinous winds, and ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault set roaring war—for those are pearls that were his eyes… What a piece of work is a man! Infinite in faculty, in form and in moving!