The Book of Dreams

by Nina George

  I refused to hand over the watch and aimed an uppercut at his chin, but Carl struck back with a swift stab between my left armpit and my chest. The knife was cold, but the pain only hit me when he pulled out the blade.

  I staggered a short distance to a pool of light cast by a streetlamp, and that’s where a young couple from Sussex found me and called an ambulance.

  The young man shows me the dial of my watch so that I can register the time of my death. The last thing I see before my heart empties of blood is my father’s watch. It has stopped at five to three. Then my heart fails for lack of blood.

  Henri

  I grope along the asphalt with my left hand and ask the young man to help me to my feet and call an ambulance. He stares at me in disbelief.

  As always, I was out and about. I swim through the nights as I used to in the period of suspended time before I met Eddie. When I meet a woman in these hazy, drunken, wandering nights I let her go her own way. What am I supposed to do if I enter the unknown realms of her being and don’t find the same riches as I found in Eddie? Her goodness and magnanimity.

  I reached a stretch of road where some of the streetlights were broken, and there Carl was waiting for me in the dark.

  “Hey, mate, I need help, you know,” he said. “Name’s Carl. What’s yours?”

  “Henri.”

  “Okay, Henri, I’ve got two kids, see, but—”

  “No need to explain. I guess you want money?”

  “You guessed right, mate.”

  He really did look like a stressed-out father of two, but his face had twisted into a junkie’s. I gave him all the money in my pockets.

  “I sniff, I do pills. I’ll take anything that’ll get me high. What’s the time, by the way?” he asked slyly.

  I glanced at my watch. “Just before three.”

  “Gimme yer watch!”

  “We can go to a cash machine instead.”

  “Forget it. Too many people.” He scratched himself. His eyes were red. “Go on, gimme yer watch. Now!”

  “There are derivatives now that ease the withdrawal symptoms and—”

  “Shut up and gimme that watch!”

  “No. It was my father’s.”

  “So what? Did he croak or something? Gimme the fucking watch or I’ll chop yer arm off!”

  I refused to hand over the watch, although his knife was hovering level with my stomach.

  “My father and I were out at sea,” I said, gazing into Carl’s inflamed eyes.

  “So what?”

  “Give me a minute to say goodbye to it, please. Would you do that for me? I tell the story and then you get the watch?”

  He nodded nervously. “Okay, but make it quick.”

  Slowly I slipped the watch from my wrist while continuing to talk.

  “It was one morning when there was more sun than clouds, and the sea was as smooth as oil. Shrimping and lobster season. The mussels were still too small. My father always took off his watch and put it away in his jacket pocket. The jacket was lying on the bench as a cushion. Then came the wave, building up just below the smooth surface until it hit a submerged reef on the sea bottom and started rising. After another line of rocks it grew to a height of a dozen feet above the sea level, loomed over us, and then crashed down on the boat so fast that my father, who was reaching over the side to pull up a lobster pot, was swept overboard.”

  Carl had lowered his knife an inch or two. I was still holding the watch in my palm, and his eyes darted back and forth between it and my face.

  “He knocked his head against the hull. I grabbed his hand and clung on to it for hours and hours. My father was floating on the waves, drifting in and out of consciousness. Blood was running from his ear. His other arm was broken. I was thirteen. And then the tide started to come in again. An hour before sunset I was too tired to hold on to him any longer.” Here I paused, as my memories circled like vultures.

  * * *

  —

  My fingers were cold and had turned blue, and my neck was as stiff as ironwood.

  That awful feeling as my father’s beloved and powerful fingers started to slip from my grasp.

  Watching him sink into the sea, his open eyes staring up at me as the dark deep swallowed him up.

  Thinking about jumping into the water after him.

  But I couldn’t follow him and save him. I wasn’t capable of diving into the sea.

  My father’s eyes, still peering up at me out of the darkness.

  Me, sitting there, holding my breath with the horror of it all—and then letting go of him.

  And in losing my grip on him, I lost my grip on myself. I became a mere breathless, passive creature who wasn’t strong enough to save him and wasn’t quick enough to rescue him from the deep.

  * * *

  —

  When I’d recovered my voice, I said to Carl, “This watch is his only possession I brought home with me that day. This watch…and his jacket.” And with those words I held the watch out to Carl, adding only, “Remember to wind it up before you adjust the time.”

  Carl stared at me with his runny eyes and then batted my hand away. “You idiot,” he roared, and half staggered, half ran into the shadows, leaving the watch dangling from my fingers.

  When he had covered some distance in the dark, his final words came drifting back to me through the night. “Maybe he let go, mate, not you. Fathers sometimes have to let go of their kids to save them.”

  I fastened my watch strap to my wrist. My fingers were shaking. I glanced at the dial. Shortly after three in the morning. My legs were wobbly, but I managed to make it to the pool of light under a streetlamp. There, I vomited and was suddenly so dizzy that I had to crouch there until a young couple from Sussex stumbled across me and called an ambulance.

  * * *

  —

  The doctor who’s treating me at the hospital now, a few hours later, has recommended that I draw up a living will for the future.

  “For the future? Just in case I get mugged again and the guy stabs me? Do you really think it’s worthwhile?”

  “Of course. Just in case you don’t get off so lightly next time or are so badly injured that—”

  “Or in case someone shoots me on the tube.”

  She doesn’t pick up my sarcasm. “Possibly, yes. If you’re so badly injured you need to be connected to a life-support machine or fall into a deep coma and can no longer express whether you want to die or be kept alive. Everyone is entitled to be left in peace if he or she has no wish to continue. You shouldn’t leave that decision to overworked trainee doctors, especially if you’re an organ donor.”

  And so that very night I put Eddie’s name on the living will to cover just such an eventuality. I can’t think of anyone I trust more than her to know what ought to happen to me.

  She only needs to sign it. Only.

  I’m flirting with the idea of sending her the living will to ask her…Ask her what? Will you be my medical carer and decide if I’m to live or die? How romantic. How morbidly romantic.

  Instead, I leave London and run away. I never send Eddie the living will, even though I always carry it with me. Her “no” erected a barrier between us.

  I only go to London once every few months and when I’m there, I drift from one person to the next.

  But then I receive an email that changes everything.

  Dear Dad,

  We don’t know each other, and I think we should do something about that. If you agree, come to Fathers’ and Sons’ Day on 18 May at Colet Court. That’s part of St. Paul’s School for boys in Barnes. It’s on the banks of the Thames. I’ll be waiting for you outside.

  Samuel Noam Valentiner

  My son wants to see me.

  * * *

  —

  The eightee
nth of May is a warm day, and so I walk. Sam’s school is on the inside of a bend in the river Thames five miles west of the center. Four Underground lines converge at Hammersmith, and from there I walk past some of the places Dickens mentions in novels, although they are now occupied by office buildings and old brick houses.

  I’ve been up all night, beseeching the hours to pass more quickly, for I have vowed to live a different life. I’m going to tell Eddie that I’ve loved her since the very first time I saw her dance, and I’m not going to be late for today’s meeting with my son. I’m never going to make either of those two people wait for me again. Ever again.

  I feel like running!

  Everything takes on greater clarity as I step through the magnificent arch onto Hammersmith Bridge: the warmth of the sun, the waves sparkling and winking as if the summer were already beaming at us, and the delicate, sweet scent of the trees.

  I breathe in deeply. Will Eddie take me back? Will Sam like me?

  I can already spy the pink blossom of the Japanese cherry trees, reaching out toward the honey-colored sun, along the riverbank by St. Paul’s School.

  I smile when I see the young couple kissing. A few yards farther on, a beggar is leaning against the green railings. He’s wearing a threadbare tuxedo and appears to be setting up shop by laying out some sheets of cardboard in a patch of sunlight.

  Nearing the other side of Hammersmith Bridge, I pause for a moment to savor the warm, silky air. I’m about to see my son. Life’s so beautiful. Why didn’t I come to this realization earlier?

  A pleasure craft is forging up the Thames toward me. A girl is standing on the second railing from the top with her face tilted to catch the May sunshine when a chance wave slaps against the hull, raising the stern and throwing the girl forward. She doesn’t utter a sound, but her eyes are brimming with boundless curiosity.

  We watch her fall—the kissing couple, the beggar in the threadbare tuxedo, and I. The beggar whispers, “Oh my God!” The couple stare at me. None of them moves a muscle as the child floats downriver, away from the bridge and its four crenellated towers.

  It’s a matter of life and death, so I clamber over the green cast-iron railing, wait until the small figure surfaces below me, and jump.

  Sam

  Today is Maddie’s birthday. I’ve baked a cake for her in the school kitchens. My French teacher, Madame Lupion, gave me the recipe for tarte tatin and lent me a special pan from home. First I put a large knob of sea-salt butter into the pan before adding some sugar and heating the pan until the mixture turned to liquid caramel. I then arranged the sliced apples on top, having left them to cool—this, said Madame Lupion, was “très important”; it was even better to put the chopped apples in the freezer for a few minutes and then briefly heat them up. I covered all of this with short-crust pastry and baked the tart in the oven for twenty minutes, left it to cool, and turned it “facedown.” Now I know what Myfanwy Cook meant. Finally, I wrapped the tart in apricot-colored paper and hid it in my locker in the corridor at school.

  The hardest thing, though, was asking Madame Lupion what girls’ pajama parties are like.

  “What age? Eighteen, fourteen, twelve?” When I couldn’t immediately give an answer, she added, “There’s a massive difference. They still eat cake at twelve, but at sixteen they want vegan smoothies and by eighteen they’re drinking gallons of Bacardi and Coke or some other revolting drink.”

  I told her that my (nonexistent) cousin was turning twelve.

  “Oh! My daughter and her friends sang along to a romantic dance film when they were twelve. They put pink candles on the birthday cake and blew them out. Some of the girls had makeup parties too.”

  “Hmm.” This was starting to feel a bit weird.

  “Why do you want to know, Samuel?”

  “Oh, no particular reason,” I lied. “Just to make sure I give her the right present.”

  “You’re a very wise lad.”

  * * *

  —

  Luckily, none of the shop assistants at the pharmacy next to Hammersmith Underground station asked why I was buying blue eye shadow, strawberry-flavored lip gloss, pink candles, and a toy microphone.

  I scanned the “romantic movies” section of the iTunes Store for a film that contains some dancing and kissing. There’s one called Dirty Dancing or something. I’ve never heard of it, but it seems to be popular. With girls, in any case.

  * * *

  —

  Time has stood still at the Wellington. I nod to Sheila at reception, and she gives me a quick smile before returning to her bubble. First I take the lift to the second floor.

  I can see it from a distance: the pain is black and pungent, and my father is lying on his front. Why is he on his front?

  Dr. Foss intercepts me and presses a mask into my hand. “Only two minutes today, Sam. Your father has pneumonia again.”

  I can sense the floor giving way beneath me. I feel dizzy with worry, but I stifle the flare of panic. “Hey, Dad,” I whisper, kneeling down beside him and staring into his face. It’s as impassive and empty as ever, a haunted house full of sinister torments.

  “Dad? I’m going up to see Maddie. It’s her birthday today. Any message you’d like me to pass on?” I tell him about my plans for a pajama party to liven up her day. Either that or Pippi Longstocking. My father doesn’t raise any objections, and I take this for his blessing. “Wish me luck, okay?”

  My father’s ventilator makes a rattling noise, but there’s nothing more. Not a thing. He shows no emotion, not even when I tell him what I have in my pocket for Maddie.

  “Samuel Valentiner.” God’s voice catches me completely off guard. “Is that a tart you’ve brought with you?”

  I nod and stammer, “T-today’s Maddie’s birthday.”

  God gives me a wink. “Sing her a song for me, lad.”

  If only you knew, I think.

  “By the way, your dad’s had two visitors today. A young man called Ibrahim, and Greg, a very old friend of your father’s and his former boss. Do you know them?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know anyone. My life and my father’s never touched before his accident. I feel a brief but wild surge of anger toward my father. Because he’s ill. Because he tried to sneak away. Because I miss him.

  God hands me a card. “Here, this is Greg’s number. He’s a journalist. Call him. Ask him about your father. Bug him. Promise me you will?”

  I nod, slip my rucksack onto my shoulder, take the lift to the fifth floor, walk along the corridor, and ease open the door of Maddie’s room with my toe.

  “Hi, it’s me, Sam.”

  She’s lying in bed with her eyes open. I wave the tart in front of her nose. “It’s your birthday today,” I say stupidly. She knows that, you twerp.

  I gather my courage to do something I really, really hate. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” I start, and as there’s no one else but me there on her birthday, I sing with rising volume and cheer. “Happy birthday, dear Maddie, happy birthday to you.”

  She stares at me without seeing me, and I glance at her schedule for the day. Ah, it’ll soon be time for her eye drops.

  “Okay,” I say. “This is apple tart, or rather tarte tatin. It was invented by two sisters, Stéphanie and Caroline Tatin, who lived near Orléans, where Joan of Arc comes from. It’s my first ever attempt at baking, so don’t get your hopes up too high. But I did find some French sea-salt butter, even though the apples are from Sussex. Should I cut the tart?”

  Maddie doesn’t answer so I make a suggestion: “Maybe we should watch a film and then taste the tart? I’ve got everything we need.”

  I dig out the iPad I nicked from my mother’s bedside table, followed by a set of peach-colored pajamas—also my mother’s—and a pair of slippers with pictures of Batman’s face on them that Malcolm was desperat
e to own. I hurriedly don my outfit.

  “Ta-da!” I exclaim, giving her a little whirl. My heart is pounding in my ears. I feel like a complete dork, but who cares. I would do anything to make her smile or roll her eyes.

  “You’re already in your nightie, so I’d say this is going to be one hell of a birthday pajama party! Do you want to dance or play karaoke first? Or open your present?” I pull the small parcel from my trouser pocket. “No? Okay, I’ll just put it down here on your bedside table. What’s that you say? We should make ourselves pretty? Luckily, I’ve brought something along.”

  I pull out the makeup kit I bought at the pharmacy. “Can you give me a hand?” I ask her. “You can? Great, then hold this mirror for me.” I lean the mirror against her pillow and try my best to apply the crumbly blue stuff to my eyelids. I miss and it stings like hell; I really don’t understand why women put themselves through this. You end up like the scary clown in Stephen King’s horror story. Also, strawberry-flavored lip gloss really does taste like litmus paper.

  I seek Maddie’s opinion. “How do I look? As gorgeous as Kate Winslet, right?”

  I listen out and I’m pretty sure that I hear her giggle. Somewhere, perhaps. Inside my head, Scott is most definitely chortling.

  “Want some too? No? Not your color? What? Lip gloss? It doesn’t taste anything like strawberry, I swear.”

  She wants some anyway.

  “Did you know they make strawberry aroma from sawdust? Well, they do!”

  With the utmost care I use the little stick to apply some gloss to her lips. She holds still so I can trace the curve of her mouth, then I hold up the mirror so that she can admire my work.

  “You don’t actually need this kind of thing, Maddie.” Because you’re beautiful as you are, I think, but I don’t say it. I’m pretty sure that she would now say, “Thank you, Sam.” That’s what I imagine anyway, and I blush.