Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

Another idea: I carefully unfold the image of the painting from my back pocket. It fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. Looking at this picture is like being back in my dream. I sit there and watch myself watching the orange tree. This is somehow important. It’s my dream but it isn’t. It’s like I’m dreaming the image. Or maybe it’s dreaming me. There is a momentary distraction as an 18-wheel truck honks its horn. I spot Gert-Jan standing on the sidewalk across the highway. He calls out my name.

Reptile-brain pleads with me to run. To simply stand up and start moving my legs. I tune it out. This is more important. The painting of the orange tree holds an answer and it isn’t going to elude me. As I stare deeper into the image, there is an odd sensation that I’m already in another dream. A real-life dream, say. It signifies something important, though I’m not sure what.

Soon I’m not alone on the traffic island. Gert-Jan’s shadow drapes itself over my scrawny frame. He curses under his breath and removes his belt. But I’m not worried. For the first time in months, I can almost start to imagine what it might feel like to be awake.

I must be hatching plans behind my back. It’s the only explanation for why I’m so calm. I lounge on the sofa in the new apartment and watch indifferently as Gert-Jan signs for another round of deliveries. We moved here after he decided we needed “a change of the scene.” Gert-Jan rented this sprawling loft and set about masterminding some renovations. The floor is littered with a mystifying mishmash of materials. Stacks of lumber, metal pipes, acetylene torches. Rolls of black velvet, pulleys, ropes. Gert-Jan provides emphatic instructions to the workmen about how some soundproofing material should be installed. “My hearing is so sensitive,” he tells one of them. I listen to this lie with unusual poise. Not even my pinky trembles.

My eyes scan the swarm of activity, but my expression remains neutral. It’s difficult to say what I might be up to. These days I’m on a need-to-know basis with myself. My gaze circles back to the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. Most of the materials are being loaded down its corkscrew steps. I have no idea what’s in the basement. I listen for clues but even the clanging footsteps of the workers are swallowed by the darkness.

When the last workman has vanished downstairs, Gert-Jan approaches wearing a philosophical smile. “This is a time of changes,” he says. “That body you left in the last place created a hassle, but it gave me exciting ideas.” He tousles my shaggy black locks. “You cause the problems and I make the even better solutions. We are not a bad team.”

He hands me a bright yellow pill. I palm it through an elegant slight of hand and pantomime a swallow. No idea where that move came from. I surreptitiously slip the capsule inside the front pocket of my jeans. It’s the first time I haven’t taken my daily dosage. This must have something to do with my plan.

The rest of the afternoon I pretend to be strung out, but clearly I’m searching for something. There’s an unmistakable intensity to my examination of the white plaster walls, the curved arc of the ceiling, the chandelier with its dangling rows of glass baubles. I also notice myself keeping close track of Gert-Jan’s movements. He spends hours on the phone, talking in clipped and coded phrases, arranging more deliveries for the next morning. He fills his day planner with pager digits, account numbers, and a rough sketch of an unknown contraption. It’s hard to tell if this bothers me. I watch myself for clues, but I’m not giving anything away.

At night I can’t sleep. My body feels peculiar without chemicals circulating through its system. I’m still wide awake when Gert-Jan begins to thrash around in the covers. His chest is wracked with panting heaves, as if he’s struggling against a current. His face is slick with sweat. He urgently mumbles a few words in German. Then he sits upright in bed and screams.

I remain perfectly motionless, not daring to reveal that I’ve witnessed this. Soon he lies down and falls fast asleep. I’m afraid to speculate about what could give him nightmares. I tell myself that it’s not a sinister omen or haunting pang of bad conscience. It’s merely a random circuit tripped and reset. But these thoughts fail to slow the escalating thrum of my heartbeat.

In the morning, I find myself reluctant to pry open my eyes. I try to ignore the droning chime of the doorbell, the muffled deliberations of delivery men, the ripping open of sealed cardboard boxes. Gert-Jan balances on the bed frame and hands me a yellow pill. Once again, I palm it and fake the swallow. Another deposit for my collection. “Welcome to a big day,” Gert-Jan tells me.

The living area is a hive of workmen. There’s an array of rarified materials, including a round mirror in an ornate wooden frame. Plus plenty of shiny metal tools that I can’t name. One of the contractors approaches me with a tape measure and tells me to spread out my arms. He avoids looking at me while collecting my measurements. Later, I overhear him discussing me with a coworker. He uses the word “prototype.”

One by one, the boxes disappear into the basement. Gert-Jan inscribes a firm mark in his notebook to indicate the descent of each item. He’s completely absorbed by this slow procession. The lines of his brow are bunched in a peculiar way, as if the tense geometry of his face is mimicking the plans that he’s busy drafting. I don’t look too closely. “You will stay up here,” he tells me.

I sit myself in the window alcove. It overlooks the street a few stories below. A bland view of an empty cul-de-sac. Concrete apartment buildings with oily curtains drawn. Overflowing metal trash cans bunched on the curb. I act oblivious to the reverberations of the workmen marching up and down the circular stairs, their shoes clanking against the metal steps in a relentless springy rhythm. I take a pack of gum from my jeans and unwrap a single foil stick. I chew without registering the flavor.

Eventually the noises of the workmen subside. From the back pocket of my jeans, I remove the image of the orange tree in the empty field. It’s so worn that the colors are starting to rub away. I stare into this talisman for several moments. There I am, lost somewhere in its fathomless depths. Then I carefully refold the picture and hop down from the alcove. I don’t betray the slightest hint of emotion, even to myself.

Now the plan gets underway. There I am, frantically searching the contents of the remaining cardboard boxes and rustling through the leftover packing materials. My hands seem to be scavenging for something in particular. All the while, I listen for the clanging sound of feet on the circular metal steps. I have no idea what I’m preparing to do until I climb onto a chair and fling a strand of twine over the top of the chandelier.

I thread the rope through the chain that attaches the chandelier to the ceiling. I’m not sure how my fingers know how to braid the contortions of that particular knot. Then I loop the twine into a noose and squeeze it over my head. It feels uncomfortably sturdy. There must be some way to stop this, but then my feet knock over the chair.

My body plummets. My stomach rebounds into my throat with a sharp kick. There’s a searing burn from the unfraying rope. My pulverized Adam’s apple. My bulging eyeballs. My gurgling last unformed syllables. My body pitching and kicking over open space.

The chandelier chain starts to tremble. The tart jingle of glass overhead is followed by a loud ripping sound, as if the ceiling is a sheet of paper being torn in half. I feel myself falling again. My knees and elbows clatter against the wooden floor. The chandelier crashes on top of me and spikes my forehead into the ground. My skull is a dull throb. My entire body feels like it’s ringing.