The Beautiful Dream of Life

by Domingo Zapata

  “I’m not sailing a ship, okay? I’m not fighting off heavy weather!”

  “No, I’m not saying that.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “That I think you might want to keep an open mind.”

  “An open mind to what—?”

  “What you consider definitely real and what you don’t.”

  I pushed back in my chair, becoming somewhat annoyed by the conversation. “Are you guys real?”

  They looked at each other. “We think we are.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  “But we can prove we’re real.”

  “How?”

  “Do you have your phone?”

  “Yes.”

  Desideria dialed me from her phone. And my line started ringing. “Hello, Rodrigo? The famous painter? The god of two universes?”

  I had to laugh.

  Then she hung up.

  “Point well taken,” I said. “But at the same time, maybe that phone call happened in a dream. And if you were part of another reality, it would not appear there. In my other life, Carlotta could say something similar when I’m with her: ‘Those hospital goddesses never call you, no?’ And I have other proof—”

  “Go on . . .”

  “The proof of my change, of my evolution, of my embracing of the spiritual. I was a selfish hedonist playboy when I met her. She has helped make me a better person.”

  “She has? Or you have made yourself a better person? Subconsciously, or consciously, or within your dreams? Perhaps you were ready for a big change and your mind steered you that way, to what you were seeking, to fill the void in your life—”

  I had had enough of the conversation at this point. “This must be a dream . . . On that note, I think I’ll finish my Scotch out by the pool.”

  Ana Paola and Desideria exchanged exasperated looks, clearly recognizing the futility of any further discussion.

  I walked out to the patio to make my phone call and looked into the pool’s glowing turquoise depths. Once again Carlotta’s line rang and rang without any response or recorded message.

  Our discussion at the table, combined with my consistent inability to contact her, did make me wonder once more if I was in the reverse dream—the theory I’d expressed to Dr. Abreu. That this plane of existence was not real, even the day I’d spent with Desideria and Ana Paola. The proof was that I couldn’t reach Carlotta. I knew she was real—she was the realest thing in my life—and yet I couldn’t communicate with her. Perhaps I was caught in another dimension, trapped between the two universes. I figured I would just have to play it out until I woke up from the present dream state.

  And with that, I ordered another Scotch.

  WHEN I WENT BACK TO my suite, the first thing I noticed was the plastic baggie of pills on the table. The pills represented my life in New York. I knew that was where I had obtained them, and I knew I had brought the baggie to Europe. It further convinced me that what I was doing now was a dream. And that my life with Carlotta was the root of reality.

  My fresh analysis went against my previous theory of the unified universe and meant that the two worlds were still separate—but in the reverse. How could that be? That didn’t make sense even to me.

  Was I losing my mind? Who could be speaking in such terms and be sane? I couldn’t really answer that question.

  I decided to turn away from introspection. I made a conscious decision to set myself free from these confusing thoughts, at least for the time being. And taking a hit of Molly seemed a good way to do that.

  “Molly Boy doesn’t mess around,” I said out loud, appreciating the quality of his product, and then I realized what that meant. It was another indicator that my New York reverse-dream life was real, but now I wasn’t so sure about the day and the dinner I’d had with these two hospital goddesses.

  Did the girls even exist? The rest of the hospital certainly existed, but Nurse Goddess and Doctor Goddess might have been total products of my imagination in my dreamscape. After all, I had a pretty damned good imagination. I was a real professional when it came to imagination.

  Perhaps we had never met and I had never even been to see Heriberto. But that couldn’t be right. I knew I had seen my mentor; I’d told Carlotta about it. I even remembered not telling her about Dr. Abreu.

  So maybe I’d left the girls a long time ago, after I had signed books and calendars for them.

  Maybe we did go on our road trip today and make some very sensual art on the beach, but it ended when they dropped me off, and I was asleep now, having conjured this evening by the pool in my dream as a continuation of the day together.

  Or maybe we just had dinner at the hotel and argued and they went home.

  Who was I to argue with two goddesses who might not even be real and who were having a party in some hotel suite located in some remote corner of my mind?

  I think I passed out then.

  28

  WORLDS TO JUGGLE

  When I woke up, I was alone, curled up on the couch. My hotel room was completely clean, the bed still made. I was wearing my T-shirt and sarong, and I had a colossal hangover. After getting dressed, I noticed a dinner napkin spread on the table. There were two bright lipstick prints arranged vertically side by side, forming the shape of a butterfly.

  I needed to move quickly. I had an afternoon appointment with Dr. Abreu, and I’d scheduled an evening flight to the south of Spain. I was groggy and had that spike working away in my skull, but I made it to the hospital with a few minutes to spare and headed down the hallway to the doctor’s office.

  Dr. Abreu, again dressed immaculately in a charcoal suit, Chanel tie, and Guccis, waved at me to come in. As I entered, he stood up and said, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  I followed him down several corridors to a familiar-looking wing. We continued to the last room on the right. As we approached the open door, the doctor raised his hand and indicated that I should not enter. Instead, we stood there in the hallway and observed Heriberto: to my amazement, he was out of bed, bending over and working—unbelievably—on a mound of clay. I watched him knead the clay to warm it, the requisite preparation for shaping it. On the windowsill, I saw an already completed sculpture in clay, a ship at sea. It was intricate and extraordinary for clay, which can be difficult to work with and can crack or even fall apart; but that did not surprise me. What surprised me was that Heriberto was working and that the magic was still in his hands.

  “Congratulations,” Dr. Abreu said to me.

  “For what, Doctor?”

  “You broke through to him. I heard what you said to him two days ago. Something must have registered, to release him from his maritime fantasies. Apparently, he shot up in bed in the middle of the night and said, ‘I am Maestro! Maestro lives!’ He did pause before adding, ‘But I’m a ship captain, too!’ The mind works in mysterious ways, Rodrigo.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. I was elated. “I can’t tell you how— I can’t even express the words.”

  “I know.”

  “May I—?” I said, indicating a desire to see Heriberto.

  “Not today, and not for a little while. We’ll let him be, to get in the routine, and not disturb him—not that you would, but it’s just playing it safe.”

  He wrapped his arm around me, and we left the Alzheimer’s wing. “Shall we get a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  As we walked toward the cafeteria, I looked out the window and saw Ana Paola pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. She saw me and waved amicably. But I wondered—maybe that entire road trip had been a dreamland fantasy. Perhaps we had dinner and that was all, and then I got drunk and passed out. Her lack of enthusiasm at my sight certainly would indicate as much.

  Dr. Abreu and I sat at a table in back and ordered two macchiatos, which were welcome, in my current state.

  “I want you to know I have what may be considered good news. The brain-imaging scans came back negative, so ther
e are no physical issues involved here.”

  “I’m not schizophrenic?”

  “No, not at all. At least nothing detectable.”

  “But there are times when an abnormality like that remains hidden?”

  “Rarely, Rodrigo. I think you’re fine. Maybe a little stressed, maybe something else. And this is what I wanted to warn you about. Those drugs you had—the cocaine, the risperidone, the powerful hallucinogens. If you are doing this frequently, or combining them, I mean, who knows what the outcome could be on the brain.”

  “You think the drug intake may be causing—how do I put it so I don’t describe myself as a total lunatic?”

  “Alternative perceptions?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s possible. Perhaps more than possible.”

  I sipped on my coffee, a big healthy swig.

  “Not to sound like a square, which I know I am—I’m a doctor, by definition a square—but you may want to consider staying away from those recreational drugs altogether. They can enhance volatility and cause mood swings.”

  “But I don’t really take them. I mean only in one life. Not the other, so, well . . .”

  He eyed me for an extended moment, perhaps beginning to understand me better. See me in the whole rather than the half. Because unlike most people, I had two worlds to handle. He was used to people of one dimension. But I had twice as much ground to cover. I wondered if he would charge me twice as much.

  “Have you ever been tested for bipolar disorder?”

  “Like I’m a manic depressive?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, never.”

  “It’s something to think about if your alternative perceptions persist. But overall, I would say, Rodrigo, as far as visits to the clinic go, this was a pretty good day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I thank you for your help with Heriberto. You did in five minutes what my staff has been unable to do in twelve years.”

  “Well, we do have history.”

  “Yes. That often helps. Or hurts, as the case may be.”

  I left the cafeteria and checked my watch. I still had time to catch my flight. I passed through the garden on my way out the front of the hospital. I made a quick stop by Heriberto and checked in on him from a distance. He was still at it, attempting a new creation. It was a man’s bust. On closer inspection, I thought it looked an awful lot like me. I told the nurse attendant I’d be back to visit.

  As I emerged from the hospital, a voice came from behind me. “Rodrigo?”

  I spun around and it was a vision—Desideria wearing a pair of bell-bottom jeans, hippie beads, and a glowing yellow T-shirt. “I was hoping I’d find you,” she said. “How did it go?”

  “Fine, I received a clean bill of health.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  I nodded and remained silent. I felt uncomfortable for some reason.

  “I want to thank you for yesterday,” she said. She stood there and smiled. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. A little hungover, but—I guess I drank a lot of Scotch last night.”

  “You did. Are you in a rush or something?”

  “I have to catch my flight to Málaga.”

  “You’re leaving today?”

  I nodded. “Now.”

  “Well—I’d like to see your artwork sometime.”

  “Yeah, sure. Let’s stay in touch.”

  I didn’t think anything intimate had happened after dinner, and I was almost too terrified to ask, but there was that napkin with the red lipstick butterfly kiss on it, and I had to know. “Desideria? Did something happen last night?”

  She studied my face and peered into the depths of my eyes almost clinically. “No, Rodrigo. Nothing. Nothing happened.” She paused, then nodded with a smile. “Good-bye,” she said.

  “Good-bye, Butterfly.”

  We pecked cheeks, and she turned and walked away.

  Back at the hotel, as I put my clothes and camera in my bag, a thought hit me like a shovel dug into my chest. I remembered then that when I had dreamed during the fMRI, I had told Carlotta about Desideria and Ana Paola. She had told me to paint them, that she trusted me. That meant they hadn’t been part of any New York reverse dreams or any other dimension. They were real.

  I took a taxi to the airport and tried not to think about anything.

  When I boarded the plane, I got out the camera in search of more hard evidence. I went to view the memory card, but to my amazement, there were no pictures. None. And yet we had been looking through them at dinner the night before—if there had been a night before, given this new clue. Maybe there had been no excursion to the beach, either. I was so fucking confused.

  But not about one thing in particular. I wrote a text to Desideria: Precious Butterfly. I’m so sorry. I’m mixed up. I have to work some things out. I’m so grateful we met. Thrilled we made beauty. Please continue to fly, Butterfly. Love always, Rodrigo

  The most convincing hard evidentiary fact I could hold on to was that I still had the baggie of vitamins from my New York life. I debated trashing it altogether, as the doctor had suggested. My thoughts seemed increasingly jumbled. I was mixing universes and dreams, and reversing everything over and over, but my best guess now was that the universes were unified. I couldn’t think about this anymore. It was all too much.

  I needed sleep, and flights were always good for that.

  “CIAO, CARLOTTA.”

  “Rodrigo, where have you been? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for two days.”

  “Really? I’ve been trying to contact you, too, and I couldn’t reach you, either.”

  “Listen, I’m coming in three days, okay?” Carlotta says.

  “Okay. Great.”

  “How does the house look?” she asks.

  “I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “No? Where are you?”

  “I’m flying to Málaga now.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, amore. Is anything the matter?”

  “No, no. Just had too many Scotches,” I respond.

  “How did it go with the girls? Did you get some inspiration?”

  So I really have told her about the girls. “Well, some, yes. I took some photos, but they didn’t come out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there are no photos on the camera.”

  “Not even of me?”

  “I’ve never taken any of you with this camera.” I’m thinking that sounds bizarre, actually. I mean, why have I not captured Carlotta on any camera or phone? I need to tell my mind to shut the fuck up. It is only serving to disorient and bewilder me. “I don’t know what is happening.”

  “Maybe the girls took them. Were they risqué?”

  Wait a second. She’s right! The girls probably took the memory card so nothing would happen with the photos, in order to protect themselves. I think they trust me, but who trusts anyone anymore? What if the photos got in the wrong hands and ended up on the Internet?

  “I feel like such a jackass.” I clear my throat. “Some are risqué, a little. The girls had never done a shoot like that before.”

  “Nudity?”

  The sensual imagery of the girls twirling on the beach is assaulting me and making me sweat. “Uh, some . . .”

  “Do they excite you?”

  What I need is an end to the splintered thoughts. There are too many splinters in splintered thoughts. Splinters hurt, too. “T-t-the photos?” I stammer. I am feeling pretty insecure.

  “No, the girls! . . . Of course the photos. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Jackass again. “Carlotta, I’m a little stressed. Let’s talk about what you’re up to.”

  “I’ve been spending time with my father. He’d like to meet you.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. He wants to meet this man I keep talking about. Maybe we can visit sometime.”

  “Anytime, amore.”

  My mind is flying around. But it
isn’t free. It is trapped. In some sort of—I don’t know what. “Love, can I call you later?”

  “Of course. Amore?”

  “Sí?”

  “I can’t wait to make love to you.”

  Jackass to the third power. “Me, too . . .”

  “Arrivederci, amore . . .”

  I return it and we hang up.

  Rodrigo, you dick . . .

  29

  HELP ME, RONDA

  We touched down in Málaga, and I woke up with a start. I took a private car for the hundred-kilometer ride from the airport to Ronda and arrived around nine in the evening. I almost got sick as we climbed up and up into the Andalusian mountains. I still wasn’t feeling well. My thoughts were still splintered. I paid the driver in cash and didn’t divulge my name. I couldn’t trust anyone.

  It was too late to meet the real estate broker, so I stayed the night in a local inn. I had fond memories of the city from when I was a boy, and I was happy to be there again.

  I had told Carlotta of my days in Ronda as a young teen, mopeding around, pursuing youthful crushes, painting, and going to bullfights. I had told her about Tanya, too, the girl to whom I first made love (or made folly, as it were). Carlotta had been crying with laughter as I recounted the big event in detail. The fact is, I didn’t know what I was doing. Once the act began, as I had no problem with erections—I received them spontaneously throughout the day—I just stayed still inside her and thought everything was just supposed to happen. Carlotta bent in half and said, “Dio mio, have you come a long way!”

  Even that memory didn’t raise my spirits. I wondered then about Dr. Abreu’s mention of bipolar disorder. I never seemed overly depressed. Usually, the only thing that could sour my mood was a hangover.

  I was tired and soon fell asleep. I leaped up from my hotel bed in a panic, sweating profusely, heart pounding. I felt pressure all over. I’d had a nightmare that Desideria had sent me back a text: Go fuck yourself!

  I quickly searched for my phone and scanned it. There was no text, thankfully.

  When was I going to get a firm sense of reality? Or was I ahead of the curve? Was I the one pushing the envelope on the human experience? Perhaps most humans as we knew them weren’t sophisticated enough to access a second life. Was everyone else sleeping like dogs, disregarding the richness of a dream life that was just as real? That was how I saw the average man now. A Sleeping Dog. Marching around, eating, shitting, sniffing pussy, looking for the next bone and burying it—in Chase Bank—unaware of the other beautiful universe that, when combined with this one, constituted a unified universe of dreams and consciousness.