Book of Dreams

by Bunn, Davis

  “Okay. Good. Who wants to start?”

  Nigel surprised them all then. He rarely spoke at all during the sessions. “I have the distinct impression that we’re missing something.”

  “Explain.”

  “Antonio, perhaps you would be so kind as to describe the events leading up to the night in question.”

  “I had just been named managing director of the Banca di Roma. Three days later, the president of Italy appointed me to a commission to look at possible misdeeds involving the major banks. The principal thrust was to be money laundering. That afternoon, I met with officials …”

  “Yes?”

  “The new chief of the ECB, the European Central Bank, had come down for his first meetings with the regime. We had lunch. He mentioned the ECB’s interest in our work. They were wondering if a similar sort of commission might be put in place to oversee the European financial system. I told him …”

  “Do go on, please.”

  “I confessed to him my fears for the banking system and the risks they were taking. Hedge funds and derivatives trading were hidden from view. Legally they operated as separate institutions, but they were wholly owned by the parent banks. These same banks also carried all the liabilities. The risks they were taking defied belief. I had spent the first days of my appointment trying to fathom the hidden structures within my own bank. These traders were setting up leveraged bets larger than the bank’s entire asset base. Every day.”

  “What was this gentleman’s name, please?”

  Antonio waved that aside. “It doesn’t matter. He retired soon after. But there was another man with him. The new assistant secretary of the Treasury had arrived the same day as the ECB chief. They were old friends. They met with me together.”

  Lawrence said softly, “It was Easton Grey, wasn’t it. The man I debated on Larry King’s show.”

  “How did you know?”

  Lawrence glanced at his wife. “He and I go way back.”

  “After Francesca’s death, I resigned. I could not possibly go on. It was over a year later that I accepted the Vatican’s offer of a consultancy. I did it mainly to fill the hours.” Antonio’s face was plowed with sorrowful lines. “Did I murder my wife?”

  “How dare you ask such a question!”

  The vehemence in Shirley Wainwright’s voice shocked them all. She continued, “Did I murder my husband by praying that God might open his heart and reveal himself? Did Miriam cause Elena to lose her home by giving her the book of dreams?”

  “I didn’t say anything—”

  “No. Of course not. You only suggested that because you tried to take a moral stand, you had a role in your wife’s death. You profane her memory with such thoughts.”

  Antonio nodded slowly. “You are, of course, correct. But to think that perhaps Francesca might still be …” He shook his head. “My heart has shouted the same thing ever since I saw the photo of us together. All day long, I have heard nothing else.”

  Elena said it for him. “You would do anything, give up anything, just to have her back with you again.”

  Antonio’s gaze reminded her of fractured gemstones. “You are no doubt a remarkable analyst.”

  Shirley Wainwright said, “Can you hear her response to this, Antonio?”

  His shattered gaze remained on Elena.

  “Can you listen beyond your sorrow and the day’s events, and listen to what she would say? What she is saying?” Shirley gave that a moment, then went on, “Wouldn’t Francesca want you to go forward with this? Isn’t she urging you to hold fast to your call?”

  44

  As soon as the meeting ended, Elena walked over to Antonio and said, “Why don’t we go get a bite to eat.”

  Janine said, “They’re about to serve a salad buffet for all the workers.”

  Shirley huffed a quiet laugh. “The lady wasn’t talking just about food.”

  Janine reddened. “I do beg your pardon.”

  Antonio said, “I would like that. Very much.”

  Nigel was having a quiet word with Gerald and three men by the stairs. When Elena approached, Nigel said, “Something’s come up on another job. I must leave. And a producer with ITV Television just rang. They want to film another interview.”

  Antonio said to Elena, “I can’t. Not now.”

  “Ask Lawrence to handle it,” Elena told Nigel. “I’m getting Antonio out of here. We both need a break.”

  Gerald said to his boss, “I can’t be in two places at once.”

  Elena saw that Nigel wanted to order them to stay. She tightened her hold on Antonio’s arm and said, “We are just going to the market for a bite.”

  Nigel said to Gerald, “Now’s as good a time as any to test our new helpers. You stay and monitor the incoming crew. Have a couple of these gentlemen accompany Elena and Antonio.”

  They left the shelter by the side door. Clouds brooded heavy and ominous, but at least the rain had stopped. The air was very warm, very close. They crossed the street and walked up a block. The road was shut to all but bus and taxi traffic. Where the street did a loop around the shopping mall, a space had been formed for the regional bus services. Behind the glass bus shelters was a small park.

  The narrow expanse of green was filled with people Elena recognized from the shelter. In the past, when she met her patients in public, Elena had learned never to approach them or give any sign she saw them at all. Many patients were very embarrassed, as though they were sharing a deep and shameful act. But here today, almost everyone she passed met her with smiles. Even so, no one approached her. Elena realized it was probably because they thought she would be ashamed of them.

  She said to Antonio, “I need a minute.”

  Elena then turned and spoke to the two men shadowing their footsteps. “I want to speak with those people over there. Please stay well back.”

  She walked around the park. Not stopping. Just making a point of greeting each of her patients, offering a few words. The pleasure they showed twisted her heart. As she walked, she realized they were using the tiny park as a back garden. Sitting crammed into the benches or resting on the damp grass, watching the kids play, having a quiet word, taking what ease they could find. Only one of those she passed slowed her passage, a man from the group session, who said, “I got what I asked for, Doc.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The miracle. I did like you said, wrote down the problem and the need. I thought it was a bit of old rubbish, truth be told, writing down my hope. But I see it now, how I go straight on to the next thing, like I’ve got blinders on. All I want to see is the next problem. Got to stop and accept the answer to know there’s been a miracle. Right, Doc?”

  “This is very important. After I open tonight’s session with the Bible reading, I want you to share with the group what you just told me. Will you do that?”

  He puffed up measurably. “Sure thing, Doc.”

  “Thank you.” She walked back to where Antonio waited and retook hold of his arm. “All right. I’m ready.”

  A street band played at the market’s entrance, four Anglos, none of them young, all with tangled Rastafarian locks. There was a drummer on a lone battered snare, an alto sax, a percussionist playing oversize Indian hand drums, and a guitarist with a battery-powered amp. They hammered out a jazzy rendition of a Stones hit from the seventies. They were very good, and had attracted a crowd large enough to spill off the broad walk and into the bus lanes. Every time a bus from the outlying districts pulled up, the crowd pressed in good-naturedly.

  The park’s northern border was jammed with kids who screamed and shouted and danced to the music. Beyond the park, one of the neighboring shops sold CDs, probably pirated. A boom box blared Bob Marley from the doorway. Dogs barked and ran among the kids. Buses rumbled and brakes squealed. Elena took a deep breath of diesel, roasting meat, spices, and city life. Antonio spoke to her, but the surrounding din made it impossible to hear what he said. She looked into his eyes, shared a smile, and de
cided it did not matter. For the first time he seemed freed from the shadows he had carried since Nigel showed him the photographs.

  They bought falafel and soft drinks from the Lebanese deli. As they returned to the park, a couple she had seen the previous afternoon as patients rose and insisted they take their spot. Elena and Antonio sat on the bench and ate leaning over, so the yogurt dressing dripped off their fingers and onto the grass. When they were finished, Antonio gathered up their trash, then walked to the wall fountain and wet their remaining napkins. He returned to the bench and wiped her fingers like he might a little child’s, one at a time, cleaning them thoroughly. Elena felt her smile twisted by a conflicted heart. She wanted to warn him about her dream. But something still held her back. As Antonio carried the dirty napkins over to the trash can, Elena was struck by the thought that perhaps her hesitation came from the fact that the dream was not real. After all, it had not arrived with the two others. Perhaps it was just her old self trying to break this new hold. The sudden hope granted her the ability to smile at his return. Smile with all her heart.

  Antonio seated himself and slipped his arm around her shoulders. She slid down slightly on the bench, so that she could lean her head against his arm. She turned her face to the sky. Like they had been lovers for years and knew how to fit into each other’s space.

  The scene could not have been farther from her nightmare. Whereas she had dreamed of utter quiet and solitude, here they were swamped by the city’s din. Whereas in her dream there had been an incredible sky, blue one side and gray the other, Elena now stared up at clouds drooping with their burden of more rain. Antonio did not speak now as he had in the dream; how could he, anything he said would have gone unheard. Elena sighed deeply and snuggled in closer to his shoulder.

  She shut her eyes. A languid calm seeped into her bones. She could have stayed there for hours. Years. Antonio’s closeness was a blanket draped over her heart and mind.

  She lifted her arm so she could glance at her watch without lifting her head from his arm. Antonio responded by pushing her arm back down. She started to protest that her afternoon appointments would be waiting. But the moment was too sweet, the languid feeling too strong.

  The sun managed to pierce through the clouds. The effect was so remarkable that the children between her and the street pointed and stared. A rim of gold formed, like the sky was being split in two. Then Elena realized she could no longer hear the din. It was as though she and Antonio had sealed themselves inside a shield of peace. They might as well have been utterly alone.

  Then it hit her.

  Even before the thought was fully formed, Elena shot from the bench.

  She understood why she could not say anything before. To alert Antonio would have caused him to act. And if he acted, he would die. It was that simple.

  Then Elena saw the woman.

  The elfin attacker was dressed like the shelter’s occupants, cheap dungarees and a hooded sweatshirt with camouflage print and a fake designer logo. Small as she was, she could easily have passed for a young boy. The sweatshirts—and some who wore them—were called hoodies and were favorites with the more violent teens, skinheads and yobs and local gangs. They fought over grimy bits of council estate and used the hoodie’s wide front pouch to hide knives and other weapons. Hoodies generally walked with both hands tucked inside the front pouch, just as the woman was walking now. When they appeared in central Oxford, people did their best to ignore them. It was safer that way. Some hoodies used anything, even a sideways glance, as an excuse to fight.

  The woman wore the hood up and pulled far forward to hide her face. But as she passed between two buses, the same lance of sunlight invaded the shadows. Elena saw the feral gleam in her eyes, the little smile, the tight focus upon Antonio.

  The space between the woman and her target was packed. Three long lines of people stretched out from the glass bus shelter, waiting for their afternoon rides. They stood jammed in together to stop line-breakers. Even so, they made space for the small person in the hoodie to slip through. The kids in the park were not so disposed. Two little girls tossed a Frisbee with a barking dog. The girls could not throw. The Frisbee almost hit the woman in the face. She ducked and weaved, and almost tripped over the dog. Which was probably why she did not notice Elena running in from the side.

  Elena turned and shouted at her two minders. But the noise swallowed her terror as easily as it did her words. The minders were also not professional. They watched her with wide-eyed alarm but had no idea what to do. Elena ducked the Frisbee and leapt over the dog. It was all up to her.

  She would never have imagined herself capable of such a deed. Running toward a killer. But the act sprang from a visceral need. She had to protect the man she loved. Her heart shouted those words so fiercely that her fear had no place to grow. A man she loved.

  The woman spotted Elena’s approach. She scowled, and the elfin features twisted into a mask that looked not just angry but old. As though the cute little mask had been tossed aside and the true person revealed. Ancient and perverse and warped as sin.

  The woman lifted her arm from the hoodie’s front pouch. The hand held a small gun. The motion was so fluid it almost seemed slow. Like the woman had done it a hundred thousand times.

  When she aimed at Elena, the barrel of the gun looked huge. Big as a cannon. Large enough to swallow her whole.

  Elena did not try to dodge. To do so would risk the children and Antonio and whoever else might be behind her. Instead, she leapt forward, into danger, arms outstretched. Like she wanted to fly away and carry this danger with her. Like she sought to shield her man with angel’s wings.

  There was a little pop, nothing more than a firecracker of sound. A fist slammed into her shoulder, spinning her helplessly around. There was no pain. The ground raced up and slammed into her, hard as the fist.

  The pain hit her then. And the blackness.

  45

  THURSDAY

  Elena drifted in and out. The first time was when they lifted her onto the gurney. A blue-jacketed medic looked down at her and said, “Can you hear me, miss? Nod if you can hear me. We’re taking you to the hospital. Are you …”

  She didn’t bother listening to anything else. She saw Antonio hovering behind the ambulance medic. His eyes looked very frightened. She wanted to tell him everything was fine. Wonderful, really. But holding on to consciousness was like catching water from a stream.

  The next sound she heard was of metal sliding against metal very close to her ear. She opened her eyes and saw a nurse cutting away her clothes. A voice said, “She’s coming around.”

  “Can you hear me, Dr. Burroughs? Nod for me if you can, please. Good. Are you in any pain?”

  There was a sharp burning sensation between her neck and her shoulder. Something there was very not right. She could not recall exactly what had happened. She wanted to ask if Antonio was there. She knew this was very important. The doctor said, “We’ve given you something for the pain. It should …”

  Then the darkness swept up again, encasing her like a blanket.

  When she came to the third time she knew everything had changed. The space by her shoulder still hurt, but it was a different pain altogether. Before, there had been a sharp wrongness she could feel even through the drugs. Now it felt clean. Right. Healing could begin. She remembered what had happened now, the woman and the gun. Elena breathed a faint sigh and drifted away. Antonio was alive and so was she.

  When she returned, it seemed as though she had only been gone a few moments. Only now she heard voices. Men. Two of them talked softly. She felt no need to open her eyes.

  Lawrence said something she could not catch, but she knew it was him, the deep bass carrying a force even when quiet. Then Antonio spoke, not as deep and much more fluid, as though he had been trained since birth to sing his speech.

  The voices gradually crystallized to the point where Elena could make out the words. She could also place them in the room. Lawrenc
e sat or stood somewhere beyond the foot of her bed. Antonio was nearer and to her right, perhaps even close enough to touch. She wanted to reach out, but she didn’t because of what they were discussing.

  She heard Lawrence say, “I always let Sandra carry the faith issue. I delegated it to her. I’ve always been good at delegating. Staffers fought to work for me. I gave them duties and the freedom to carry them out. And the credit for doing a good job. Sandra was so passionate about God. Fine. Let her handle it.”

  Antonio said, “Then she started having the dreams.”

  “I was so worried about her. And me. And us.” Lawrence was quiet a moment. “I think at some deep level I knew from the start this meant the end of my ambition for the vice presidency.”

  “You have been in politics all your life?”

  “Congress two terms, back into business, then the Senate for one term, then head of the party, then business, then the ambassadorial appointment. Always climbing the ladder. Until God struck.”

  “I’m so very sorry, my friend.”

  “I’m right where I should be. I know that now. But when I look back, all I can see is my anger. Rage at Elena. At Sandra. At you. At God. I feel so ashamed.”

  “We have all failed before God. We have all been searched and found wanting. You know those verses?”

  “Yes.”

  “God called. You have answered. In your own imperfect and human way, you seek to serve him. Let the rest of it go.”

  Elena felt a single tear slide down her cheek, hot as lava. It was a delicious sensation, one sweet enough to carry her back away.

  She had no idea how long she was gone. It seemed like just a moment, a single slip down the languid path, a few breaths, then she was back. Sunlight glinted rich and golden against her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, all she could see was the light. It struck the window to her left and filled the entire room.

  “She’s awake.”