by Lars Jerlach
“I honestly don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “ I don’t believe I have anything profound to reveal.”
I hopped around on the back of the chair.
“Ceci n'est pas une pipe,” he said, and looked at me inquisitively. “Everything is never what it seems, but sometimes what you see, is so obvious that you cannot make sense of it.”
He removed the pipe from his mouth and smiled.
“A long time ago, when I was a much younger man, I had a dream,” he said softly. “I dreamt that I was hovering or gliding in the air over a graveyard and although I couldn’t feel it, I knew it was cold,
because I could see my breath like small puffs of smoke in the air.
It was early evening and I was circling the air for quite a while, before I noticed a man lying on the ground.”
He paused for a moment as if to recollect the event.
“He was alone, but for the company of a black raven sitting next to him. I thought at first that he was dead, but then I heard him speak quietly to the bird. From where I was hovering, his voice was faint and I couldn’t make out what he was saying.”
He blew a cloud of smoke into the already silvery air.
“After a while, he stopped talking. Then he slowly reached out his hand towards the raven, but as soon as his fingers made contact, everything dissolved and I woke up.”
He picked up his cup from the side table and brought it to his lips.
He replaced it and leant back in his chair, once again disappearing in the shadows.
“I only had that dream once and always thought of it as an omen, but now I believe everything has fallen into place.”
He reached out his hand and his long bony fingers seized one of the dark chess pieces. As he moved it diagonally across the board, the light above began to flicker.
He let go of the piece.
As he did so the light went out, leaving us in darkness.
“I know why you are here,” he said.
I woke up in the galley.
I was crouched, back to front on a chair with my knees on my chest. I was completely in the nude, except for an old grey blanket that was wrapped around my shoulders. The blanket was hanging down on either side of me, covering my arms, that were tucked close to my body.
My legs and feet were numb under the weight of my body. I do not know for how long I had been sitting in this position, but when I attempted to stretch my legs, it felt like thousands of tiny ants biting me on the inside. I feel off the chair and landed heavily on the stone floor.
My legs were useless and both my knees hurt from the impact. I lay on the cold floor until I could again move my legs and slowly got up to a standing position.
I do not know what to make of the dream.
I do not know who I, in the form of a raven, had just been visiting. I have never encountered this man before and have certainly never laid eyes on any of the unrepresentative images and objects that surrounded me.
Although you might expect from their description that they were the work of a debauched and licentious soul, I do not believe that to be the case.
When truth be told, I found most of them strangely fascinating and some of them even quite beautiful.
I do not endeavour to speculate what the chess player realized just before I awoke. Your guess is equally as good as mine. As I have repeatedly stated, my dreams continue to be great a mystery to me and although they may sound outrageous, I promise you that I am writing down what is happening as truthfully as I possibly can.
He lay the sheet of paper on top of the pile on the left. After a while he stood up and stretched his arms over his head, then he reached down to unravel the scarf from the teapot to wrap it around his neck.
It felt soft and warm against his skin.
He fished out his watch from his pocket and flipped open the cover.
Forty two minutes.
He shut the cover and pressed down until he heard the satisfying dull click of the lock.
He walked over to the window, looked out at the sea and methodically scanned the horizon.
The waves were quietly oscillating and only the occasional spray broke the aqueous leaden surface.
He looked up at the stars and while searching his inside pocket for his pipe and tobacco, he thought about what he had just read.
He had recognized one of the pieces described in the dream.
He was certain he had read about the bicycle wheel on the stool somewhere. He believed the artist to be from Europe, but he found it difficult to remember from which country or indeed the name of the artist.
He scratched his head with one of his hands, while locating the pipe and the tobacco with the other.
Reading about someone else smoking, had promptly inspired him to find his own pipe.
He pulled out his pouch and the pipe from one of his many coat pockets. He would have preferred to have kept the tobacco in its original packaging, mainly because he appreciated the overall design and enjoyed the silver tongued name Evening Stroll.
He had, however, found the can too cumbersome to carry around, so now he regularly opted for the pouch.
He sat down on the chair and tapped the head of the pipe against the heel of his shoe. His favorite pipe was a much used, dark briarroot with a fairly small straight head. As he gently tapped it, a few curls of unsmoked tobacco fell out with the ashes. He looked at the discarded remains on the floor, as he put the head of the pipe in the pouch and stuffed the bowl with fresh tobacco.
When he felt an adequate amount of springy resistance from the moist tobacco, he put the pouch back in his pocket and patted his coat in search for matches. When he couldn’t find them, he stuck the cold pipe between his teeth, got up and collected the teapot, cup and lamp from the table and walked downstairs.
He replaced the cup and teapot on the stove and carried the lamp to the cupboard, where he opened the door and let his free hand search the top shelf for a box of matches.
After hauling out a piece of tarnished string and grimy spool of black thread, he found one tucked away at the very back and caught it between his index and middle finger.
He put the lamp down and lit a match and brought it to the bowl of the pipe. As he sucked in the air, the flame impulsively buried itself between the strands of tobacco. He gazed at the glowing snakes expanding and contracting in the center of bowl, while the smoke twirled in thick bands around him.
When the pipe was properly lit, he blew a plume of smoke into the air and shook his hand, both to disperse the smoke and to extinguish the match.
The tobacco was mellow and sweet on his tongue and he savoured the taste.
He thought about Soule’s dream.
He wondered if the raven in the dream was indeed an omen. Although It was no trouble for him to cast the raven in the role of the obligatory conveyor of death, he was nonetheless hesitant to do so. It somehow didn’t fit the general account of Soule’s expanding dreamscape.
He looked at the smoke hazily filling the galley. He held the lip of the pipe between his teeth while he used both hands to pick out the two cold stones from his pockets.
He replaced them on the stove and checked his watch. Twenty four minutes.
Before putting the kettle back on the stove he added a couple of cups of cold water from the bucket on the floor. He carried the almost empty teapot over to the sink and fished out half the old tea leaves. They felt cold and slimy against his fingers and he shook his hand over the sink to release them. He dried his hands on the back of his coat and retrieved the bag from the cupboard
and added another couple of pinches of dry leaves to the teapot. He folded the top of the bag and replaced it in the cupboard and carried the teapot back to the stove. He fished out his log book and wrote a note to himself on the back page, to remember to ask for an extra bag of tea in his next supplies.
He looked at the smoke unhurriedly unfurling itself from the head of the pipe.
He again thought of the dream.
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br /> He believed there was a certain complexity in the relationship between the raven and the people it was visiting, that went beyond the obvious messenger from the afterlife. It didn’t make sense to him that Soule would dream that he had taken the form of a raven, merely to visit people to inform them of their upcoming demise.
He also believed Soule to be telling the truth, when he said that he didn’t know why the dreams or visions were happening to him.
He checked his watch. Twelve minutes.
As he poured the now boiling water in the teapot, looking at the leaves swirling around in the hot liquid, he wondered if the black raven knew of the existence of the white raven and vice versa.
He poured a small amount of water in the cup and twirled it around a couple of times before pouring it back in the kettle. He replaced the kettle on the stove and picked up the two hot stones and slid them into his pockets. He then lifted the cup and the teapot off the stovetop, grabbed the lamp and made his way back upstairs.
He walked over to the table and carefully set down the pot and the cup. He removed his scarf and wrapped it around the teapot. As he made his way over to the window he checked his watch. Four minutes.
He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved.
He slowly and methodically wound the mechanism.
He made his way back to the table and sat down on the chair.
He flipped his coat collar and pulled it close, before reaching for the teapot to lightly swirl the contents.
He waited a while for the leaves to settle, before pouring tea into the cup. The steam spread like a hazy blanket over the surface, almost obscuring the amber liquid underneath.
He took a draw on the pipe and released a small cloud of smoke over the table, where it slowly intermingled with the steam.
He looked at the thinning pile of paper on the right.
He reached out and gently picked up a sheet.
The Actress
I was in a most peculiar space. It was a grayish white room that I can best define as round, although that is not an exact description. The ceiling was low and broken up into overlaying sections by irregular shaped tiles. A ridge, approximately a foot wide, was running the circumference of the room, between the wall and the ceiling. The ridge emitted a cold bright light through a multitude of narrow white opaque panels of glass.
The walls seemed to be made of a type of padded tiles, that were placed in a rather intricate pattern, from small to large or large to small.
Lining the walls were a series of strange looking openings, that looked like soft squares with their corners pushed in. Two of them were closed by grey metal shutters of peculiar design, the four others that were open appeared to lead into corridors or tunnels, that extended beyond what I could see from where I was situated. In the ceiling above my head a perfect circular opaque half globe was shining a plenary white light down onto a white tabletop that looked like it was made of flawless marble, although when I touched it, it didn’t feel cold against my fingers. Above and around the light were a number of fixed devices inserted into the structure, each of
them with a dark reflecting surface. They were not mirrors. They looked like photographs exhibited behind glass. A collection of glasses, plates and bowls were spread haphazardly on the tabletop, apparently with no regards to place setting or etiquette.
I was sitting on a circular bench of sorts made up by the joining of two chairs. The chairs were of an unusual design, made of thin white metal tubes with reddish brown cushions on the seat and the back. There was a set of chairs next to me and another two sets on the other side of the table.
A young woman was occupying one of the seats on the other side.
She was leaning back in the chair, reading a book. The long strong fingers of her right hand were spread out like a fan on the front cover.
Her left hand was absentmindedly playing with a curl of hair behind her ear. She was fair skinned and her dark curly hair was voluminous and unruly.
She had a high forehead and quite remarkable arched eyebrows over her large dark eyes. Her nose was straight and the lips of her rather small mouth were pressed together and slightly puckered, as if she was pondering a question.
She had a formidable jawline and strong symmetrical features. She was dressed in a mushroom brown jacket and a pair of loose fitting trousers.
The jacket had a colourful half circle patch on either shoulder and looked like a uniform. It was unzipped and underneath I could see her white undershirt. It was snug against the contours of her slim body. The sleeves of her jacket were rolled up on her arms and one of her boot clad feet was resting against the edge of the table.
Although she appeared utterly at ease, she gave forth a pronounced confidence.
I realized I was staring at her and forced my eyes away and instead looked down at myself.
I was dressed in an identical mushroom coloured jacket and a somewhat loosely fitted cream cotton shirt, loose white trousers and white boots. I had similar multi coloured patches on each of my shoulders. When I lifted my arm I could read the word Nostromo arched over a picture of two green globes illuminated by a bright yellow star with a number underneath.
I thought it strange that the title of Conrad’s novel was on the emblem.
My hands were pale, but large and strong and when I touched my face, I could feel a coarse beard, not dissimilar to my own, on my sturdy chin.
On the chair next to me lay what I first presumed to be an elongated black shiny helmet. However, when I took a closer look, I saw that it was the head of a most frightening creature. It was dark as Bakelite and had the appearance of a large beetle or some kind of dragon. It had a massive predatory mouth with rows upon rows of needle sharp teeth set in a sinewy jaw, under a wide curved head plate. I couldn’t locate the creature’s eyes, which strangely made it a lot more terrifying. Though I recognized that it couldn’t possibly be alive, it was so horrid looking I was reminded of the devil himself.
Next to the head lay a pair of what looked like dismembered webbed hands, with tremendously long saber like claws at the end of dark skeletal fingers.
I felt extremely uncomfortable looking at this terrifying assembly, so I turned my head back to the woman instead.
She was looking over at me.
“Are you ok?” she asked. Her voice was husky and a lot deeper than I had expected. “You look like you have seen a ghost.”
I lightly shook my head and rubbed at my temples with my fingers.
“I’m ok,” I said. “What am I doing here?” My voice was deep and somewhat rugged sounding.
“Waiting.” She looked at her bulky black wristwatch.
“One of the cameras quit and it’s apparently going to take a couple of hours to replace it, so we’re waiting. The others went to get something to eat, but I decided to stay here. It’s not worth the trouble to go back to the trailer, and by the way you fell asleep and I didn’t think it would be nice to leave you behind.”
“Where are we?” I asked looking around.
“Are you sure you’re ok?” she asked looking at me fixedly. “We’re in the mess hall. We were about to shoot the chest-buster scene, when the camera quit.” She paused. “Ridley was majorly disappointed because they’d just prepared John for the scene.” She looked at me. “Don’t you remember?”
“Of course,” I said, “I’m just really tired.”
“We’re all tired.” she said, reaching for one of the tall clear glasses on the table, “really fucking tired.” She raised the glass and drank.
I was shocked by the indecency coming from her and it must have shown on my face, because she stopped her hand halfway to the table and looked at me questioningly.
“What’s up with you?” she said. “Are you sure you’re ok? You’re certainly not your usual charming self.”
“You can say that again,” I replied, rubbing my forehead, looking at the book.
“What are you reading?” I asked after a while.
She leane
d forward in her chair and held the book over the table for me to see. On the top half of the front of the book, there was a picture of the head of a white bird on a light creamy background. The bottom half of the book was charcoal gray and a formation of pointy rays were shooting out from the body of the bird. The inside of the bird’s large dark eye was mesmerizing. It was as if the interior was occupied by a number of minuscule unchartered constellations in a self-contained autonomous firmament.
In between the stars the name Enoch was floating like a literal constellation. On a heavy grey separating line in the middle the title was written in black and yellow: The Somnambulist’s Dreams.
She lifted her hand from the bottom of the book revealing the author’s name.
“Are you familiar with his work?” she asked.
A cold sweat was rapidly forming on my forehead and I heard myself gasp in surprise.
When I recovered from my consternation, I quickly shook my head.
Oblivious to my obvious disquiet, the woman flipped through the pages rather casually.
“Neither am I. To be honest, I hadn’t even heard of him before yesterday. Bo handed me this when I was bitching about re-reading Conrad. He said that I might enjoy it, and you know what? So far I do.” She closed the book and looked at me.
“What is it about?” I asked, fearing the obvious answer.
“It’s quite strange.” she said and looked at me with her lips slightly pursed. “It’s about the dreams, or visions I suppose, of a sleepwalking lighthouse keeper. So far, I’ve only read a handful of pages, so I can’t really tell you too much about his dreams yet, but right now it’s just nice to have something else to think about than Nostromo.” She gestured at something to her left.
I couldn’t see what she was pointing at, so I stood up and walked around the table. On the seat of one of the chairs lay a book. It had a light blue cloth cover with the title printed in gold letters on the front.
I picked it up and held it between my hands. It was Nostromo A Tale of the Seaboard by Joseph Conrad.