Dream Sequence

by Adam Foulds

  Now she was in a different part of London, out to the west, on a long street of regular white houses, quiet and geometric. Ahead, in the middle of the road on its own sort of island, was the pub that contained the theatre, a curved presence in all these straight lines of perspective. It had a green sign, a few empty benches outside, and windows that were decorated with white patterns of engraving: vases and strings between them. The door handle was a large brass sphere, the size of a baseball. The door was heavy as she pushed.

  A drowsy afternoon inside, warm, beery, carpeted, sparsely populated. Music played in the background and was ignored, as in a clothes shop. A barman noticed Kristin come in, a young guy with a towel over one shoulder and his arms folded, two full sleeves of tattoos muddled together. He lifted his chin interrogatively. Could he help her?

  Kristin felt obliged, now that she was there. She walked to the bar and asked for a glass of white wine. He offered her a choice. She asked for the chardonnay. He flipped an upturned glass the right way up, measured the wine into a metal cup and poured it in. It was a large measure. Kristin took it to a seat by the window and quietly set about drinking it away. She looked around. There was a sign for the theatre over a door. After a while, when the barman was out of sight, she got up and walked through it, finding herself a little soft and imprecise and lighthearted.

  Beyond the door were stairs that led up to a closed ticket kiosk and then what must have been the theatre itself beyond open double doors. There were voices inside and lights clicking on and off. Kristin approached quietly and looked in. There were people on the stage in Victorian costumes, holding bundles of papers—scripts. They weren’t acting or saying anything. They seemed to be waiting. Out of the near darkness a voice said, “Hello.” A man was standing just inside the door, writing something in a small leather-bound notebook with a hanging tassel.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I just was passing.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “No. I just wandered in. I’m coming tomorrow, you see. I’m excited to see the play.”

  “Hang on a moment.” He stepped outside into the hall and pulled the doors closed after him.

  “Are you? You look like Jeremy Banks, the writer.”

  “I am. How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen your picture online. In The Stage, in that interview.”

  “You read The Stage in America?”

  “Not really. No, I’m just particularly interested in the play.”

  “In the Brownings? Are you a scholar? It’s a very long way to come just to see my play.”

  “Sure I’m interested in the Brownings. It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “Well, that’s very flattering. If you hadn’t already bought your ticket I would be inclined to give you a comp.”

  He ran a hand over the untidy lengths of hair that covered his baldness.

  “Don’t they need you in there?”

  “Not right now. It’s the tech. I’m observing mostly.”

  He looked a bit like a squared-off and heavy Henry but only the eyes were really reminiscent, deeply set, densely coloured, with that look of knowledge and kindness and imagination. Would Henry develop those tufty eyebrows too once he was older?

  “Must be so exciting for you. Your first play.”

  “First one to make it this far.”

  Henry looked more like his mother. Kristin had worked that out from a photo of her she’d found online, taken in the nineties by the look of it, a portrait of her when she was singing: a velvet, off-the-shoulder dress, long, smoothly brushed hair, a sweet smile, that old-fashioned, virginal, demure sexiness that was the look for classical musicians. She was beautiful. Her looks revealed how feminine Henry’s beauty was, in a way, tender and delicate.

  “Poetry is what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Kristin said.

  “Well, quite. More popular in America than I’d expected, the Brownings. I’ve had quite a few emails back and forth with a lady professor in California.”

  “I can believe it. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I must let you get back.”

  “No need to call me ‘sir.’ Really.” He smiled at her. “What’s your name?”

  “Kristin.”

  “Kristin. Lovely. I’ll look out for you tomorrow in the crowd.”

  “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  *

  Dinner would be Henry’s treat but the choice of restaurant was his father’s. He insisted on the usual place, the little Italian he had “discovered” sometime in the early eighties and where he’d gone on all his trips to London since. Henry’s father would recommend it to other people in the village if he heard that they were going to London, his attitude in those moments worldly, patronizing, generous. He didn’t look very worldly now, walking with Henry’s mother up the Strand towards Aldwych where Giovanni’s lurked beneath a red awning. Following behind his parents, Henry felt an unusual emotion, a rush of pitying love for them. In this environment, the fast, indifferent street, they looked old, buffeted and uncertain. They lacked the agility and sharpened peripheral vision of Londoners. People swerved around them. Henry, with his baseball cap pulled low, shepherded them towards their meal. He was committed to a good, friendly evening, the family united in general triumph, Hamlet achieved and his father’s play, of all absurd things, about to open in a fringe venue.

  Inside Giovanni’s nothing had changed. Henry remembered it all from his previous visits, the heavily starched tablecloths, the straggling pot plants hanging from hooks on the ceiling, the silence without music, the old waiter in black waistcoat and patent leather slip-on shoes. Henry’s father greeted him. “Good evening. Angelo, isn’t it? You see. Good memory I’ve got. Table for three. Name of Banks.”

  The waiter gave no sign of recognizing Henry’s father. His face was heavy, a pallid yellow after years away from the Italian sun. Short eyelashes and raised brows, large orbits around his eyes, gave him a disinterested look. When he wasn’t required, Henry remembered, he had a spot by the cash register where he would stand and stare out of the window at the street. He led them to a table. Henry sat down. There was that poster of the Amalfi coast on the wall opposite: a whitewashed wall with a pot of red geraniums on top, a view of blue water bearing a white sailing boat that tilted to the right. The waiter handed them red leather menus.

  Six other people had found their way into this fading establishment. An elderly couple sat in one corner. At another table there was a family of four, one child kicking his little legs and digging his fork into a bowl of ravioli, an older boy suffering the distortions of early adolescence, a fuzz of hair down the back of his neck, his facial features large and shining, his shoulders narrow and tense. He looked around as though startled when Henry’s father loudly announced to the waiter, “Very good. We’d like a carafe of water and a bottle of your Valpolicella, thank you.”

  “You don’t want a prosecco or champagne?” Henry asked. “This is all on me and I thought we were celebrating.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Show hasn’t opened yet.”

  “But it’s happening. And mine has closed. Whatever you prefer.”

  “Champagne?” the waiter asked hopefully.

  “No, no. The Valpolicella will be fine.”

  The waiter walked away.

  Henry’s mother spoke while reading her menu. “I’m not sure I want to drink too much. Really affects my sleep these days.”

  “I’ll drink with you,” Henry offered.

  “I’m sure you will, Hen.”

  “What are you going to have?” his mother asked. “For food?”

  Henry’s father said, “I’ll have what I always have here. The veal scallopini in Marsala. This place is known for it. Isn’t that right?”

  The waiter was back already with the wine. He twisted the corkscrew in and said. “The veal is very good. I can re
commend.” He drew out the stained cork and poured a measure of wine for Henry’s father to approve. He did. “Excellent,” he said, and the waiter poured. “None for the lady,” he added.

  “I didn’t say none. Half a glass for me.”

  Henry looked at his mother. She, who said the least, somehow always set the mood. In her silent reactions it was determined whether you were allowed to enjoy yourself. Henry wanted normal family happiness, normal conviviality. He would stay in good humour and force his parents to do the same. He ran his eye down the menu of familiar classics, insalata tricolore, prosciutto and melone, seafood risotto, puttanesca, arrabiata, carbonara, alle vongole, bistecca alla Fiorentina. He slapped it shut.

  “I’ll have the veal also,” he said.

  “Oh, are we ordering now?” his mother asked. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

  “If you could give us a minute or two,” his father said to the waiter, who nodded and set down the bottle before returning to his post by the cash register.

  “Well then,” Henry said, raising his glass. “Here’s to us.”

  “Yes, why not?” his father said.

  They chimed glasses. They drank.

  “Woof,” Henry said. “Tastes like red wine, I suppose.”

  “Are you going to be a snob?”

  “Not at all. I said it tastes like red wine.”

  “Not good enough for you? Not up to celebrity standards?”

  “Don’t use the c-word, please. I’m an actor.”

  A clatter of fall. The adolescent at the other table had dropped his fork and now was straining down towards the carpet to retrieve it. The boy’s father raised a hand to summon the waiter. “Could we get a new fork over here?” Americans. “It’s okay,” the boy said, upright again, holding the fork. “It’s not okay. You can’t eat with that. We’ll get a new one.”

  This interruption, watched by Henry and his parents, reset their own conversation. They turned back to each other with indifferent faces.

  “So,” Henry began again. “How’s the show looking?”

  Henry’s father proceeded to tell him at length, pausing only while he called the waiter over to place their order, his comments and complaints flowing around this obstacle like a river around a rock. Henry tried to offer advice from his professional experience but his father didn’t seem to want it. His mother poured herself another half-glass of wine. “You could have just had a whole glass to begin with,” Henry said lightly, smiling as though he’d made a joke. “But I didn’t know I wanted it,” his mother answered. Henry nodded and took a sip from his own glass. He was starting to feel the usual loneliness and defeat as he faced the wall of his parents. Such hard work. He very much wanted to take his phone out of his pocket for relief, to run some colour and light through his brain. He wanted in particular to check for a new email in the thread titled MARVEL PROJECT. There could be news.

  “Even despite all that,” his father said, “I just hope we get some press in.”

  “You will,” Henry said. “That venue’s shows are always reviewed. The Stage will review it. Time Out. The Standard. What you have to hope is that they review it well.”

  “Says he who got all raves for Hamlet.”

  “Well, almost all,” said his mother.

  At that moment, their veal arrived. Ovals of meat under a sheeny brown sauce accompanied by smaller ovals of fried potatoes. The waiter returned with a bowl of spinach and ricotta ravioli for Henry’s mother. The obligatory moment with the grater and falling shavings of parmesan, the pepper, and then the pepper grinder carried away under the waiter’s arm.

  “Any developments in your glittering career?” Henry’s mother asked as she unrolled her knife and fork from her napkin.

  “Maybe. Something big. Bigger than previous things, I mean.”

  “Oh, really?” His father, sawing at his meat, looked directly at Henry.

  “Yes. I actually can’t talk about it too much.”

  “Nobody’s forcing you.”

  “It’s a movie thing. A superhero. Several movies probably.”

  “Like a cartoon?” his mother asked. “A children’s film?”

  “Not exactly. Lots of special effects, though.”

  “Very noisy, I imagine,” his mother said.

  “A commercial rather than artistic decision,” his father said. “And why not?”

  Henry sat back in his chair and sighed. He adjusted the angle of his cap, staring at the blue water of the Amalfi coast, the angled white sail.

  He sat forwards again, returning to his food. “This veal is really good,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. No wonder this place is so well known for it.”

  “I know. Mine’s delicious.”

  “I’m being ironic. Mine’s like flipping shoe leather. I think the sauce is to hide their shame.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re right. It’s wonderful.”

  “Did you show Henry the photos Julian sent?” Henry’s mother asked.

  “Not yet. Hang on.” Henry’s father reached into his breast pocket for his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, swiped, swiped, and handed it across the table. “They made that sign themselves,” his father said, reaching for his wineglass.

  Henry’s brother Julian had two children with his Chinese wife, Mei. Their English names were Milo and Chloë. In a living room in faraway Hong Kong Milo and Chloë held up a piece of paper on which they had painted Congratulations Grandpa! Break a leg!! A rainbow of three colours curved over the words. Glitter encrusted the top of the page.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Henry’s mother asked.

  They were. They had that refined, intelligent-looking beauty of Anglo-Chinese children, dark eyes, sweetly geometric hair. There were two pictures, one in which they both looked serious and one in which Chloë’s head had tipped back and she was laughing, showing her tiny teeth.

  “Very cute,” Henry said, handing back the phone.

  Henry’s father looked at the screen again and smiled at it before returning the phone to his pocket. Both of his parents were silent, deliberately it seemed, giving Henry a moment to consider what he wasn’t, what he didn’t have.

  Henry took another sip of wine. “You asked me if I could bring my agent,” he said. “I think I can get her to come.”

  “Oh, really?” His father looked up. “Well, that would be splendid.”

  In a taxi heading home, Henry took out his phone and texted Virginia. Hey, you. Where are you? I’m missing you. When will I see you again? Too long, baby, too long. He hit send and the message went with a whoosh. Henry looked out at the street.

  Back in his flat, Henry checked his phone. Nothing. In bed, the clock reading 11:46, he looked again. Still nothing. Nothing again at 4:13 when he woke up for no reason. He looked again when he woke up properly at 10:11. Nothing.

  *

  The sight of Henry standing there, right by the door, looking at his phone while people filed past him into the theatre, broke Kristin’s step. She was seized with the urge to turn back but pushed forwards, making her foot land, continuing. He was taller than she’d remembered. He wore tight, narrow trousers that made his legs seem to sway backwards at the knee. She looked down, avoiding his face. His shoes were clean Nike trainers made of some futuristic grey mesh. She walked past him—she had to—and looked up at his face, the stubble on his cheek, the curve of his nostril. He didn’t notice. Kristin showed her ticket to the person on the door. She went in. He hadn’t looked up but he must have felt her going past, the reunion starting to happen. She found a seat, put her handbag underneath it, settled her dress over her thighs, neatened her bangs. She felt a sliding drop of sweat between her shoulder blades like a cold fingertip. She would smell humid and human if she wasn’t careful, the shampoo sweating out of her scalp. Seats filled. H
enry’s father appeared and scanned the audience, his face several times breaking into a large smile as he waved at someone known, before he sat down in the front row. Kristin tried waving at him but wasn’t sure he saw. Henry entered, sliding his phone into his pocket, and sat on the end of the front row with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle.

  The play began. Kristin found it hard to take in at first. The theatre was so small and the actors so close it seemed ridiculous they had to pretend not to see the audience a few feet away. The actors’ costumes were heavy, meant for much colder rooms, and their hairstyles absurd. Robert Browning had large, brushy sidewhiskers. Elizabeth Barrett’s hair was parted severely in the middle and drooped down on either side of a white line of scalp. When they sang their voices were so loud and earnest, they almost hurt. The actors’ faces yawned and bulged. Kristin could see clear bumps of sweat on Robert Browning’s forehead. There was a lot of writing, letters delivered to and fro across the stage, scenes of candlelight and excited reading and scratching quill pens, inspiration. How fitting this was. Kristin knew exactly what the characters were feeling, how you could pour your heart into a letter. They spoke a language of love that sounded old-fashioned but everyone knew it, everyone would speak it if they were brave enough. Enamoured. Beloved. Betrothed. Beseech. Afeared. Ought. Nought. Anew. When Robert and Elizabeth ran away together, they had to sit beside one another on two seats and sway while through the speakers came the sound of rumbling carriage wheels and horses’ hooves. They held hands and raced into their fate. The stage went black. During the applause, the actors got up and walked off, a human shifting in the darkness.

  The intermission was wasted on one visit to the bathroom. Kristin needed to relieve herself and check her appearance. A long wait in a corridor preceded an unpleasant tiled bathroom, a toilet with a splashed seat that needed cleaning, and the redness of someone’s period at the bottom of the bowl. In the mirror after, Kristin found her own eyes beseeching her, large and wild with tiredness during this important evening, but there was nothing she could do.