Evald Flisar - My Father's Dreams

“Come,” she grew impatient, “you’ll see grandpa’s statues from Africa.”

She walked on and soon vanished among the trees. I jumped to my feet and followed her along the path which twisted its way under the intertwined branches of alder-trees towards the part of the wood dominated by extremely tall fir and pine trees. There the sun rays shone through the gaps in the congestion of needles, and danced on the mossy ground in the rhythm of the breeze which was inducing the branches above to stir in an exciting, disorderly fashion. The rays danced caressingly around Eve’s hurrying feet which led us deeper and deeper into the wood, to the grassy path where I had already been in my dreams, and which led across a flowery meadow to the foot-bridge which took us across a dry stream-bed to the dusty road which led up an incline to Grandpa Dominic’s house.

Along the way Eve picked up a stick, part of a rotting branch. As we walked on, she swung it in the air, twisted it in a circling motion above her head, thumped the ground with it, made thrusting motions as if preparing to throw a lance, and used it for checking the path before her while pretending to be blind. Once or twice she scratched her back with it, and three times she placed it on her shoulder as if carrying a heavy club. Twice she leaned on it as she waited for me to catch up. But I always slowed down when I saw her waiting, while she, reassured that I followed, turned to walk on.

As I watched her swagger and hop before me, her image began to merge with the scenes from my dreams, and suddenly I saw Father, too, walking alongside her in front of me, although I knew that he wasn’t there. As though they belonged together. As though she on her own, and especially alone with me, represented a burden I felt too weak to carry and wanted to get rid of it before it grew heavier.

It was the middle of August and not even the breeze, streaming gently from the valley below, could soften the oppressive heat. As we emerged from among the trees on to the road which led between the orchards on the right and the wood on the left to Grandpa Dominic’s house higher up, I felt the sun on my head like the blow of a heavy fist. I could barely move my legs any more. Eve, on the other hand, remained light as a deer, prancing about in front of me like a hyperactive child, walking now backwards now forwards, then zigzagging from left to right, or whirling about like a peg-top about to lose balance and topple over, almost drunkenly, with her head thrown back so that her hair fluttered around her like a soft-feathered bird. The air was thick with the smells of hay, freshly cut grass, tall virgin grass, hundreds of different flowers, manure, cherries and pine needles, everything joined into the stunning aroma of the lazy summer day.

But as we approached the house, still half-hidden behind the trees, I noticed, behind its gleaming sun-lit facade, an area of darkness. Nestling behind the top of the hill above the house, resembling the shadow of a dangerous beast, was a huge bulk of blackness which was already reaching into the orchard behind the house. I realised that from behind the hill a storm was on its way, one of those summer storms that brew up within minutes and from a single cloud flare up into earth-shaking thunder, hissing downpours and frightening displays of lightning. I was glad we were nearing the house; there was nothing I feared more than thunder and lightning.

Our house had a lightning-conductor, fixed to the roof at Mother’s request by one of Father’s patients. Mother was just as afraid of storms as I was, if not more. But I could see no such protection on the roof of Grandpa Dominic’s house; if struck by lightning, we would burn to death in it. And that was what I suddenly thought would happen; why else would Eve have invited me home at that particular moment? But she was already opening the door, and I would have hated to be taken for a coward.

I followed her into the hall. The sunlight entering through the side window lay on the dusty wooden floor like an exhausted unfamiliar animal. Forcing its way through the window on the opposite side was the blackness of the approaching storm. I could almost feel the cool air that was accompanying it. The rest of Grandpa Dominic’s house had also become the battleground of darkness and light. At the uncertain frontline of quivering shadows and sunlight the pieces of furniture gave the impression of being twisted and strangely malformed: the wardrobes weren’t straight, but leaned dangerously as if about to topple over, tables bulged in the middle, chairs were flattened or elongated, and everywhere I could sense the crouching figures of invisible beings which accompanied our progress through the rooms with the unbroken attention of guardian spirits.

Hanging on the walls next to spears, daggers and painted wooden shields I saw ancient-looking charts of the world and individual continents, mostly of Africa, framed yellowed photographs of ships and harbours, two portraits of Grandpa Dominic in his uniform of a merchant navy captain, and one of his parents, to whose house he had returned after retiring from the sea some years before these events. Dust and disorder reigned supreme in the rooms whose purpose had long ago ceased to be evident. Everywhere I looked there were books, stacked or piled up wherever there was room, on tables and side tables, under them, on chairs and sofas, on top of an old bread-oven, on wooden benches, even on shelves which contained mostly other objects, unusually shaped old clocks, compasses, copper and clay vessels of every shape and size, broken picture frames, rolled-up charts and posters. Large and small iron chests were covered by plastic bags which contained everything from photographs and letters to gloves, stuffed parrots, rolls of tobacco and cigar boxes. The air smelled of a mixture of damp, dust and unusual spices which couldn’t be seen, but they may have been in the kitchen where we didn’t go.

As we passed the open door of an untidy bathroom, I saw a flicker of lightning outside the paint-glass window, followed immediately by another. The storm had arrived.

“Where is your grandpa?” I wanted to know.

“Asleep, as usual,” Eve replied and took me by the hand. “Are you afraid?” she asked as she led me up a wide staircase to the first floor.

I shook my head, but she sang out, “Poor little Adam is afraid.”

The first floor of the spacious old house was even more crammed. While many things had no doubt been brought by Grandpa Dominic from his many voyages, others must have been there for ages, belonging to grandpa’s parents or even grandparents. The house was a veritable museum of unsorted oddities. That’s why I was all the more surprised when, at the end of the corridor, Eve pulled me into a room which was not only tidy and neat, but also clean, without a speck of dust anywhere, with the air sweet and fresh, not only because of an open window but because of the scents emanating from tiny bottles on top of the sideboard. The bed was covered with a soft, light brown blanket on top of which, squeezed between the pillow and the wall, sat a large teddy bear. It seemed a little out of place in the room of a fifteen-year old girl.

“I don’t like sleeping alone,” she explained. “I must hold onto something. Otherwise I, too, get afraid.”

Suddenly a fiery tongue of lightning reached through the window and licked us all over like a vicious dog. Somewhere behind the hill there was a clap of thunder. The trees in the orchard stirred and began to sway violently in all directions; the wind was bringing the first raindrops, which were landing on the leaves like large tears.

“But never as afraid as you,” she added when she saw my face, which must have turned completely white. She closed the window. The rain was fast turning into a downpour and the wind was already blowing it into the room.