by Ben Okri
They had come upon a music festival in a clearing in the wood. A crowd of people were jumping up and down and singing along to a rock anthem pounding from a stage. There were caravans and portable lavatories on the edges of the clearing, and stalls selling hamburgers, hot-dogs, roasted chicken, beers, soft drinks, popcorn, T-shirts, books, CDs, multicoloured scarves, magic rings, and necklaces. There was even a Tarot card stall. Here at last were the young people of the town.
Lao and Mistletoe were relieved. They had begun to suspect the town of having no young people, as if some spirit of negation had driven them all away.
Coming upon a festival in the woods was exciting, as if they had wandered into a legend. They mingled with the young men in hats, the young women in pretty dresses, and didn’t think of themselves as outsiders. They bought soft drinks and hot-dogs and watched the peculiar dances.
But Lao and Mistletoe did attract attention because they were different. People clustered round them, wanting to talk to them, but didn’t have the courage.
Mistletoe began dancing. She danced on one spot, moving her hips, shaking her shoulders. It was a controlled dance. Lao brooded. He was watchful, his expression impenetrable.
They both thought the music very bad, but they listened. Then Lao growled out something which Mistletoe didn’t hear. But she grasped its intention. She said:
‘Why did you wake up screaming?’
‘Why did you stare at me coldly?’
‘You destroyed my mood.’
‘What mood?’
‘I was trying to draw the cloud over the mountain, to capture something quite difficult.’
‘And so?’
‘I was just discovering something and then you screamed, and frightened it away.’
‘How was I to know that? I was asleep.’
‘How was I to protect myself from your nightmare?’
‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’
‘Of course you can’t; you’re a monster.’
‘Monsters don’t have nightmares. They are nightmares.’
‘What about gods? Do they have nightmares?’
‘Some people would say this world is the bad dream of a god.’
‘We are all gods,’ said Mistletoe.
‘Gods of mud.’
‘Okay, we’re not gods. We only contain gods.’
‘You got that from a sacred Indian book.’
‘Yes.’
‘“All the gods are within us, like cows in a cowshed.”’
‘Well remembered. Anyway, why did you scream?’
‘I thought I had diverted you from that question.’
‘I know some of your tricks. I know the things you want to tell me.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, how, how, how. They are usually the questions you don’t answer, the ones you deflect.’
‘Really?’
‘You’re not a piece of music, you know. You’re not to be got, any more than I am. When we’re in tune, it’s lovely; when we’re not, it’s frustrating. You ask me how I know when you want to really tell me something. Pure instinct, that’s all.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Forget it.’
‘I think I lost you there. Do you want a drink?’
‘I’m drunk.’
‘Already?’
‘I was drunk when we left the hotel.’
‘From what?’
‘From drawing the mountains. It did something weird to my head. I’m a little giddy.’
‘You’ve been soaring, my dear.’
‘My head’s been expanding.’
‘Now you’re big-headed.’
‘Not nearly as much as you are. So, tell me why you screamed.’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then I’ll tell you.’
‘Even if I don’t want to hear?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then I won’t listen.’
‘Excellent.’
‘I’m not listening, but carry on.’
‘I had this dream,’ said Lao. ‘In the dream Malasso was showing me a map of the world. I looked at it, and fell in. I fell into the world. I fell and fell till I landed at the precise point in the map that I was standing on to begin with. Malasso laughed and said: This is the Arcadia you’re looking for. I didn’t understand what he meant.’
Lao paused. The music from the band had got louder, and the shouting and singing along amplified it. They moved further away.
‘In the same dream Malasso showed me another map. It was a map of the universe, vast and three-dimensional. I got lost in it. Centuries went by. I woke up in this place where there was a lake and a mountain. You were on the mountaintop dancing naked with the circus folk. I called to you, and you turned, saw me, and screamed. Then the circus folk, like murderous bacchantes, came at me. I ran and suddenly found myself with Malasso. He showed me the map again. Then he said: This is what will happen when you find the treasure… I still didn’t understand.’
Looking around, Lao saw that the crowds were denser. The musicians were performing another song, a ballad, and it was not as loud as the previous one.
‘And then in the same dream he showed me a third map.’
‘Is this still Malasso?’
‘Yes. The third map was tiny. It was minuscule. It was microscopic. I peered into it, and saw everything: the first map, the second map, my life, your life, the whole earth, all dreams, all fishes, angels, cloud formations, fourth dimensional beings. As I gazed I fell into this map, and I wandered the world, looking for someone I knew. I discovered that I knew everyone. All things were familiar to me. It was disconcerting.’
Lao paused again and shook his head as if to rid himself of an unpleasant sensation. Mistletoe listened with a neutral expression.
‘Then I came to a gravestone. It had one word inscribed on it in gold letters: ARCADIA. As I stared at the word there was a mighty noise. The earth cleaved apart and the tomb opened and a man stepped out. He had a strange glow. There was something about him, something frightening. Then I realised what it was.’
Lao stopped.
‘What was it?’
‘It was his tranquillity,’ said Lao in such a soft voice that she almost missed it. ‘But that’s not it. The really weird thing is I noticed that he was me.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me. A better, wiser, transfigured me, shining with the tranquil authority of truth.’
Lao’s face turned grim.
‘Then the really scary thing happened.’
‘What?’
‘This other me, this transformed me, approached, and I fled. At least I tried to, but couldn’t. Then he enfolded me in an electrifying embrace which I could not withstand. It was horrible. It felt as if I was scalded. I screamed, and woke up to your cool stare.’
2
A warm applause rose from the crowd at the conclusion of the ballad. The performance had ended, and another band took over.
Mistletoe said nothing. She was letting the recounted dream settle. Her response would take a form she didn’t know yet. She didn’t want to force it. Lao understood this, but he still wanted a word from her. It was always a risk telling a dream, and he didn’t want his dream to disappear into silence.
‘Do you understand how your cool stare made me feel?’
She looked at him with neutral eyes, and said nothing. She was never good with anything resembling a direct accusation. When it became clear that she was not going to say anything, he shrugged and went off into the crowd. It was a way of regaining something of the integrity lost in speaking of his dream.
Mistletoe stayed where she was, and watched his head vanish into the crowd.
3
She drew a line on him and intersected it with another, and kept track of his motion through the crowd. How easy it is for two people to lose one another, she thought. She was aware that he had left because of her unresponsiveness, but she couldn’t
help it.
Mistletoe never failed to be amazed at how Lao used disharmony as a weapon for harmony. If she loved him less this weapon would long ago have destroyed their relationship. He was doing it now, she felt. He was wielding disharmony, threatening the ruination of their cultivated Arcadia. And for what? Because she had not responded to his dream? She knew that was not the reason. The real reason he had gone off was her coldness. Of all the negative qualities, the one he disliked most was coldness. To him coldness was an active disengagement of self, a minus zero emotional condition, an utter absence of love. It was for him the real negation, and she knew this.
If that was the case it would take a while to bring him round. It would take an inspired gesture, a sustained warming of the heart, a re-engaging of the imagination. She secretly enjoyed the challenge of creating harmony between them again, working her way round the perversity of wanting and yet resisting a rapprochement.
4
While she stood there, in the midst of a dancing crowd, a young man approached her. He was good-looking, in his twenties, and seemed at first glance very sure of himself.
He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a musical logo. His dark hair was long and his eyes blue. On his right arm there was the tattoo of a Tarot card.
He smiled.
‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said. ‘You’re very interesting. Such interesting eyes too…’
Oh dear, thought Mistletoe, just what I need. Some good-looking guy talking to me when Lao is in a huff.
Then she mentally closed off the space around her. To the young man she said:
‘I’m not on my own, and really I’m not that interesting, but thank you.’
‘No, no, no, I’m an expert on interesting people,’ he said.
Mistletoe scrutinised him coolly. Round his neck hung a pendant of the ankh, an Egyptian symbol, along with a copper skull, a crooked cross, and a five-pointed star. When she looked closer she saw that the Tarot card on his forearm was that of The Fool. Then she noticed his sad eyes.
‘I’m with the band,’ he said. ‘Do you like our music?’
Mistletoe said nothing and kept her gaze neutral.
‘If you like our music, we will be successful. If you don’t, we will start again. I trust your eyes.’
‘Start again,’ said Mistletoe.
‘From the beginning?’
‘From scratch.’
‘What is scratch?’
Mistletoe stared at him. She could not think of the word in German, French, or Italian. A little helplessly, and with more emphasis, she said, ‘From scratch.’
‘Scratch?’
‘From the beginning. Go back to ABC. Dig deep. Start all over. Trust heart, not eyes.’
She began to move away but the young man blocked her path.
‘Help me!’ he said. ‘Help me. I need you. You have something special. I knew it at once. Help me!’
Mistletoe felt her face getting hot. She was bewildered.
‘This town is being forgotten,’ the young man cried. ‘We are vanishing. What can I do? Are we dying? My life is fading every day. I need to be famous. Help me! Teach me what you know…’
It occurred to Mistletoe that the young man was under a profound misapprehension, that he thought her someone she wasn’t. He was so passionate and full of despair that she didn’t know how to disillusion him.
While she was backing off, Mistletoe had a sudden vision. It resolved into an image, and then it was gone. She turned and pushed her way through the crowd. She needed to breathe. She struggled through the jostling dancers. She could not find Lao. She could not breathe.
‘Help me!’
Mistletoe was perplexed. She had noticed in the past that when she and Lao had a little break-up, men seemed to find her unusually attractive. It was as if his leaving made her magnetic. It seemed to be happening again.
She couldn’t breathe.
The vision she had needed to be shared.
‘Help me!’
The tone of the young man’s voice, insistent and pleading, finally got to Mistletoe. She turned to him and stared with icy ferocity into the eyes that were seeking something he feared he might never find. Then she pointed to the ground at his feet. She pointed three times, with great authority. The young man fell to his knees and looked up at her expectantly.
‘Don’t get up,’ she said.
‘Till when?’
‘Till you can save yourself,’ she said, turning and pushing through the dancers.
She needed to breathe. She tried to track Lao in the crowd but had lost his vectors. He wasn’t there. Where could he be? She found herself next to the bandstand. She felt the music in her solar plexus. The people around her were dancing as if their bodies were alien to them.
She fled from the stage and went to a nearby drinking tent. But he hadn’t been there, she could tell. Where was he? He must be quite angry to have made himself so hard to find. The music got worse. Outside, the crowd thickened. She struggled through, and found herself pressed against the stage again. I shouldn’t have been so cold to him, she thought, as the music pounded around her. Why did I have to be cold to him anyway? I couldn’t help it. I can’t breathe. It just came over me. One moment’s coldness and he loves me no more. I need to breathe.
Then she blacked out beside the stage.
‘Only among the dead can the treasure be found. Tell him to go there,’ someone whispered into her ear.
She breathed suddenly and woke up with a start. Everything cleared. The music was gentler. The crowd had thinned. Lao stood a short distance away, staring at her with a shy smile on his face.
5
‘Here’s what I found out…’ he began.
‘You hid from me.’
‘This town used to be incredibly famous…’
‘You’re cruel.’
‘We’ve been invited to a party later tonight…’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I went discovering.’
‘You left me.’
‘You shut me out.’
‘I can’t seem to stop it when it comes over me.’
‘You can – it’s your mind, you know.’
‘Is it? Sometimes others have access.’
‘Only if you let them.’
‘I’ve heard whisperings.’
‘What about?’
‘Nothing.’ She smiled. ‘Tell me what you found out.’
‘This town used to be really famous. Everyone used to come here. Now it has chosen to be a secret.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of what success did to it.’
‘Is this a good idea?’
‘The young don’t think so. They think the town is fading away. It bothers them. Should we go to the party tonight?’
‘Yes. I could do with a dance.’
‘So could I.’
6
They watched as the festival wound down, the musicians began unplugging their instruments and the crowds dispersed. The grounds were strewn with chicken bones, paper napkins, half-eaten hot-dogs, empty cigarette packets, beer cans.
As the crowd cleared Mistletoe caught a glimpse of the young man still kneeling. Lao saw him too. He was causing a bit of a stir. Lao said quietly, ‘Let’s get out of here. I smell obsession.’
They went through the woods, over the hill, and passed beneath the flyover. They walked towards the town in silence.
7
They sat on a bench, near the pier, and stared at the mountains. The moving clouds made the mountains move. The sky made the world unreal.
Boats and steamers and gilded yachts glided past on the lake.
Lao wondered if the world wasn’t an analogy for a world not seen.
This is what the mountains and the lake did to him. They made him want to change his life, to become more, to be more alive.
The mountains gave him a sense of things greater than history. They didn’t make him feel humble; they made him feel imperfectly developed. They made
him ache for an unrealised grandeur.
The power of the mountains encompassed Mistletoe. She surrendered herself to it and shone like the lake.
Section 3
1
Lao woke up screaming. He had been muttering incoherent words in his sleep, kicking and clutching at the air.
Mistletoe was already awake. She had been sketching the mountain. When he woke from his nightmare, she regarded him coolly. He got up and looked around the room as though to reassure himself of his surroundings. He gazed at the lake. Then he picked up his copy of Goethe’s Faust Part Two, and began reading.
Now that he was up, Mistletoe went to the balcony to get a fuller view of the mountain. Breathing evenly, she disappeared into the mountain she was sketching. She vanished into its monumental form and the ravishing beauty of the view. She became pure being lost in pure beauty.
Lao meanwhile was making a complicated journey into the book. They were now at the Imperial Palace, in Germany. Economic problems threatened the state; and Mephistopheles had invented paper money, anticipating future reality. The Emperor expressed the desire to see Helen of Troy; and Faust charged Mephistopheles to make this come true.
2
While reading, Lao travelled back to the ancient world. Faust was now in a coma, and they travel in his consciousness to the great underworld, a combination of Egypt and Greece where sirens dwell side by side with the Sphinx, griffins with wise centaurs and Nereids, and ants speaking in splendid verse. All beings that have had an imaginative existence live here in this underworld, deep in the consciousness of the human race. The gods are real. It is to this world they go to find Helen of Troy, the great beauty of legend.
As their guide on this quest, they have a homunculus. Made in a test tube, a creature of science, the homunculus wants above all things to be a man. He needs the magic stuff of humanity. It is his very incompleteness that makes him a perfect guide into the depths of the human psyche.
3
Lao struggled with the book, in just the same way he struggled in his dream. And the book was a strange dream indeed, one of the strangest ever composed. Lao was confused by it, but determined to understand.