The Experiment of Dreams

by Brandon Zenner

  “The fountain is set before the Palazzo Poli, a palace—that is now a museum—that serves as a backdrop to the fountain. The wall of the palace will be created here, with its marvelous columns and window facades. And yes, there are horses in the fountain, along with the magnificent form of Oceanus with his long beard, standing on the oyster-like coral, and the two Tritons grappling with their horses in the very center. Aquamarine water will cascade down from the rock fountain to the large center bowl, bigger than many swimming pools, large enough to sail a small boat in. All of this will be illuminated at night, just as the original one is today, and framed by the ever-moving ocean in the background. There will be nothing to rival this garden anywhere, in the entire world. You would have to spend months—years—traveling around the globe to see all of these sculptures, and I’ll have them all in one place. In one magnificent garden.”

  There was silence for a moment, just the squawking of seagulls overhead and the light sound of water far in the distance.

  The words, ‘You would have to spend months—years—traveling around the globe to see all of these sculptures,’ bounced around in Ben’s brain. Months of work. Years. At the rate they’re paying me, that’s what, like … He couldn’t do the math in his head. A lot of money.

  “Ben, perhaps I am a bit crazy. Maybe I am as eccentric as everyone thinks.” He seemed to be speaking to himself, facing the water. “But when art comes from a mind, a human mind, and in every way as exact as the original, it remains human, despite the fact that machines are producing it. The work still originates from a person’s mind, a living and breathing human being. You, Ben, happen to be that person.”

  Mr. Kalispell turned back toward the house and Ben followed, the tilled soil underfoot was soft and spongy.

  “So,” he continued, “you might ask: what is the end result of all of this?”

  “I, umm …” Ben faltered on the uneven ground and caught himself. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “The end result isn’t the garden at all, or my gallery. These are just hobbies, a byproduct of research. Profit is the goal. I would be a liar if I said it wasn’t. Lucy is the product. We will sell the machine to nearly every hospital in the world. One day Lucy will be for sale in stores, for anyone to buy. As for the Vitruvian Machine, when Lucy goes public, we will let people produce renderings of their dreams … for a price of course. Whole pieces of art—masterpieces—will be created and contrived in an instant, and we will have the technology available to produce them.

  “For centuries, artists have attributed their masterpieces to dreams, yet so much of our dreams remain shrouded in mystery, forgotten. Now, both artists and ordinary people will be able to record their compositions in full detail. We could have their art created, painted, framed, and delivered. Just think about it, Ben. Not only are we creating whole new fields of science, but also an entirely new genre of art will emerge. Sleep art, or something of that nature. Whole galleries will open, and best of all, the artists can be ordinary people, just like you and me. No professional experience required. And you, Ben, are our first artist.”

  Ben shook his head, trying to process the full extent of what Mr. Kalispell just told him.

  “Hot damn,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  Iain and Ben sat at a desk in the lab going over a contract page by page, with Iain explaining the finer points.

  “For obvious reasons, the work we have done up to now will remain undisclosed.” Iain kept his eyes on the papers before him. “Before today, you have never been an employee of Mr. Kalispell, Kalispell Industries, or any of its subsidiary enterprises, including but not limited to: Advanced Tomorrow LLC, East Coast Applications LLC, Kalispell Sporting Goods Inc., and Kalispell Property Management LLC. Involvement on this project begins upon completion of this contract, signed by both you and Mr. Timothy Kalispell's legal representative, which in this case is me. That is to say,” Iain looked up at Ben from the papers, “none of the work you’ve previously done exists. It never happened.”

  “Right,” Ben said, looking over a fairly standard liability sheet, picking out the words he understood. “I thought you said you weren’t a lawyer?”

  “I’m not.” Iain tapped the edge of the papers together on the desk. “I’m a little bit of everything.”

  Iain offered Ben a salary of eighty thousand dollars a year with a guarantee of two years employment. The salary could be renegotiated at that point.

  “How about a hundred thousand a year?”

  “How about seventy?”

  Ben smiled. “All right, how about eighty-five, and I’m thinking a share in Lucy. Ten percent of sales.”

  Iain left the room, dialing his phone. He returned a moment later.

  “Your proposition has been turned down. A piece of the business is not negotiable. He offers you the same eighty thousand a year—however, he will offer you considerable stock options when Lucy goes public. You will be given ample notice to invest however much of your own money as you see fit. I will personally handle your account, keeping you informed of the market’s conditions. My service is free of charge.”

  There was a silence as Ben deployed his ‘staying quiet’ technique, but after only a minute, he got the feeling Iain wouldn’t crack.

  I can quit the bar. I can tell Sophia that I work exclusively for Mr. Kalispell, and even if I can’t tell her about Lucy, I can at least tell her that I’m making a salary.

  “You got yourself a deal.”

  They shook hands and finished the paperwork, signing and initialing various pages.

  Ben left Iain at the desk to organize his things and gave his attention to Dr. Wulfric and Dr. Egan, who were patiently waiting to perform a routine checkup of his vitals and take a blood sample. Over time, Ben had acclimated to the injections: they no longer bothered him, and that surprised him. After the first dozen or so times they drew blood or injected the serum into his veins, he no longer became lightheaded or sick. Not like before.

  “So, how have you been feeling?” Dr. Wulfric asked while peering into Ben’s eyes with his ophthalmoscope. “Any migraines, headaches, nausea?”

  “No, not since Rome.”

  “How have you been sleeping? Any insomnia?”

  “I’ve been sleeping fine—but there is one thing, actually. It’s kind of strange.”

  “What is it?” Dr. Wulfric placed a stethoscope over Ben’s chest. “Take a deep breath, in and out.”

  Ben inhaled deeply and exhaled. “It’s my dreams,” he said, and explained as best he could through several rounds of deep breaths. He explained the fearful people and the odd events that were out of his control and completely out of context with the dream itself. Dr. Wulfric listened, taking the stethoscope out of his ears and resting the earpieces around his neck. He leaned back stroking his beard.

  “When you wake up, are you in any pain? Do you have any headaches, even dull ones?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s strange, I feel like … I feel like I’m not in control.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I really cut back. I haven’t had more than a drink or two, tops, since before we went to Rome.” As the words came out of his mouth, he seemed to register their meaning for the first time, feeling a mix of uncertainty and surprise.

  Is that true?’ he thought. I had more than two drinks with Sophia, but I wasn’t drunk. When was the last time …

  “That could very well be it, Ben. We don’t discuss it often, but the fact that you remember your dreams at all with the amount of alcohol you consume is astonishing in its own right. Especially since you work nights and drink late. Alcohol blocks serotonin production and shortens the REM cycle. Once you begin abstaining from alcohol, after long periods of heavy drinking, it’s not uncommon to begin experiencing certain degrees of delirium, hallucinations, an overproduction of serotonin, a rise in the body’s core temperature, and an increase of cortisol—a hormone released by the adrenal gland. Ha
ving these intense dreams is not strange, nor uncommon; your body is leveling out, getting back in shape. Also, it could very well be the stress of work recently: the constant traveling, all the jobs. In addition, you did just experience a severe migraine. Your body and mind need some rest. We’ll run some tests, but I don’t think it’s anything to be worried about. It is important, however, to be sure that your ability to dream lucidly hasn’t been compromised.”

  Ben nodded. “I had this one dream in particular, twice now. The first time I dreamt it was the same night I had the migraine, in Italy, and then again on the flight home. I’m driving down a road late at night, somewhere with trees—lots of trees—like in the middle of a forest, and it’s very dark. The road is curvy and the weather is bad. The second time I had the dream, on the plane, I saw an old wooden town sign on the side of the road, nearly covered in weeds and vines. It was weathered, splintered, with the white paint peeling off. The headlights only hit it for a moment, but I saw Drapery Falls—”

  “What’s that?” Dr. Wulfric stammered, his posture straightening. “What was the name of the town?”

  “Drapery Falls. Do you know it?”

  “No, no, not that I’m aware. Go on, please.”

  “I meant to look it up, see if I’ve been there and don’t remember. Anyway, the dream bounces around a bit. I’m walking through the town, Drapery Falls, the weather is misty and raining, and there isn’t a person in sight. The town is like a ghost town. The next thing I know, I’m in some guy’s room. He’s looking up at me from the floor, wearing only his underwear, like I just woke him up. All the lights are out in his house, and I give him something I’m holding in my pocket. I know it sounds strange. It feels like I’m doing him a favor. My adrenaline’s pumping, my heart is racing, and I feel nervous and jittery. My senses are very intense. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  “What do you give him?”

  “I don’t know. The dream cuts out before I take my hand out of my pocket, but I know it’s for him, and I know it’s important. I’m helping him in some way, I think. I don’t know.”

  “Interesting. Is there anything else?”

  “It cuts to me walking down the street again in the rain. Oh yeah, and I’m wearing a suit and an old-fashioned hat, like a gangster. It’s strange. The dream, the details—they’re just as real and vivid as any of my lucid dreams, and I was fully aware that I was sleeping as they played out, but I had no control. It was like I was watching it happen from someplace else.”

  “Do you remember anything else, anything at all?”

  Ben shook his head. “No.” He thought for a second. “No, that’s it.”

  “Run it by me again in as much detail as possible. The way the streets look, any houses you see, any businesses—everything.”

  Ben did as he was asked, giving every last detail he could remember.

  “Do you think there’s something to it?”

  “No,” Dr. Wulfric shook his head. “No, not at all.”

  “Do you think these dreams are going to affect my work? Because, and I’m serious, I had no control during them.”

  “I don’t, and I don’t think it will do you any good stressing out over it. The best thing you can do is to forget all about it.”

  Just then, Ben heard a chair scrape on the floor behind him.

  “Iain. I thought you left?”

  “Just finishing the paperwork.” He picked up his briefcase and walking toward the door.

  “I want to run a few tests, Ben,” Dr. Wulfric said. “Let’s take a blood sample.”

  ***

  An hour later, Ben left the lab.

  Iain watched Ben get into the idling limo waiting to drive him home. Iain sat in the driver seat of his own car, parked on the far side of the lab. The limo started moving, and Iain watched until the red taillights disappeared around a bend in the road. Once he was certain Ben was gone, he left his car and hurried back to the lab.

  “Peter!” he shouted at Dr. Wulfric. “Was Lucy running the night he had the migraine, in Rome?”

  Dr. Wulfric stood hunched over a computer screen. “Yes, it was running the entire trip. It was never turned off.”

  “Get it on the scree—”

  “I’m doing it, Iain. That’s what I’m doing.”

  The men hovered over a monitor at the control center behind the lumbering Lucy I.

  “Where’s Charles?” Iain looked about the room.

  “He’s upstairs eating dinner. All right, here we go. This is the night.” He slowed the fast progression of images on the screen using a swivel-knob like that on a stereo system, called a jog and shuffle; only instead of adjusting volume, the shuttle knob controlled the rewind and fast forward speed. A blur of artwork from the Sistine Chapel along with various faces, people, and the all-too-familiar cabin in the woods, flashed before their eyes. Then came the image of headlights making sharp turns on a dark road.

  “There, right there. Stop.” Iain commanded.

  Dr. Wulfric slowed the image to real time, and the video played out just as Ben explained it. They were looking out the front windshield of a moving car. Leather-gloved hands held the steering wheel, and the instrument panel radiated light in contrast to the darkness. The headlights illuminated pockets of mist that rolled over the car in thick waves. After a few minutes, a white sign became visible on the side of the road.

  “Drapery Falls,” Iain said.

  “Is this … is this it?”

  Iain didn’t answer. They watched the video play out until the person on screen got to the front door of a building.

  “Pause it, Peter.”

  The doctor did just that.

  “I think you should leave the room.”

  Dr. Wulfric stood from his chair and moved across the room from the monitor. Iain sat, his eyes glued to the screen. Several minutes passed … then almost a half-hour. Iain stood, the legs of his chair scraping the floor beneath him

  “Is this the only copy?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Wulfric answered from the far corner of the room.

  “Did Charles see it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. We usually fast-forwarded through the nonsense to get to the artwork during the REM phase, about an hour in. It’s like clockwork with Ben. The counter on the screen shows this dream began thirty minutes into his sleep. He must have entered REM early that night—there’s no other way he could remember the dream as vividly as he does. I didn’t watch any of the recordings from that night because he was having the migraine and wasn’t focusing on the artwork, and I don’t think Charles watched it either. There wasn’t a reason to watch it. I only saved this recording so that it could be studied later, since data during a migraine could be quite fascinating, especially—”

  “How did he enter REM early, is that even possible?” Iain cut him off.

  Dr. Wulfric went on to explain that a typical person enters REM an hour and a half into sleep, after the brain goes into the theta wave stages and enters the delta. “That’s when people typically remember their dreams. In Ben’s case, on an average night, he enters REM a full half an hour earlier than the average person.”

  Iain looked dubious, “So, how do we know he won’t remember more?”

  “We don’t,” Dr. Wulfric said. “Ben typically remembers only the REM portion of a dream, about an hour into his sleep. However, in Ben’s case, he can enter REM almost immediately after falling asleep. He did a test once with Dr. Wright, years ago, when Ben trained his brain to reach REM quicker by changing his sleep cycle. In the first phase, he slept six hours during the night and took a single twenty-minute nap during the afternoon. During the second phase, he slept four-and-a-half hours during the night and then napped twice during the day, each nap twenty-minutes long. This continued over a month, until he was only taking six twenty-minute naps, and not sleeping longer during the night. Dr. Wright monitored him for several full days. The findings showed his brain went into REM only minutes after he shut his eyes, nearly
bypassing the theta cycle completely.

  “Strangely, he reported that he felt great the entire time, not tired and miserable as Dr. Wright expected, and performed quite well on cognitive functioning tests. Ben and I discussed this particular experiment a few times—he learned how to trick his brain into entering REM immediately after going to sleep. He does it often, when he wants to take a short nap. When his brain knows—or thinks it knows—it won’t be sleeping for a long period, it enters REM much faster, as a defense mechanism. That way a twenty minute nap is actually a deep sleep.”

  “So … what are you saying?”

  “We don’t know what he will remember, because we don’t know when he entered REM. The computer was not set up to measure brain wave frequencies and patterns.”

  “Great. That’s fucking great. You let your personal feelings get in the way of your job once again, Peter. His brainwaves should have been monitored the entire time; especially since he was having a migraine.”

  Dr. Wulfric flushed. “Ben told us everything he remembers. As long as he doesn’t have another dream, he shouldn't recall anything further.”

  “Find out for sure what Ben remembers, and tell me immediately if Charles saw anything.” Iain ejected the memory card, sliding it into the inside pocket of his suit. “Wipe the hard copies from the computers. I have to make a phone call.”

  “Iain, this could be noth—”

  “Damn it, Peter!” Iain could feel the heat from his face turning crimson as the words spit through clenched teeth. The veins around his neck pulsed in anger against the collar of his starched shirt. He turned away from Dr. Wulfric, dialing his phone.

  Chapter 14

  Ben persuaded Sophia to travel to Baltimore again, only this time she stayed at his apartment rather than at her sister’s place. Not that she needed much persuasion. It was a long flight for a visit lasting only a few days, but there was excitement in these last minute arrangements, the kind of excitement only couples who have just started dating get to experience. Ben knew the day would come when these last minute trips—the long commutes—would become tiresome, inconvenient, and unfeasible; but until that day, the excitement they experienced when seeing each other, if only for a brief amount of time, was well worth the effort—not to mention the expense.