Marcel Moring - The Dream Room

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Title Page marcel möring the dream room

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About the Author

Praise for The Dream Room

Other Works

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About the Publisher

When, in a sudden surge of pride, he gave up his old job without actually having a new one, my father decided to build model aeroplanes. The Doll Hospital, which was just downstairs, was constantly visited by kids who came for a plastic Messerschmidt 109 kit or a Spitfire Mark V, but as soon as they saw the ready-made models that were hanging from the ceiling most of them wanted one of those instead. I had been there once when a couple of boys asked if they could buy one of those finished models.

‘They’re not for sale,’ said the doll doctor. ‘They’re here to show what it looks like. It’s a kit. You’re supposed to build them yourself.’

He always began talking louder when he spoke to these boys, like an English tourist in France who thinks that it’s only a matter of speaking more slowly and loudly to make yourself understood.

‘But I don’t want to build them myself,’ the boys invariably replied.

‘What do you think?’ roared the doll doctor. ‘You think I’ve got nothing better to do than spend the whole day building aeroplanes for you? Bugger off!’

He was a man of little patience.

Once a month, when he came up to collect the rent, the doll doctor would complain to my father. They’d sit in the old wicker chairs on the balcony that ran all along the back of the house, and drink beer. It was always evening when the doll doctor came.

‘In my day we did everything ourselves. My father even made me my first bicycle, out of the parts from three old bikes. Those modern kids can’t do anything.’

‘Everything was better in the old days,’ said my father.

‘God … How right you are.’ The doll doctor drank his beer and sighed.

‘If you sold them ready-made,’ I said, ‘you could ask more money for them.’ I was leaning against the railing, looking out at the windows on the other side of the park behind our house. Sometimes, when my father and I were sitting on the balcony, we played a game: we tried to guess what they were doing and saying in their little, lamplit cubicles across the park. Usually it ended in some sort of radio play. ‘I told you not to dry your socks in the oven!’ I’d shriek, and my father would slowly reply that drying socks in the oven was a better idea than making ice in a hot-water bottle (which I had tried once).

‘I don’t have time to build aeroplanes,’ said the doll doctor. ‘And I don’t feel like it, either.’

‘I would let somebody else do it,’ I said, ‘and I’d give him a few guilders per box and add that to the price of the kit, plus a bit extra. Nobody sells ready-made model planes. I think the customer would be perfectly happy to pay more for something like that.’

‘And who is supposed to build them for me?’ asked the doll doctor. He sounded pensive.

I turned around. My father shook his head with a barely perceptible ‘no’. The doll doctor followed my gaze.

‘Boris! Damn! You’re an aviator! If you … I’ll give you a guilder a box.’

My father sank back in his chair, groaning. I picked up my empty glass from the table and went inside.

‘Why a guilder?’ I heard my father say. ‘And what does my being a pilot have to do with it?’

‘You can have fifty cents if you think a guilder is too much,’ said the doll doctor.

‘If you want another beer …’

‘Okay, one guilder-fifty,’ said the doll doctor. ‘That’s as high as I go. I have my margin to think of.’

My father picked up the empty bottles and headed for the kitchen. ‘His margin,’ he said, as he passed me. I was sitting on a stool behind the bar, reading a cookbook. ‘He who gets rich because of him will never be poor again.’

‘I heard that!’

‘You were supposed to,’ said my father. He ducked into the steaming mouth of the refrigerator. When he reappeared, he looked at me for a long time. I pushed my glass towards him. He straightened his back and walked past me. ‘I’m not talking to you, Sonny Jim,’ he said. ‘You got me roped into this.’ The doll doctor laughed. I picked up my glass and went to the fridge. ‘That’s the last one,’ my father said. ‘In my day, a boy of your age would have been in bed hours ago.’

‘Everything was better in the old days,’ drawled the doll doctor.

‘Now he tells me,’ said my father.

When I came home from school the next day, the landing was packed with boxes with pictures of aeroplanes that rose up, grinning wickedly, out of greyish clouds of smoke, fire belching from their wings. The piles of cardboard were nearly up to my chin and formed a colourful wall that ran from one end of the hallway to the other. On one of the piles stood a glass globe filled with water in which was perched a tiny aeroplane on a stand. There was a note from the doll doctor taped to the glass. My name was written on it. I took the globe in my hand. It began, hesitantly, to snow.

‘For a man who sells children’s toys, he really doesn’t have a clue when to stop,’ said my father, when, half an hour later, he walked out onto the landing and found me there, amid the drifting piles of boxes. I still had my coat on and sat on the floor, the snow globe in my hand, dreaming about Hawker Hurricanes, Lancaster Bombers, and Focke Wulfs. ‘The boxes alone are good enough for you, aren’t they?’ He kneeled down beside me and drew a long, rectangular-shaped package from out of the pile. There was a DC3 on it, in desert camouflage, flying improbably low over a dusty plain, where long lines of yellowish-brown jeeps left tracks in the sand.

‘I used to fly a Dakota,’ said my father. ‘Just after the war, when they would let you fly anything that had wings.’ He stared over my head, at the shower curtain rods that were wedged between the side of the meter box and the living-room wall and served as coat racks. I followed his gaze and saw him, young and tanned, cap askew, leaning out of the window of the plane as he was cracking a joke while the mechanic was inspecting the left propeller. A little farther down, the sunlight bounced off the dull metal skin of the Nissen huts. High above the airstrip, where the tarmac disappeared into flat patches of dry grass, a small red spray plane turned its nose in the wind. ‘In those days, flying was just like riding a motorcycle,’ he said. ‘You jumped into your crate and took off, and if you got hungry you just set her down in a field behind a village pub and went in to get a plate of fried eggs.’ He produced a thin smile and groaned as he got up. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Help me carry in a pile of these boxes. We’re going to build a B17.’

That night I made mushroom omelettes, which we ate while gluing together the grey plastic pieces of aeroplane. The box had boasted a roaring flying fortress, her gun turrets spitting fire at viciously attacking Messerschmidts. What actually took shape in our hands however was a dull plastic lump with ugly welds. When the fuselage was finished, my father held it up doubtfully: ‘I’m beginning to understand why they all want to buy ready-made planes. This is a mess. What does he expect us to do next? Paint it?’ In the hallway, next to the piles of boxes, I had seen a bag of tiny pots of paint and equally tiny brushes. When I told my father, he grumbled to himself. ‘We’ll be the Fords of the model aeroplane industry then. If you file down the welds, I’ll do the painting. We’ll divide up the assembly per model.’