The song ends. Aris lets her body become heavy and sink to the bottom of the tub. She watches the bubbles from her nose swim like pearl divers back up to the surface. Strands of her hair wave, sinuous like seaweed, in the water. She forces the thought of the pianist out of her mind, walling it away like the cold rain outside.
Chapter Nine
There is a small room inside the library on the corner of Spring and Flora. In it is a gathering. At first glance, it has the appearance of an innocuous book club meeting. People of all ages stand in a loose circle. Some are engaging in friendly chatting. Some hang alone in the periphery, preferring their own company.
Metis is in the middle, as he always is. Next to him is a table and on it is a tray full of empty shot glasses. Eirene, the one to take over his post, is not yet ready to become the Sandman. It is a big job, but it’s only for a few months, he had told her. And until she’s ready, he’ll do the heavy lifting. He had suggested Eirene to the Crone partly because he knew she would need time. But mainly because she’s loyal.
It’s Thursday morning, a quiet time of the week. He chose it to ensure privacy. Most people use the library for leisure, and wouldn’t come until after work.
In his hand is a book. He wears a wooden mask the color of night. Only one other Dreamer has seen his face. He prefers it that way. His anonymity is pivotal to the duty that rests on his shoulders. Even if it will soon end.
“Welcome,” Metis says, “I see a few new faces. You’re here because one of us chose you. Each of us has different criteria, so consider the match serendipitous.”
He pulls out a blue origami crane from the book. “This is how you were given the message. And this is the only way you will be contacted.”
He walks around, scanning the crowd. A striking face catches his attention.
Why is he here?
“Every one of us is being tracked. The system knows our movements, where we go, what we do, even what we eat,” he says and stops in front of a woman.
She blushes. Her young face looks as if she has not gone more than two cycles. Freckles decorate the bridge of her nose; her brown hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun; her red lips are bright against her pale golden skin. She reminds him a little of his wife.
He offers her his hand. She hesitantly takes it. He raises her hand as if readying for a dance.
“This,” he says and points to the silver bracelet around her wrist, “is their tool. Wearing it gives away your location. Each time you contact someone from this, it is tracked. Every decision you make with this on—what restaurants you eat at, what clothes you wear, what books you read—you feed information to the system. You give it the ability to predict your pattern. Don’t be predictable.”
He lets go of her hand and says in a lower voice. “Please leave it at home.”
The young woman nods.
Metis looks around. “There is only one reason we’re all here. To remember. Tabula Rasa has stolen our pasts from us. But not everything. This we know.”
Sounds of agreement rise from the crowd. Many nod.
Metis walks around the circle. “If this is your first meeting, I warn that you are entering into a dangerous agreement. What we do here is not sanctioned. Some may say it’s forbidden. We break the rules bound by Tabula Rasa.”
The newcomers exchange looks with each other.
“Being here means you’ve decided to choose the past. It cannot collide with the present. That means nothing leaves here. You may not contact one another outside this space unless approved by me. If you do, we will be forced to cease our contact with you,” Metis says.
He continues, “Second, you may not contact someone from your dreams. Doing so will put what we do in danger.” Guilt rises as he speaks this rule.
Metis clears his throat and raises his voice. “There are threats out there against Absinthe and dreams. The police, the Interpreter Center, the entire system exist to keep peace. If you get mixed up with them, you won’t be allowed back. If they know who you are, they will use you to trace back to any one of us. If any of you want to leave, please do so now.”
No one stirs. Each face is resolute.
He turns his attention back to the young woman and says solemnly. “Ask yourself if you really want this. Before it’s too late.”
She shakes her head. “I’m staying.”
He puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “Would you like to share your story?”
She smiles tentatively.
“We’re united by the same desire. You’re safe here,” Metis says.
“Well, I’ve been getting this dream since the beginning of the cycle. It’s always the same dream. In it is a man. I can see his face, but it’s blurry, like looking through water. From the way I felt in the dreams, I know he was my lover. He must have been,” she says.
“Thank you—uh.”
“Seraphina. My name is Seraphina.”
“Thank you, Seraphina, for sharing your story.”
He leaves her and walks toward the person he has been curious about since he laid eyes on him. He stops in front of the man with tousled hair. The man is more handsome in close range, Metis thinks begrudgingly. He feels the razor-edged whip of jealousy opening a wound in his chest. He desires to punch the beautiful face and wreck it. Instead, he swallows down the thick, bitter taste of resentment.
“Welcome. What’s your name?”
“Benja.”
“Tell us why you’re here.”
“My story is like Seraphina’s. I’m plagued by a dream. It plays like a loop. Sometimes after I wake, I think I can recall it. But when I try, it vanishes. Just out of reach. The feelings are what stay.”
“Why do you want to remember your past?” Metis asks.
Benja shrugs. “I suppose for the same reason as everyone here. I need to know there’s more to this life than the four years allotted.”
“You will accept the consequences of remembering?” Metis asks, “It is true what they say about bliss in ignorance.”
Benja nods.
“You may disagree later,” says Metis.
“I’m certain. I need to know. I must know. It’s all I want.”
“All?”
Benja’s eyes show the determination of a rock wall. Metis is conflicted about him being here. Benja possesses the woman he loves. Aris should be the reason for him to want the present. Instead, he is choosing the past. Yet the knowledge gives Metis hope.
Metis has an intense desire to both kick Benja to the floor and ask him everything about Aris. He wants to find out if she is happy or whether she also walks around with a hole in her heart. Is she getting odd dreams?
He must have been quiet too long, because Benja begins to look at him strangely. Metis clears his throat. He walks back to the middle of the room.
“I’m going to repeat what I said. Being here means you choose the past. The past and the present do not mix. The moment you choose the present, you will not be allowed back.”
Metis opens the book in his palms like wings. The Dreamers, those who have been here before, walk closer. One takes the hands of those next to her. They in turn take the hands of the people next to them. The newcomers look at each other and hesitantly follow. A circle forms around Metis. Everyone’s eyes are on him.
He looks down at the pages of Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. The text is so faded he can barely make out the words. But he has memorized the passage he needs. He speaks it. The room becomes hazy, like a white fog has descended upon it. Then it brightens, as if bathed in starlight.
The wispy figure of the Crone stands before them. Her translucent face is a landscape of ancient wisdom. Metis looks around the room. The difference between those who have been to a meeting and those who have not is obvious. The expressions on the newcomers’ faces range between awe and fear, while th
e rest look on with calmness.
“Hello,” the Crone says.
“Hello,” everyone says.
She looks at Metis. “How many days?”
“It’s October twenty-third. One hundred and forty-eight days left before the cycle ends,” he says.
She turns to the crowd. “You’re all here because you want to remember the past Tabula Rasa had taken from you.” Her ethereal voice flows around the room like the whooshing of wind.
“I don’t deny that Tabula Rasa was created out of a desire for peace. But anything that takes away choice eats away at our soul. Without our memories, we are but empty vessels waiting to be filled and drained at each cycle. Love, the most vital of human needs, cannot exist fully outside the garden of memories. And Absinthe is its nourishment.”
She glides around the room, casting lights and shadows on the faces of the Dreamers.
“Absinthe will open your mind, forging connections to the hidden memories inside dreams. Dreams are essential to remembering. Without them, Absinthe would be ineffective. There are those who will seek to destroy Absinthe and your dreams. Remember that.”
Metis brings out a flask from his jacket and pours a small amount of the green liquid into each waiting glass on the table. Once they are filled, he walks the tray to each Dreamer until everyone has Absinthe in their hands. Metis studies Benja’s face. He looks as if he is in ecstasy.
“To beautiful dreams,” the Crone says.
“To beautiful dreams,” everyone repeats. Each flicks the glass up, draining it.
“May I speak with you?” Seraphina asks.
The room is empty except for Benja and two others chatting in one corner. It looks smaller now.
“Sure,” Metis says.
He guides her to the other side of the room, where they will not be overheard. A lock of hair escapes the loose pile on top of her head and covers one eye. She sweeps it behind her ear.
“I was hoping you could help me understand the reason we may not contact someone from our dreams,” she asks in a small voice, her eyes earnest.
“Because that person doesn’t exist anymore,” he says, feeling his stomach hollowing with those words. “That person belongs to the past.”
“You don’t believe we stay who we are?”
“Our core stays the same, yes. But everything else changes. They now have a new name, a different place to live. Maybe a new job. They have new friends. Perhaps even a lover. Those things can affect a person.”
“But they might not be affected.”
Metis feels sympathy for the young woman. She is hopeful. He wishes to spare her the pain that has been gnawing at him since he began to remember. That must be how the Crone had felt about him.
“Imagine a stranger coming to you and insisting you are someone else, trying to make you feel something you’re not feeling,” he says. “What would you think? Would you be afraid? Threatened, maybe? Surely you would think the person is insane.”
She does not reply.
“You have the benefit of believing in the past—that some of it exists somewhere in your mind, waiting to be unleashed. Not everyone does or wants to remember. You cannot force the past on someone who doesn’t want it,” he says.
Despair clutches his insides.
Aris does not want it.
He clears his throat and continues, “That’s just on a personal level. Remember, there are others here who have the same right to dream as you do. What will happen to their rights if you’re reported to the police?”
“I’ll never tell anyone anything,” Seraphina says.
Metis believes her. But that is not the point.
“Rules are there to protect not just you, but everyone. Breaking them means you will no longer be a part of us. Do you understand?”
She nods.
“Now go home and sleep. Prepare yourself for the dreams to come,” he says.
The bell rings. Aris opens the door. Benja stands before her, leaning against the jamb. His face glows from exhilaration.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes. No. I mean—” He sighs. “I know it’s late, but I don’t know who else to go to. You’re the first person I’ve felt a connection with this cycle.”
He looks at her with serious eyes. “When you don’t have a catalog of people in your life, the few you meet become important to you.”
She rolls her eyes and stands aside to let him through. “Come in. You didn’t have to say all that. I would have let you in anyway.”
He chuckles and enters. He kisses her cheek as he always does and walks into her bedroom. She hesitates before following. She hopes he is not looking for anything more than the intimacy of her friendship.
Benja settles on her bed. Aris sits down and leans on a pillow against the headboard. He moves his head to her lap. She feels like both his therapist and the couch.
Aris studies his face. A touch of pink is in his cheeks. His eyes glitter like a boy who has just taken his first elevator ride.
“What happened?” she asks.
“I finally did it!”
“Did what?”
“I deciphered the message on the crane. They were meeting in the small library on Spring and Flora. I found the Dreamers. I went to their gathering,” he says in one breath.
“When?”
“Today. Yesterday. I have no idea. I kind of lost track of time. I’ve just been wandering the city. I haven’t slept.”
The desperation in his voice reminds her of the angry blond man arrested by the police. The thought makes her afraid for Benja. She wants to talk sense into him, to warn him of possible danger, but his exhausted face changes her mind. She decides to be supportive.
“How was the meeting?” she asks.
“It was incredible. Transformative. I met the Crone and the Sandman,” he says, “The Sandman wears a mask, like those Balinese ones. You know, the ones with protruding eyes and fangs. Animal mane for hair?”
Who are these people? “That’s strange.”
Benja shrugs. “No stranger than this life.”
“So you don’t know who he really is?” she asks.
“How is that relevant?” He looks at her as if she had asked whether he likes ketchup.
“Okay, so what’s special about this Sandman guy?” she asks.
“He leads the ceremony of Absinthe,” Benja says.
She laughs. The name has a tinge of the pagan rituals of yore. “Did they chant?”
Benja purses his lips. “Maybe I came to the wrong place.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so cynical. Tell me more about the Sandman.”
“He can make your dreams more vivid, unlocking your memories.”
“Really? How?”
“There’s a special drink he gave me. He calls it Absinthe,” he says.
“Wait. You drank something a stranger gave you?” She straightens, stirring Benja off her lap. Her resolve to be supportive disappears. She draws the line at him being stupid.
He sits up and looks at her. His face has the guilty expression of someone who knows he did something foolish.
“Yeah. But you know. I—I don’t know. I haven’t slept. I really need to, but I’ve been afraid.”
Of a hallucinogen that could turn your mind to mush? Whatever for?
She leans back on her headboard in resignation, and Benja resumes his position.
“What if it has a bad side effect or something?” he asks.
“Well, you should have thought of that before you drank it. What if it causes irreparable damage to your brain?”
Benja rubs his cheek on her lap. “You don’t need to scare me any more than I already am.”
Exhaustion paints shadows on his face. There is an unfocused look in his eyes, as if he were trying but losing the fig
ht to hold on to the present. He seems younger. Terrified. Aris wonders how old he is. He has probably gone through fewer cycles than she thinks. Perhaps she should not begrudge him moments of weakness now and then.
“What do you want to see in your dream?” she asks in a gentler tone.
He looks at the ceiling and sighs.
“A man. Always the same man. I don’t see his face. But I must love him,” he says.
Of all the times they spoke of his obsession with the Dreamers, he has never told her his dream. She feels slighted. Is she not trustworthy enough? Then she remembers that she has never told him about her dream.
She asks, “How do you know you’re not wasting your time chasing a ghost?”
He takes her palm in his hand and traces the lines on it with a finger. His hands are icy.
“Do you have a ghost?” he whispers.
She cannot tell him. Even if she wants to, what is there to say? Her dreams are just a compilation of feelings, lights, and shadows. There is nothing to tell.
She runs her other hand through his hair. He closes his eyes.
“I’m so tired,” he says. “Can I spend the night here? I need to be with someone I trust.”
“Yeah. Sleep,” she says and gives him the pillow from behind her.
Benja curls into a fetal position. He falls asleep at once. A smile touches a corner of his lips.
The moon is high in the sky. Aris gazes at Benja’s sleeping face bathed in moonlight. He looks more vulnerable than he’s ever shown himself to be.
So beautiful. So broken.
Why does he want to chase the past? There is so much he could be living for in the present. Five months left, and he is squandering it on dreams. Why can’t he see that Tabula Rasa is a gift? Four years at each life. If this one doesn’t work out, you have the next. Shedding lives like hermit crabs shed shells. A lifetime of possibilities.
“How can you love someone you don’t remember?” she whispers to no one in particular.
Aris opens her eyes and sees Benja’s silhouette leaning against the headboard. He stares straight ahead at the curtained window. The eerie image gives her goosebumps. She has never seen him so silent and still. Outside, the first light of the day is slowly transforming the indigo sky gray.
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