Макс Фрай - The Stranger

“The engine—yes, that’s a problem,” I said, crestfallen.

“Right you are. But listen carefully. You have to do something well-nigh impossible when you wake up. First, you must remember our conversation. I hope that won’t pose a problem for you. And if it does—well then, we’ll have to start all over again. Second, you must remember that all this is extremely serious. You have to convince yourself that some dreams can continue while you’re awake. And if it doesn’t work, you must persuade yourself to verify it. Out of curiosity, or out of boredom, as you wish.”

“No problem. I have enough of both in my life.”

“Wait before you speak! People are made in such a way that if something inexplicable happens to them, they write it off to an overheated imagination. You have only a few hours here to convince yourself of my existence. There I’m powerless to help you. All I can do is hope for success.”

“Have a little faith in me,” I protested, a bit hurt. “I’m no dimwitted fool.”

“Neither dimwitted, nor a fool. But the capacity to believe in miracles isn’t the strongest trump card in your deck. I’ve had the pleasure of studying you for many years now, Max.”

“How?”

“Not ‘how’ but ‘why’. That’s just the way it happened. I saw you here by chance many years ago. I realized you weren’t a local. Then I thought that you weren’t old enough to be hanging around in bars. Only then did it occur to me that you weren’t real . You know: a phantom, a ghost, a pale shadow of a distant dreamer. Around here such things do happen, but I didn’t sense any of our magic in you. That’s why no one caught on to you. Except me, of course.”

“And you—”

“I noticed you because I’m well-versed in these things. And you know what? I took one look at you, and I knew: this guy would be an ideal nocturnal replacement for me one day. And he’d be a pretty good one even now!”

I was stunned. It had been a long time since I had received any compliments, and such pleasantly unexpected ones were a first for me. Now I understand that Juffin was praising me in advance, as it were, so that I could more easily believe in his existence. No matter how loudly my common sense shouted that it was just another stupid dream, to accept the fact that the charming Sir Juffin’s overweening flattery was also only a stupid dream—well, that just wasn’t my style.

“When you’re convinced that it’s worth a try—if, of course, it comes to that—do the following . . .” Here, Juffin fell silent, rubbed his forehead, closed his eyes, and then commanded, “Give me your hand!”

I extended my hand, which he then grabbed hold of painfully. Then he began muttering quietly, hurriedly, almost incoherently, as though trying to keep up with some invisible understudy.

“Late at night, go to . . . yes, that place called Green Street. Remember. Don’t stand still, just keep walking. Well, for an hour, two hours—however long you need to. You’ll see a carriage—you call them ‘streetcars.’ An empty streetcar. It will approach you then stop. Get in and sit down. The streetcar will start moving. Do whatever you wish, but don’t take the coachman’s seat. It’s better not to risk it, you never know with these things. Don’t get nervous, and don’t worry. It could take a long time, so be sure to bring some sandwiches or other provisions. You should be prepared to spend a few days on the road. I don’t think the trip will take terribly long, but anything can happen. And, most important, don’t tell anyone anything. They won’t believe you, and other people’s doubts always interfere with real magic.”

Finally, he let go of my hand, opened his eyes, and smiled.

“Remember that last bit of advice well—it will come in handy in the future. Is everything clear?”

“Yes,” I said, rubbing my sore extremity.

“Will you do this, Max?”

“Sure I will. But streetcars don’t run on Green Street.”

“Maybe not . . .” Juffin said indifferently. “What, did you plan to travel between worlds on an ordinary streetcar? By the way, what’s a streetcar?”

When I woke up, I didn’t have to make any extra effort to remember my dream. I remembered it down to the most minute detail. Trying to figure out where I was at that very moment proved to be more difficult, but I managed.

It was three in the afternoon. I made myself some coffee. Then I sat in an armchair with my cup, and with the first, best cigarette of the day, intent on mulling over everything. By the last gulp, I decided there was nothing more to think about. Even if it was an ordinary dream, what did I have to lose? Taking a walk to Green Street wasn’t much trouble. I like to walk, and I didn’t have anything to do at night. But if the dream was prophetic . . . then it was the chance of a lifetime!

There was nothing to keep me here. My life stretched before me like a meaningless, empty expanse.

There wasn’t even anyone I needed to call to say goodbye to.

Well, there were, of course, people to call. A good fifty names in my telephone book, which I had acquired only a month ago. But there was no one I wanted to talk to, much less see. Maybe I was just depressed. In that case, long live depression! That hypothetical malady made it very easy for me to make the most important decision in my life. It surprises me to this day.

I was possessed by a strangely pleasant lightheadedness. I was moved neither to try to put my effects in order, nor to share my plans with trusted friends. I spent the evening not in tormented deliberation, but over endless cups of tea in front of the TV. Even the last episode of Twin Peaks didn’t seem to me to be a bad omen. I just thought that if I had been Agent Cooper I would probably have continued wandering around the Black Wigwam—anything was better than returning to reality and messing up the lives of others, along with one’s own.

Rather, I behaved as though the most intriguing event of the evening would be the ritual of taking out the trash. Packing my backpack with only a thermos of coffee and a three-day supply of sandwiches, I felt like a first-class idiot, but I thought that even being a first-class idiot would be a welcome change. In recent years I had been a paragon of sensible behavior, and the results were not impressive.

I left home at one o’clock in the morning, and it took me about twenty minutes to Green Street. I had to hang around there for quite a while. One of the last things I recall in that world was the sight of the enormous numbers on the electric clock hanging above the telephone company building: 2:22. I don’t know why, but symmetry like that has always struck me as an auspicious sign.

The loud rumble of the approaching streetcar shattered the stillness of the night, interrupting my contemplation of multiple twos. I wasn’t exactly afraid, but my head started spinning, my eyes saw double, and I just couldn’t get my mind around how the streetcar tracks had suddenly appeared in the middle of the narrow cobble-stone street. I was able to make out a sign that indicated I was at the stop for streetcars following route 432. For some time, the number struck me as even stranger than the very existence of the streetcar. In our city there had never been more than thirty routes, at most. I chuckled nervously. The sound of my own laughter seemed so terrifying to me that I immediately stopped. Then the streetcar appeared from around the corner.

I wanted very much to peer at the driver’s cabin. (People have a habit of doing on occasion what they know they shouldn’t.) When I did, I saw a broad, carnivorous-looking face sporting a sparse growth of whiskers. His tiny eyes, drowning in abundant flesh, burned with unearthly ecstasy. It was hard to determine what frightened me most about his appearance. Let’s just say that at that moment I understood what a soul wandering through Bardo must feel when it first comes across the procession of Divine Furies. Ordinary epithets (“fear,” “horror,” “shock”) cannot begin to describe what I felt.