Dreams

by Richard A. Lupoff

  "I used to live here," he said to no one in particular.

  A dark-skinned woman wearing an Indian sari behind the counter walked over to face him.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  "I used to come in here all the time."

  She smiled encouragingly.

  "Is Mr. Kaplan here? Mrs. Kaplan?" he asked.

  The woman shook her head. She turned aside and called a name. At least Arlen thought it was a name. Nadisu, or something like that. A dark-skinned man wearing a black silk suit, white shirt, and midnight blue tie, appeared from somewhere. He had glossy, wavy, black hair. The woman had worn a head scarf.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  "The Kaplans," Arlen managed.

  "I do not know them."

  "This store is called Kaplan's. I used to buy comic books here. And ice cream cones."

  "We don't sell comic books or ice cream cones, sir. There is a big comic book store on Lincoln Road. There is an ice cream store nearby."

  "The Kaplans."

  The man frowned in concentration. "I bought this store from Mr. D'Onofrio six years ago. It was called Kaplan's then. It may have belonged to a Mr. Kaplan before Mr. D'Onofrio."

  Arlen nodded. He backed away from the counter, from the courteous, dark-skinned man and woman. He left the store. The afternoon sun was strong but he stood in the shade beneath the Cairo Cinema marquee and it was comfortable there. There was even a hint of a breeze tinctured with the odor of seaweed and salt water.

  He examined the plywood covering the theater doors hoping to find a way in but he could not find one. However there was an alley between the Cairo and Kaplan's Kandy Kastle. At the end of the alley he could get to the rear of the theater. In the days when he'd worked at the Cairo he had learned how to jimmy the ring-and-hasp that held the theater's iron delivery doors shut, and swing the doors wide without opening the padlock.

  He made his way down the alley. It was strewn with old newspapers and fast food wrappers and other, less savory trash. He used his trick—it came back to him, even after all these years—and managed to get the iron doors open. They were rusted and heavy and he was barely able to squeeze inside.

  He was backstage. The room was musty, the air hot and stale. The light was dim, the afternoon daylight seeping through the delivery doors. He knew the theater well enough to make his way to the edge of the old stage, down half a dozen steps into the auditorium itself. He knew where the light switches were but when he tried them, not surprisingly, he found that the power had been cut off.

  There wasn't much he could do in the dark.

  He made his way back to the alley, back to Collins Avenue, into the hardware store next door. A Puerto Rican-looking clerk took his money for a powerful flashlight, asked in flawless English if there was anything else he wanted, and thanked him for his business when Arlen told him no.

  Back into the sunlight. Back into the alley. Back into the theater. He shone his flashlight around the auditorium. The Egyptian style bas reliefs that had both fascinated and frightened him as a child were still there. Crocodile-headed and ibis-headed gods, reed boats, women in snow-white gowns, men wearing pale kilts, leopards on leashes and painted pyramids and sphinxes and temples.

  He walked to the back of the auditorium, out into the lobby, downstairs to the men's and women's rest rooms. The lower level of the theater had been decorated with oversized photo-portraits of the great movie stars of the era. Gary Cooper in a foreign legion kepi, Garbo in a black jersey gown, Gable as Rhett Butler, Harlow in a dress the color of her hair. The pictures were still there. Somehow they had survived the decades of neglect and abuse.

  Back in the auditorium he walked to the foot of the stage, turned and sat in a front row seat. Customers had complained when they had to sit in the front of the room, and he could understand that. They had to lean back to see the picture, it was uncomfortable, and the image on the screen was distorted.

  He moved to a more comfortable seat, halfway toward the rear of the auditorium. He settled in and half-closed his eyes. He could almost imagine an image before him. Rod Cameron leading a posse, chasing a gang of rustlers across a cactus-studded butte. The camera cut between pursuers and pursued. Clouds of dust rose from the horses' hooves. Puffs of smoke exploded from six-shooters. All in beautiful chiaroscuro. All accompanied by the pounding of hooves, gunfire, shouts, music.

  Arlen leaned back. The projector beam danced overhead as light reflected from decades-old dust.

  He turned on his flashlight, pushed himself to his feet, struggled to the end of the row and trotted to the back of the room. He climbed the stairs to the projectionist's booth. The flight was longer and steeper than he remembered, but when he got there he found no sign of Mr. Hopkinson. There was no whir of the projector. In fact, there was no projector. The booth was empty.

  He made his way carefully back to the auditorium. The screen was dark. He pushed his way through the iron delivery doors, shoved them closed behind him, trudged back to Collins Avenue.

  There was a bench at the bus stop, a tasteful sign with a gold Star of David against a maroon background. ETERNAL JUDEA, it read in heavy gilt letters, Funeral Service Since 1948, With Respect for the Deceased and Concern for the Living.

  A very old man sat on the bench, a straw hat shading his head, a short sleeve shirt and light pants offering protection from the sun.

  Arlen peered at him.

  "Mr. Isaacs?"

  The old man turned his face toward Arlen.

  "Mr. Isaacs? Is that you?" Good God, the man must be older than Moses!

  "Who's that? I can't see you," the old man said.

  "Arlen Hirsch."

  "Arlen Hirsch the usher?"

  "Yes, sir. You are Mr. Isaacs, aren't you?"

  "Arlen, you came back. The theater is closed, you know. You can't get your job back. No more Cairo, Arlen. I come here most days just to sit and look at it. I can't see any more, but I like to come and sit. You must be all grown up now, Arlen."

  That brought a smile. "Yes, Mr. Isaacs."

  The old man hummed tunelessly. It went on so long, Arlen thought he'd forgotten him, or maybe he had fallen asleep, but then the old man said, "How old are you, Arlen Hirsch?"

  Arlen told him.

  The old man said, "Really? Really? If you're that old now, then I must be—" He shook his head slowly. "No, no, that's impossible." After a pause he said, "Here's your bus, Arlen."

  "It is?"

  "Coming, it's coming," the old man nodded toward Surfside, farther uptown. "I can tell. I know by the sound."

  Arlen looked. The bus was a block away, approaching slowly, the late afternoon sun glinting off its metal body and shield-like windows.

  "How will you get home, Mr. Isaacs?"

  "Don't worry about me, Arlen. My daughter comes for me every day. No, that's wrong. I mean my granddaughter." He took off his hat and rubbed his forehead. "No, my great-granddaughter. That's who. She comes for me every day. You go ahead. Remember, I come here every day. Almost every day. Good-bye, Arlen. Say good-bye to the Cairo."

  ***

  For dinner they went to Joe's Stone Crabs in South Beach. Everyone had to clean up first, to rid themselves of the day's perspiration. Arlen had a layer of dust to deal with, but their opulent suite had wonderful showers and he luxuriated under the spray and lay on top of the bed for half an hour before dressing.

  He knew he was being quiet during dinner. He hoped that no one would press him about his day, and fortunately no one did. Clarissa and the Gennarios had pooled their bets and come away almost two hundred dollars ahead.

  "Love those doggies," Norm said, "I just love those doggies. You should have been along, Arlen, you would have had a great time. We were losing money most of the afternoon, and then came the last race. Nobody knew nothing about these dogs, you know? They had a racing form but nobody knew nothing, we didn't have time to study the charts, so how did we decide?"

  Before Arlen could answer, Nettie said, "Wait,
Norman, wait. Tell 'em who picked the winner."

  "You did. Okay, Nettie, you did. You tell 'em."

  "Clar and I. We picked the winner, Arlen. You should have been there. Norman wanted to bet on the favorite, you know? A dog named Far Centaurus. Can you imagine? That's a stupid name for a dog."

  Norman growled.

  "For cripes sake, Nettie, if you want to tell 'em, tell 'em, and if you don't want to tell 'em, say so and I'll tell 'em."

  Clarissa had been working on a crab leg with a pair of pliers. She put down the pliers with a clatter. "Norman had been playing favorites all afternoon and losing, so Nettie and I made him put a bundle on the longest shot in the race. A bundle, Arlen. I mean, a bundle. Can you guess what the dog's name was? You can't? It was Mussolini. Can you imagine sticking a poor doggie with a name like that? Why would anybody name a dog Mussolini? He won going away and we got back everything we'd lost and two hundred dollars profit. Two hundred dollars, Arlen."

  He had trouble sleeping that night. They'd shared a cab back to the Fontainebleau, paused in the lobby bar for a nightcap, and gone upstairs.

  Clarissa found Arlen standing on the balcony, watching the surf as it ran up on the beach and then retreated, bright moonlight reflecting off the Atlantic. A ship stood silhouetted against the horizon.

  "Arlen?"

  He nodded in response, not knowing whether she observed the movement or not.

  "Arlen, are you mad at me?"

  He shook his head abstractedly, focusing on the ship, a black freighter in all probability, headed perhaps for Bilbao. "No," he managed.

  "Because I was a little bit loud at dinner, wasn't I? I was a little bit tipsy. I mean, Norman is a lovely man but sometimes he seems to get too full of himself. He was picking greyhounds all afternoon and Nettie and I had ideas and he just brushed us aside and kept making bets and kept losing, and then we both picked Mussolini and made him bet on him, we made him bet on him, and Mussolini won and we won all that money, oh, Arlen, you would have loved it. I know he's your friend but you know what I mean. He couldn't decide whether to be happy because we won or angry because he didn't pick a winner all day and Nettie and I picked a long shot and he won. Arlen, you would have loved it."

  Arlen said, "It's all right, Clar sweetheart. It's all right. I'm glad you won the money. You and Nettie." He gripped the railing with both hands.

  "Won't you come to bed, Arlen? I miss you in bed."

  "In a little while."

  "Is something the matter?"

  "You know what, Clar? I miss the palms. At home it's all different. In Indiana it's all right. But not in Florida. I grew up with my windows open and the palm fronds clattering in the breeze. Did you know the palm fronds make a real clattering sound when the wind blows?"

  "No."

  Why did she sound frightened?

  "They do. They did. I loved this place. Now it's all different. Now there's just the hiss of the air conditioning. So I can't sleep."

  "You slept last night."

  "I was tired."

  "Arlen."

  "Please go to bed. I'll be in in a little while."

  The next day he begged off again. The girls were going on a shopping spree and Norm wanted Arlen to play golf with him. "It's our lucky day, Arlen. I can feel it. We won this vacation. We won at the doggies. Come on."

  Arlen begged off. He said he wasn't up to it. He told Norm that he could pick up some partners, make a casual foursome. "Good luck, Norm. I'm sure you'll win. We'll meet the girls back here afterwards and celebrate. After all, this is our last night in town. Some vacation. Long weekend is more like it. Well, who can complain, for the price of a raffle ticket?"

  He stood on the corner until the bus came and he paid the senior discount price and rode up Collins Avenue looking at all the familiar sights and at all the changes. When the bus pulled to the curb at his stop he climbed off, waited for the light to change, and crossed the avenue. He had brought his flashlight with him.

  Someone had pasted crudely-lettered signs on the plywood pleading, SAVE THE CAIRO! IT ISN'T TOO LATE! Someone else had posted a professionally-printed notice advertising Cairo Condos on Collins, with an artist's rendering of a modern high-rise residential tower and a plastic dispenser full of promotional brochures.

  Arlen looked over his shoulder, feeling vaguely guilty, and made his way down the alley between and theater and the now candy-less Kaplan's Kandy Kastle. He worked his trick on the iron delivery doors, scrambled through the narrow opening, and pulled the doors shut behind him. He clicked on his flashlight and followed its beam to the rear of the auditorium, up the narrow flight of stairs and to the projectionist's booth.

  The door to the booth was unlocked, as it had been the day before. He edged it open and stepped inside. The dust was thick everywhere except where he saw his own day-old footprints. The heavy wooden table that the projector had stood on was still there, its surface scratched, cracked and dry, but there was no sign of the projector. It could hardly have been sold. It was far too old and too difficult to maintain. Arlen remembered Mr. Hopkinson showing him how to thread it. Not only did the thirty-five millimeter film have to pass through the complex series of gates in the correct order, but every loop had to be of the exact right size or the sound wouldn't synch with the actors' movements. He knew how audiences reacted when the actors' lips moved a second before or two seconds after the loudspeakers carried their words!

  Nowadays it was all automated. Mr. Hopkinson and his colleagues were a dying breed. Nowadays every multiplex had an array of flat-pan projectors that practically ran themselves.

  Downstairs again he directed his light at the empty candy counter only to discover that it wasn't quite as empty as he'd thought. Apparently someone—surely not Mildred or Sally!—had left crumbs of popcorn or candy on the shelves, and a family of eight-legged scavengers had established a thriving colony amidst the ruins. As soon as the light hit them there was a scurrying and a mass movement and the counter was again deserted.

  Arlen returned to the auditorium and found a comfortable seat. He spread his arms over the backs of the adjacent seats and lay back, his eyes fixed on the screen. He felt that he could retrieve a film from the warrens of recollection, one that he'd seen so many times he practically knew it by heart. He could close his eyes and see it, hear it, live it for an hour or two, before saying good-by forever to the Cairo.

  At first it seemed a difficult decision, but once he started discarding candidates he realized that there was only one possible choice, at least for him, for Arlen Hirsch. It had to be Casablanca.

  The music blared, the Warner Bros. logo filled the screen, the images sparkled like diamonds and onyx. Bogie and Bergman, Ilsa and Rick. Paul Henreid as Victor and Claude Rains, the great, underrated, brilliant Claude Rains, as Louie Renault. Conrad Veidt, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Dooley Wilson, Cuddles Sakall.

  "What o'clock?"

  "Such o'clock!"

  "I'm shocked, shocked!"

  "Round up the usual suspects."

  "We'll always have Paris."

  "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

  The Blue Parrot, the Nazis, the Free French.

  He felt the warmth of Irma's cheek against the side of his neck. He slid an arm around her, over her shoulder. With her hand she guided his hand. He felt—he felt a stirring that he hadn't felt in years.

  Dooley was playing, You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss . . . That funny little rolling piano. He heard the tinkling notes but they weren't the notes of a piano. They weren't coming from the speakers hidden behind the screen.

  He opened his eyes with a jolt. The tune was Happy Days Are Here Again. He found his cell phone in his pants pocket, flipped it open.

  "Arlen, are you all right?"

  He only grunted. He looked around. The screen was dark. The auditorium was dark. He clicked on his flashlight, shone it in a circle; he was alone with the animal-headed gods of Egypt.

  "Arl
en?"

  "I—I must have fallen asleep. What time is it? Clarissa?"

  "Nettie and Norm are waiting downstairs. I'm beside myself. Where have you been? I thought something awful had happened. Are you all right?"

  He staggered to his feet, shone the flashlight on his wristwatch, stumbled toward the door. He was still holding his cell phone. "I'm coming home," he managed to say. He was still groggy. "I was working late at the office. I must have dozed off."

  "Arlen, you're not at the office. We're in Miami Beach. Don't you remember? Is something the matter? Arlen!"

  "No," he said, "nothing is the matter, Clar, nothing is the matter, nothing. I remember everything."

  Report of the Admissions Committee

  The scene outside Hutchinson Hall was a merry one. It was the first week of January and snow covered the rolling hills on which the campus of Miskatonic University was situated. The most recent storm had ended, easterly breezes had sent the last heavy clouds scudding into the highlands to the west and a bright winter sun glittered in a perfect azure sky.

  Young men and women sported new finery received from their families during the Christmas break. Couples greeted one another, preparing to settle back into their academic routine. A tall girl, bright sunlight dancing in her blond hair, threw a snowball at a boy in a bright red quilted jacket. Nearby a group of students were building a snowman.

  Inside Hutchinson Hall's gray stone battlements, in a spacious office, its walls covered with gold-stamped, leather-bound volumes save where space was reserved for oil portraits of academics of past generations, Tivona Sanders, BA, MA, Ph.D., Dean of Admissions, pored over a stack of carefully labeled manila file folders. Each contained the carefully completed application of a high school senior hoping to enroll at Miskatonic for the following fall semester.

  Behind Dean Sanders an ancient fireplace fed fragrant wood-smoke into a tall chimney. A fire had been laid by the building's porter and the room was comfortable despite the midwinter chill. From time to time the fire's pleasant crackling was punctuated by a snapping pine knot.