I am a reporter. I tell stories. I tell each story to the end it selects for itself. Without rushing, like a condemned man, I carefully remove my sunglasses. I fold and pocket them. When I turn around to face the figure behind me, I see the face of the city editor disappearing behind his upraised cold hands. He rips his face across like a sheet of paper. It falls away coiling up in conical scrolls to reveal the face of Dr. Rodel Wilson in the act of raising his cold hands to his face. He rips his face across like a sheet of paper and it falls away to reveal the face of the Night Recorder raising his hands to rip his face like paper to reveal the face of the Night Coroner ripping the paper to reveal the palms of two hands, rising up before me, trembling, wracked with pain, covering my face, gripping the clammy features, ripping them open to reveal a darkly-shining and unbounded vista of new and exciting therapeutic possibilities.
The Somnambulist twitches shut the blackout curtains and feels his way to the cabinet directly across from his flat screen TV. Even though his eyes haven’t adjusted he doesn’t hesitate as he moves around the furniture of his living room; his hand finds the familiar lip of the jagged door without fumbling.
The cabinet is an Ikea kit he modified a bit. His outfit, too, is custom-built, commissioned from an Etsy seller he selected due to the care and attention that clearly went into her Star Wars and Marvel Cinematic Universe reproductions. It’s made such a difference, having it. Before, when he felt the urge, the Somnambulist had donned a thrifted black turtleneck and some cold weather cycling leggings. Now, he really feels the part, especially when he looks in the mirror after he’s finished with his greasepaint.
When he’d placed the order, the Somnambulist had worried she—the woman who made his ensemble—might suspect what he wanted it for, given that he ordered it in May. No chance of pretending it was for Halloween. But she expressed nothing other than an appreciation for the film, and sincere desire he wear it in good health.
He clicks on the TV, and it flickers to life. Seeing the title, bold and angular, sends jagged twinges all through his body. He sets aside the remote, and closes the cabinet doors—but not before noting, happily, that in the total blackness of his room the screen’s light makes everything perfect: black and white and sharp, just as it should be. No pointless color intrudes; no curves trespass here.
Through an inaccuracy in his setup—a slot cut into the door of his cabinet, so he can see the screen—the Somnambulist watches the film as he has watched it so many times before: heart pounding, resisting the impulse to bounce on the balls of his feet with nervous anticipation. He is, after all, supposed to be asleep.
Eventually, the subtitle he’s been waiting for comes up on the screen, and the frisson hits him, as it always does. Dr. Caligari has obtained his permits and is at the fair, ringing his bell, calling all to Step right up, for he is presenting, for the first time… Cesare the Somnambulist!
“The miraculous Cesare…”
There’s a legend that the first time The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was screened, women screamed at the sight of Cesare. Well, his appearance is ghastly. His face is flat and white; his eyes, sunken and black. His spider-lean body is but another prop in the fun-house world of the film, as stylized as the matte paintings or set pieces.
But screaming isn’t the reaction the Somnambulist had, when he first saw the film. He could scarcely breathe as the cabinet doors opened—the same cabinet doors that he now opens in time with those on the screen. All he could think about was what it must feel like to stand dormant, confined, enclosed, insensate, only to awaken when someone summoned him. No—not just someone. The way Dr. Caligari looks at Cesare… no one has ever looked at the Somnambulist with such intensity, such concern. It’s obvious that as much as Cesare needs to be controlled, Dr. Caligari needs to control him. Their relationship is symbiotic.
Caligari calls to Cesare; calls to the Somnambulist:
“Cesare! Do you hear me? It is I calling you: I, Caligari, your master! Awaken for a brief while from your dark night.”
As the Somnambulist looks at his twin, his mirror-self on the screen, he wonders what Cesare is thinking. Does he, too, feel a silent thrill run through him, as the doctor calls to him? Does he experience an aching yearn to obey, to perfectly execute the orders given to him? To please the one who keeps him—who confines, but also releases him?
Every command issued by Caligari the Somnambulist obeys, but before Cesare enters Jane’s window, the Somnambulist turns off the film. Over the years, he has invented his own ending for the film—several, actually. Tonight, as he shuts himself in his cabinet, the Somnambulist summons the fantasy where Caligari keeps his pet home for another purpose. Contemplating the other sorts of orders he might be given, the Sonambulist’s hand snakes inside his tight trousers.
Afterwards, he staggers to bed. Slipping down between the sheets without untucking them so they stay tight against him, just as he likes, the Somnambulist sleeps.
***
In the world of curves and color, the Somnambulist is called Jordan, and he works at Starstruck, a video rental place, coffee shop, and vegan-friendly cafe on the outskirts of sleepy Summerdale, Florida. In the center of the state, close to both to the tiny, private Pinehurst College and the University of Central Florida, Starstruck caters to the more hipsterish members of both student bodies—and their aging future selves.
Years ago, the Somnambulist was himself a hipsterish student. He’d haunted the place while getting his B.A. in Cinema Studies at UCF, renting any titles he couldn’t get through the university—sometimes two or three at once. Impressed by the breadth of his taste and general film knowledge, eventually the owner offered him a job.
Sometimes, the Somnambulist wonders if he ought to have goals beyond helping people find the film they’re looking for—the movies at Starstruck have always been organized alphabetically by director—but he likes his job. He’s the manager of the film side now. The hours suit him, as does the dress code, and the low-pressure environment. He also likes it when he turns someone on to a new film and they come back happy, eager for more. Starstruck had a douchey reputation for a long time—a lot of the staff would sigh and roll their eyes if someone came in asking for High School Musical 2 or didn’t know who directed Paprika—but now that the Somnambulist is in charge, it’s a lot more welcoming. He’s proud of that.
The Somnambulist still takes home a lot of movies. Comedies, dramas, action films, art house and foreign cinema. Given his broad tastes, he rarely rents the same film twice… save for one. While usually so scrupulous about noting what leaves Starstruck, and with whom, there’s no record of how many times he’s taken home the DVD of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. He erased his own rental history when he began working there, mortified by the idea that someone might notice just how often it went home with him.
Due to the Somnambulist’s breadth of knowledge, on several occasions regular customers have asked “have you seen every movie?” in amazement. Of course the answer is no, he hasn’t, but the question always makes him feel a bit proud… and embarrassed, too.
The other, ruder version of the question, “do you do anything other than watch movies?” is the reason he feels that sense of shame. Of course he does. He works, goes out with friends sometimes; does the normal things like grocery shop and exercise (parkour, and slacklining in the park on nice weekends). But it’s true—unlike most of his friends, his evenings contain neither hookups nor quiet evenings in with a steady partner. It’s not by choice, not wholly… the Somnambulist meets plenty of cute women whom he would gladly take home—who would gladly take him home. He just knows that while some of them might be interested in Jordan, none of them would want to get to know the Somnambulist.
“Do we have Save the Green Planet?”
He’s filling out some purchasing orders in the back room when one such woman—Claire, a relatively recent hire—pokes in her head.
“It’
ll be in the system if we do…” he replies, without looking up.
“Internet’s down again,” she replies, brushing her shaggy blonde bangs away from her eyes, and the Somnambulist realizes that indeed, Spotify has stopped playing the soundtrack to Nadja.
“You buried the lede.” The Somnambulist would never be so reluctant to get up, complete a task, but it is merely the whim of impersonal technology that commands Jordan now. “I’ll deal with the router… meanwhile, yes; Jang Joon-hwan.”
“Is it good?”
He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Are you asking, or are they?”
She shrugs noncommittally, and her small high breasts rise and fall with her shoulders. “Just curious. I like Korean cinema…”
Poor Claire. He’s profoundly not interested. Not only does he consider it a bad idea to date co-workers, he and Claire were once out with a group, and when the conversation turned to swapping stories about exes, Claire condemned a former boyfriend for revealing his foot fetish, calling it—and him—“gross.” If she couldn’t deal with something as simple as that…
“Yeah, it’s good,” he says. “Hope they like it,” he adds, eyes flickering past her, to where the customer is waiting.
Claire leaves, reluctantly, and he is left in peace to reset the router and get back to it.
The most recent woman who’s actually tempted the Somnambulist is a customer—a slightly different sort of problem than Claire, but related to his desire to keep his work and personal life as separate as possible. And yet, there’s something about her that makes him reconsider every time she comes in.
Dimitria Giannopoulos is a little older than him (her birth date is in the system) and lives pretty close to him (her address is, too). Beyond those details, and her fondness for series dramas like The Wire and Grey’s Anatomy and quirky rom-coms, he doesn’t know much about her. But, he likes her—and likes how her thick ass and hips look in the jean skirts she likes to wear; how her boyish t-shirts hug her big tits and soft belly. He knows—and admires—the way her smile makes her cheeks pop, and clowns around with her when he can, trying to make her laugh.
The Somnambulist thinks Dimitria likes him back—or at least, likes Jordan—but he’s not sure. She’s never said anything directly, not that he blames her. One never knows, of course, with customer service personnel. Are they friendly, even flirtatious, because they’re genuinely interested in a personal connection—or is it all an act, to sell what they’re supposed to be selling?
Dimitria usually comes in later at night, after she gets off work at her cousin’s diner. Once, she brought him his favorite after he mentioned how much he liked their broccoli cheese balls, which though neither breakfast nor Greek food, were a Yianni’s signature dish. He’d been so touched, but again, he couldn’t tell if it had been a romantic gesture or not, as along with them she’d brought back several blu-rays with hefty late fees. He would have erased them anyway, just to be nice—he considered it good policy to do it with everyone, in a world with Netflix and on demand services had very nearly killed the local video store. She might have been being nice, as well… but it had felt to him like an exchange.
Maybe to her, too…
Dimitria’s last week’s rental is due back tonight, and around nine the Somnambulist starts looking for her, eyes flickering up whenever the door opens. It’s a busy night—a local band is playing in the café part of Starstruck, which usually drives people away, but it’s also Vegan Churro Night, so it balances out.
Close to ten, when it’s cooled down a bit—night has fallen, plus they’ve finally turned off the fryer—she comes in, at last, sweaty dark hair swiped back from her forehead. The Somnambulist is pleased; she’s still in her work shirt, his favorite, for all it’s not so flattering to her figure, being the heavy sort of cotton that turns curvy women boxy. But, it’s black and white, and has the name of the restaurant in that obligatory Greek diner font, the sharp, angular kind that looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, or made of fallen columns.
“Soooo?” he asks, as he takes the blu-ray from her. “What’s the verdict?”
She pulls a face. “They released this on Valentine’s Day? It’s the most unromantic thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I think you must be mistaken,” he says, deadpanning, hoping for a laugh. “50 Shades of Grey is supposed to be extremely arousing for women.”
She does laugh; there go those cheeks. “Maybe some women. I think it’s gross.” Dimitria takes the churro the Somnambulist offers her; he in hopes of seeing her. Even though he’s been touching videos all night, he sucks the cinnamon and sugar from his fingers.
“Gross because it indoctrinates ladies into believing that abusive relationships are romantic?”
“No, fuck that,” she snaps, and the Somnambulist winces. “I hate that whole idea, that women are so naïve and impressionable that they’d tolerate an abusive situation because they watched a sexy movie. Or read a sexy book, I suppose.” She bites the end off the churro, but he feels her teeth elsewhere.
“I haven’t seen it,” he admits. “I just know what people were saying about it in thinkpieces. Or at least, uh, what they were saying in the titles and preview paragraphs on Facebook for those thinkpieces…”
She smiles at that. He relaxes. “Sure,” she says, after swallowing. “That’s the party line. But I thought it was gross for other reasons. Like, the viewer is clearly expected to empathize with the girl, but I felt worse for the white billionaire—which, let me tell you, is not easy an easy feat for a film to achieve. But even though he’s honest with her—very upfront—and she treats him like he’s a damaged freak just because he’s kinky. And we’re supposed to agree with her—that he should give it all up for her, because that’s what she’d prefer.” She sucks her teeth. “Plus, for being a Dom, he goes down on her like a bazillion times but I don’t think she blows him even once.” Her eyes bug out as she says, in exasperated tones, “Totally wrong!”
The Somnambulist’s heart is pounding by the end of this little speech.
“That’s, uhm, a different interpretation than I’ve heard before,” he says.
“Yeah, well,” she says, and takes another bite.
Though he knows he’s falling into the trap of believing that a woman who starts a conversation about sex is interested in sex—sex with him, specifically—the Somnambulist is intrigued by how frank she is, and her enthusiastic revulsion (if such a thing is possible) over the idea that someone ought to give up a fetish for a partner.
“I guess that’s why I go for black and white over gray.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, the Somnambulist feels like a dope. It wasn’t an even remotely flirty thing to say, not to someone who doesn’t share his predilections.
“Like black and white movies?” Dimitria leans in, putting her elbows on the counter. “I love old screwball comedies. The dialogue is always so good—that whole snappy back-and-forth as substitute for fucking…” She grins at him.
At this point, Somnambulist feels pretty sure she’s coming on to him. He decides to take a risk.
“Even earlier,” he croaks, then clears his throat, blushing. “Old silent films with high contrast… you know, like… like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”
“I’ve never seen it,” she replies. “You like it?”
“It’s my favorite film,” answers the Somnambulist.
“Coming from you, that’s quite an endorsement. I’ll rent it then,” she says, and he just barely hides a shiver, thinking of how he’ll get to hand it to her—she’ll touch the case he’s taken home so often.
“Sure,” he says, trying to keep calm as he turns to go into the back and retrieve it.
“You’ve probably seen it a lot,” she says, and he stops.
“A few times,” he allows. “I always manage to find something new in it, though.”
“I d
unno when you get off,” she says, and blushes, though she couldn’t possibly know why he’s blushing too, “off work, I mean, but… you should come over and watch it with me,” she says all in a rush. “I brought home some food, it’s in my car… probably enough for both of us…”
He’s supposed to stay until 11, but rentals have been slow, mostly just returns. Frankly, the Somnambulist considers this situation on the level of a personal emergency. She practically commanded him to come over to her place. He’s already hard, grateful for the counter between them.
“Sure,” he says. He’s never just fucked off in all his years at Starstruck, and what would it matter, really? The barista on duty has closed up before, and anyway, she owes him a favor. “I’d love to. Just let me, uh, do a few things, and…”
“Lemme give you my address,” says Dimitria, reaching for a pen.
“I have it—I mean, it’s in the system.”
“Of course,” she says, also awkward, but clearly pleased. “I guess… see you soon?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Make it snappy,” she says, and winks. “Don’t forget to bring the film!”
It’s not like there was much a chance of either happening, but her orders enthrall him.
***
Her place is half of a duplex. He’s impressed; it’s nice, furnished thoughtfully, and doesn’t seem like it’s been hastily tidied in anticipation of his arrival. She’s uncorking a bottle of wine when he lets himself in at her summons.
“Want some?” she asks, pouring herself a glass.
“Sure,” he says, and accepts it gladly. He doesn’t drink much, but he needs to relax. “So… want to eat first? Or while we’re watching it?” He hopes for the former, but doesn’t want to be a dick.
“Excuse me, but the Greeks invented culture,” she replies. “We’ll have dinner at the table and then settle in with the film.”
THE MADNESS OF DR. CALIGARI Page 27