Magdalena Tulli: Dreams and Stones

Only for dreams to be dreamed? What about maintaining order in the world? What about polishing floors, making repairs? Surely the reason why people sleep at night is to gather strength for the labors of the day? Well, in fact this is not so. It is not enough to sleep soundly and eat well. It would always transpire that bread from dreams is not filling, that water from dreams does not quench one’s thirst. Dreams — those merry or cheerless realms of unfulfillment — were able to open the inhabitants’ eyes to the whole truth which always escaped them in their waking hours: that the desire to maintain order in the world also arises from dreams. From strenuous dreams in which every object the eye lights upon finds its place, while five others are scattered and lost at the same time. But the dreamers cannot see this since they dream inattentively.

At dusk the city of dreams and the city extending in space become one and join in a murky whole crowned by the black silhouettes of office buildings against a reddish sky, giant edifices constructed not long ago yet already affected by corrosion and darkness. Nowhere is there any boundary marker, inscription or informational sign that would indicate the relative positions of dreams and waking life. Some take the ringing of alarm clocks in the morning as a signal indicating the crossing of the border. But alarm clocks which themselves belong to dreams cannot wake people from them.

In the depths of sleep the dreamers push their way into trams, from trams into offices, from offices into stores. Dreaming, they wander amongst the shelves and squint at the over-abundance of colors and shapes. The plenitude muddles their heads. In every item there dwells a promise; the future changes as the dreamers carry their shopping along. The immaculate beauty of an altered fate endures for a short moment after the parcels are unpacked, then melts away without a trace. But the everyday lack of hope lying in wait for the happy purchasers in the corners of apartments is not allowed in the city of dreams. Each inhabitant can have the sins of their life — their uncertainty and sorrow — accounted for by the unknown women and men who have a guaranteed livelihood on the vast surfaces of billboards. They live amongst appropriate slogans, calm and immobile. They are given assurances about which no one else is able even to dream.

In the city of dreams all the colors of cars are reflected in the glossy floors of automobile salesrooms. Passersby are thrilled as they look through the huge display windows: they admire the nobility and the power. The sales managers watch over the cars. Passersby who wish to sit behind the wheel and drive off must have with them a bag full of cash or a certified bank check. And so many inhabitants of the city of dreams, unable to count on their check being certified, instead wander day and night in search of bags filled with money.

It is they who crowd into buildings equipped with special openings in the roof and internal chutes to direct the rain of money directly to devices that count it and divide it, according to their needs, amongst those waiting for a miraculous decree of fate. Every number, color and card must win sooner or later. Thewheel of fortune spins only so that everyone should receive a generous share. Those who do not come empty-handed will not regret it if they wait long enough for their lucky moment and at just the right instant do not hesitate to put everything on a single card. It is precisely here — and nowhere else — that one can catch hold of destiny, by one’s own hand correct its crooked rudder without wasting time and energy on other actions that are indirect and of dubious effectiveness. But the game must be paid for. One single coin is needed, the lucky one. Whoever has already used up their coin will not win. It is better then not to raise one’s eyes so as not to be tempted to buy chewing gum, peanuts and beer. But those who play are certain of nothing, not even that. Everyone wasted their lucky coin long ago on trifles. That is why the rain of money from the sky that falls into the special openings in the roof is ultimately drained off into the sewers.

The city of dreams never forgets about money. In the evening its glow spreads across the sky over immense hotels. Elevators glistening with chrome and nickel bear smug foreigners in gleaming shoes and silk underwear, with fat wallets tucked in the inside pockets of their soft woolen suits. A mist of cologne mingles with cigar smoke and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. As high as the clouds, the skyscrapers stand in a row with walls made of huge sheets of glass, behind which lobbies filled with leather sofas and tropical greenery are lit in the glow of thousands of lamps. Whoever crosses the threshold of these hotels immediately becomes a foreigner and can leave forever for America, above the clouds, a lit cigar in his mouth. Yet if he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket he will be disappointed — nothing is there.

For the most impatient, there are numerous recruiting offices for the Foreign Legion; in each of them, day and night, a French-speaking officer blows smoke rings as he puffs on his pipe. He wears a white kepi and a uniform with red and green facings in which he fought in the desert and stumbled through sandstorms. Whoever enters there, even by mistake, he presents with a contract to sign, binding him to fifteen years’ service in the tropics, and shows him on his fingers in round sums the amount his government will pay the volunteer. He entices with the green of hope and with an indifferent smile conceals his embarrassment at the presence, next to the green facings, of blood red. Blood that the passerby signing the contract will shed in the tropics. The foreign officer is well aware that in the tropics it is possible to live entirely without blood; in case of need it can be replaced with cognac, which is supplied by the caseload to the mess halls there. The round sums paid to the volunteer by the foreign government will be put toward its purchase, since in the tropics it is not possible to live without cognac. And having signed the contract the passerby disappears for good, because from the tropics no one ever returns.

The disillusioned, who have already tried everything, have too little time to dream of America or the tropics and too little strength to search far and wide. They walk into the first bank they come across and cast a tired glance at the teller; in a split second he understands their demand, backed up by the glint of oxidized steel. A bag is filled with banknotes and no unnecessary words are spoken; no one will trouble their head about a receipt. And so some dreams resound with the wail of police sirens and the squeal of tires. They are filled with hair-raising chases and interminable breakneck escapes. The dreamers hold on to the steering wheel for dear life and stare fixedly ahead, while bridges, trees and banknotes whistle past in the wind. They come to a stop in a blind alley where escapes and chases turn out to be a matter of life and death. A hand reaches for a gun, an eye looks down the barrel and a shot rings out: hit or miss. No one can predict which it will be.

Choking from the tension, the city of dreams could not exist without its cellars, the heart of which is the percussion. Its rhythm thrills the hearts of the audience, tormented by sorrow, longing and fury. In the deafening noise fury erupts in red, longing in green and sorrow in blue. Anyone who buys a ticket has a right to expect enlightenment. But the moment people enter they are plunged in shadow. There are as many of those seeking enlightenment as could fit in, and each has brought their own darkness. It spills out through the pupils of their eyes and floods the entire place, including the bottles behind the bar, the gaudy makeup and the hundreds of outfits belonging to desperately grasping gazes. The lights flash on and off, summoning from the gloom isolated grimaces and gestures and for a moment revealing their strangeness to the world. In reality there is not even any percussion here. It had to be replaced with a record spinning on the mechanical turntable of a gramophone; everyone knows this and no one cares. The true heart of this place is the sound of the percussion alone. It does not subdue the pulsing of blood in the temples and does not alleviate true fury, longing or sorrow, but it smoothes grimaces and softens gestures. Burdens vanish; those dancing acquire a lightness that outside of this place they could not even dream of. The love that takes refuge in the sound of the percussion is so devoid of weight that it can only be a shadow of love, something that takes up no room whatsoever in the heart; something as impermanent as sound and, like sound, incapable of being taken outside or kept for later. For this reason couples leaving for any of the neighboring rooms — the barroom, the delivery room or the courtroom — have to get by without love.