The Beautiful Dream of Life

by Domingo Zapata

  I heard it from far off. It was a voice I knew. Was I dreaming? Then I felt hassled and pulled and bothered. My mood at best was cranky and getting crustier by the second.

  “Hey, get off me!”

  “Rodrigo! Wake up!”

  “What—?”

  “It’s Julia! Please!”

  “Who—?”

  My eyes slowly unsealed and someone was in my face. I jerked backward as if struck with a lot of voltage. I spun away from her and rolled over on my stomach. I lifted my head up like a turtle and took a better look at her.

  “Shit! Julia—”

  “Rodrigo!”

  “What the fu—? How did—?”

  “We have been so worried about you!”

  Nothing to say to that.

  “You totally disappeared!”

  “Julia, I need to know. Do you have scabies?”

  “What—?”

  “Be honest. You have to be honest with me!”

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

  “Do you or don’t you?” I think I yelled.

  That calmed her. She spoke softly, as meek as a mouse. “No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t what?”

  “I don’t have scabies.”

  “Good.”

  She was still whispering. She might have had a tear in her eye. “Are you okay, Rodrigo?”

  I jumped to my feet and did a tennis hop like I was about to return serve. “I’m fine. Never better.”

  She seemed surprised at my sudden display of physical fitness.

  “Feel like an Olympic champ. Training for Tokyo. It’s in 2020.”

  “What’s in 2020?”

  “Games of the Thirty-second Olympiad. Tokyo, baby. Either windsurfing. Or sailing. But don’t tell anyone that’s our move.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Carlotta and me.”

  “Carlotta . . .” She uttered it so deadpan that even the letters were dead.

  I wondered then if I should have them meet. But maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Julia never liked being second fiddle. So I gave it the noncommittal “You’ll really like her” without giving her a full invitation, as in time and place.

  I mean, I didn’t trust Julia, either. I mean, I knew I was spiritually reconnected, but I knew she was not. So much work to be done. Real heavy lifting. And she didn’t know enough to know there was even a problem. But she would, and then she’d have to pay the piper, and the piper always asks for more than you took. You can’t take, take, take forever and not create a mini–black hole in the universe that rides at your hip; eventually, it will suck you right back through the hole you created at pretty much magnum force, and then: Ta-da! Justice for the unified universe. And everything goes back to an equilibrium. I knew that now. She had a Niagara Falls’ worth of tears coming. And then I felt bad for her.

  I took down a note in my spiral notebook. “So how are you, baby?” I said it softly, so as not to tip her off. So she wouldn’t think I was being judgmental or trying to mine her psychological quarries.

  “What are you writing?”

  “A note.” I flipped it so she could see.

  She read: “ ‘The Revenge of the Piper’ . . . What’s that?”

  “Poem. I’m going to write.” I shuffled one end of the spiral like a deck of cards. “Pick a card, any card—”

  “You’ve been writing a lot.”

  “Writing and painting go hand in hand.”

  She read the cover, too. No big deal. It said: No Waves.

  She sighed then, a huge release from her lungs. She was already feeling the pressure. I could tell. Let it out, let it all out, I said in a self-help way for her, but to myself.

  “I saw the new work. Astonishing.”

  “You did? Do. Not. Tell. A. Fucking. Soul. You hear me?”

  She didn’t say anything. Now I knew I’d been right not to trust her.

  “How did you get in, anyway? That spy?”

  “The door was open.”

  I was about to toss her out on her ear if she said someone let her in. That meant more eyes on me. She was lucky. Though she may have been lying. Not to worry. I’d set a trap for her in a few. Maybe now.

  “Want to ride the bike? Go check out the White Villages?”

  “No, thank you.”

  That didn’t work. That was like a dropped egg. Splat! Way to go, Rodrigo. I should have saved it for later, because I could tell: she was going to stick to me, stay with me, spy on me.

  “You hungry?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m famished.” I sprinted up to the house—sprints are good for ’20—and spun back around on the terrace. “Join me for—what time is it? Pranzo? Just pick up a chair, I’ll meet you at the table in five.”

  I had plans for her.

  I knew how to work her now. It was game on.

  40

  FRENCH LUNCH TÊTE-À-TÊTE

  I was chomping on a bocadillo and employing the tactic of appearing to listen politely to Julia while at the same time ignoring her. She sat across from me at the outdoor table, the place of so many lunches and dinners with my beloved.

  Then I spoke to her of my spiritual reawakening and fresh enlightenments. She did not respond in kind. Go figure.

  “Have you been eating well?” she asked.

  “The best. Bocadillos, churros, and the best Spanish coffee, café con leche. Minus the leche.”

  She looked at me with heavily weighted, sharpened eyes. “Rodrigo, look at you. You look terrible. You haven’t showered. Your hair is filthy-greasy. The place is in shambles. And I saw an eviction notice on the door—”

  “Really? How come?”

  “How come? You’ve painted all over the house.”

  “Those are murals. They’re supposed to be on the walls. ‘Mural’ comes from the Latin word mura”—and I spelled it—“m-u-r-a. It means ‘wall.’ Duh!”

  “But they’re not your walls! You claim you’re spiritually realigned. Is that spiritually aligned? You’re getting a reputation around here. A bad one. They call you ‘The Fool on the Hill.’ ”

  The optics of the situation likely didn’t look good from the outside, admittedly. “I’ve dealt with jealousies all my life.”

  “This is not jealousy! This is destruction of property. Look at the gardens. What did you do to the gardens?”

  “They nourish me.”

  “You mean you ate the plants?”

  “Roots, mostly, no nutrition in the flowers. It’s the only way to taste the Spanish earth. Good for poetry. Stems, branches, that sort of thing.”

  “And what about the living room furniture?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s gone. Where is it?”

  “Those ugly chairs? At night it gets very chilly. I needed it.”

  “What? For firewood?”

  “Those chairs were eyesores. They didn’t go with the decor, the paintings, nothing. I did the owner a favor.”

  “You torched his furniture in the fireplace?”

  I looked at her a moment. My face was pleading the Fifth. “Just kidding.”

  “Because I see a lot of ashes and soot on the floor.”

  “I have to come clean with you. I’m not training for the Olympics.”

  “Thanks for leveling with me.”

  “I hear the sarcasm. Be careful. Sarcasm is like hepatitis C. It comes from dark places, and it can infect the soul. The negative complex. You want to know why I’ve stopped training?”

  “Sure, Rodrigo. Enlighten me.”

  “The radiation.”

  “What radiation?”

  “It’s still in the water around Tokyo. Around all of Japan. From the Fukushima power plant. So, sailors, windsurfers, beware. Carlotta and I decided to pull out of the games.”

  “Rodrigo, this is crazy talk!”

  “Like Picasso said, ‘If you want to paint a table, paint a chair.’ ” I lit up a cigarette for grins, and co
ntemplated the smoke through my nostrils. “Maybe I’m doing it on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’ll leave. So everyone will leave. And leave me alone. And leave us alone! And let me finish The Unified Universe! In peace!”

  “I’m here to help you.”

  “Did you receive a call for help? Have I ever telephoned you once?”

  “I spoke to Rafaela. She loves you. And is concerned for you.”

  “She’s concerned about the money train. Slipping away. Because I don’t sell anymore. I’m out of the art business. The best thing I ever did, by the way. And that’s in direct conflict with her agenda. And everyone else’s agenda.”

  “Not mine.”

  “Look, Julia, just because we had sex a few times doesn’t give you the right to interfere with my life. Why are you here?”

  “I care for you. And your well-being.”

  “That’s horseshit.”

  “Have I ever asked you for money?”

  I took a puff instead of answering her.

  “Have I ever been on your payroll? Have I ever taken anything from you other than your friendship and affection? Have I ever made or tried to make a dime off of you?”

  “I would have to say no.”

  “I’m here for one reason and one reason only. Because I love you, Rodrigo. That’s all. But it’s enough for me. To be here.”

  “Too late.”

  “Too late what?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  “To whom?”

  “Whom do you think?”

  “Carlotta doesn’t exist!”

  “I’ve already proposed. On the bridge you and that traitor real estate broker crossed to get up here.” Just then I realized spies were everywhere. They were international.

  She rose and brushed off the dust from her jeans. “Will you come with me?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “I want to show you something in the house.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me.”

  I considered that a funny phrase for her to use, but I followed her anyway, and she guided me right up the stairs to my bedroom.

  “I can’t do this—”

  “Come.”

  She led me into the bathroom and stood before the mirror. She positioned me next to her. “Do you see me here?”

  I said I did.

  “Do you see yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are both here. In the same space. At the same time. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Do you see Carlotta here?”

  “How could she be here? She’s handling everything in Gaiole. We’re going to have a big-ass Tuscan wedding.”

  “Carlotta does not exist! If you don’t believe me, call her right now. Call her.”

  We went back downstairs into the kitchen and retrieved my phone from the top shelf of the pantry closet. And placed the call.

  “She’s not picking up.”

  “Of course she’s not picking up. Because there is no Carlotta. She’s in your mind, yes. But she is not made of flesh and bone. She exists in your dreams. And only in your dreams.”

  “But this is a dream. You here. With me. You see, what you think is a dream is because you’re in a dream. You’re in my dream. You have it backward. In reverse. In real life, she picks up the phone.”

  “Rodrigo, wake up! Snap out of it! Did you attend the bullfight a couple weeks ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Carlotta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she sit next to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you have a Russian hat?”

  “We both did.”

  “Okay—look.” She produced from her bag and held up a magazine and flipped it open to a picture of me in the stands in the Plaza de Toros.

  “Okay, so what? They got me.”

  “Carlotta is not there! That’s you in your Russian hat, and you’re alone. Totally alone! Carlotta was not there. She never was there. She never was with you. Only in your mind.”

  I must say, she had pretty good evidentiary proof. I was about to tell her Carlotta had gone on a beer run, but that would have been lying. Carlotta never left her seat on the bench beside me in the stands. Lying would have been self-serving, which is something Salvatore would say.

  “Dreams are tricky, though. You’re pulling out magazine articles in my dream. In my mind. You’re in my mind. You don’t exist, Julia. I’m creating you right now. While I sleep.”

  “I don’t exist?” she asked, irked.

  “And if you don’t stop this, I am going to wake up!”

  “Go ahead, wake up—”

  “And you’ll be gone! I’m warning you—”

  “I want you to come to New York with me. Take some tests—”

  “I’m going to erase you! I’m going to wake up now!” But I couldn’t erase her. She wasn’t going away. “Wake up, Rodrigo!” I yelled at myself. “Somebody! Carlotta! Akira! Desideria! Wake me up! Now!”

  “Some basic tests, no big deal—”

  I avoided her now and moved into the living room and plunked down on the remaining stool. Julia stuck to me like a remora fish and followed right beneath my gills, nibbling the plankton and algae off my neck. “I took tests already.”

  “Where?”

  “In Valldemossa. I had brain-imaging scans. They didn’t find anything. I’m fine.”

  “You were never in Valldemossa. You flew to Madrid directly.”

  “Then I flew to Palma!”

  “There is no record of you on another flight!”

  “Because I paid in cash!” I jumped out of the chair. “Come here—now you look.” I showed her the Butterfly Triptych and, next to it, a nude portrait. “That’s Desideria.”

  “That’s wonderful. She’s very beautiful. But that’s your mind. Your beautiful, beautiful mind that imagined this splendid creature. It’s the beauty in your mind . . . such a beautiful mind.”

  “Then respect it! She’s a doctor at the sanitarium. She’s very real.” I grabbed Julia by the hand and brought her into the dining room. “Here, look at the Brain series, there’s an fMRI scan, a real one I collaged into it.”

  “Where?” she asked. “I don’t see anything. Where’s the scan?”

  “I collaged it in, I swear! Someone must have taken it, that spy! That caretaker spy! Or this is a dream, a damned dream, and the scan can’t be in the dream because that’s in the other part of the universe. When I wake up, the brain image will be here, and you’ll be gone!”

  “I want you to have some tests at Columbia Presbyterian.”

  “I’ve heard that before—in my dreams.”

  “No—you heard Cornell Med, right? Remember, at the intervention? You agreed to go there. How could I know that if I’m not real? How could I pull that out of your mind? We have an entire long-standing history together. How could we have that if I don’t exist? How could you have memories of me, painting and collaging in your Beverly Hills bungalow, calling me a ‘passion accelerator,’ making love to me eight times in one day? How could I know that? You just confirmed we had sex ‘a few times’ five minutes ago.”

  And then she grabbed me by the collar of my T-shirt almost violently, and all up in my face, she whispered it to me, harshly so. “How could you have memories of me, fucking me in the ass in the Ritz-Carlton? In July! You remember that? How could I know that? Well, I remember. You know how? No one has fucked me in the ass since! And you were thinking about someone else while you did it! Her. Carlotta. Someone who doesn’t exist. And you used my asshole to do it! And I gimped and limped around all day long! How the hell could I have experienced that, Rodrigo?”

  My hair was now standing on end, and chills rippled up the length of my spine.

  “We have history,” she continued. “Where did that history come from? Years and years of recurring dreams with me? No. Because we did things on and off together for a few years. I
n the flesh. Sharing flesh. Shrieking ecstasy in each other’s ears. With our lips attached. Want me to describe your cock to you? You’re circumcised, the shaft is long and thick, and it curves to the right! How could I know that if I’m merely a figment of your mind?”

  “That’s the everyman cock.”

  “No, it’s not! Trust me!”

  “Cock Classico—” I sighed and looked away and paused to dwell on things. “I have history with Carlotta, too.”

  “A few months?”

  “Yep.”

  “You have recurring dreams with Carlotta! You want to see the hotel tapes? Of you entering the Ritz-Carlton with me? I’m the one who was getting fucked—not her!” She approached me again and squared before me; she toned down her voice, appealing to me. “I’m doing this on my own. Without Rafaela. Without Jean Paul. Without Rachel or Tex or The Raven. Without any of them. Do you hear me, Rodrigo? I have a doctor friend at Columbia Presbyterian. I want you to come with me and—”

  “And what?”

  “Bring Carlotta if you want!”

  Julia left me then and went back out to the terrace and on to the pool. I followed her twenty paces behind so she wouldn’t know. I stayed out of sight at the French doors and peered out. I felt like a little boy.

  She took off her jeans and pulled off her top. She unsnapped her bra, and her ample breasts poured forth. And then she slid off her peach panties, revealing the trimmed little bar. And she stood there. Naked.

  “Rodrigo! Come here!” she yelled almost angrily, in a scolding tone.

  I took small steps like a kindergartner. I felt like a kindergartner. I felt like I was six years old again. I stepped onto the terrace.

  She was standing erect and naked by the pool. “Come closer.”

  I did. A few more short steps. Then I stopped.

  “Closer . . .”

  A few more . . .

  “Closer still . . .”

  “I see your pee-pee.” I don’t know if I said it or thought it. I was getting confused.

  “Come here, Rodrigo.” She was talking to me like I was a little boy. I was a little boy. And I was getting a boner looking at her.

  “Closer.”

  I did until I was really close. I felt embarrassed, and I might have been blushing. My face was very hot and prickly.

  “Now touch me.”

  I wouldn’t, so she placed my hand on her shoulder. “Do you feel the flesh?”