Evald Flisar - My Father's Dreams

I shrugged.

“Of course you would. And then you could write the dream down in your diary. Every little detail. Promise?”

I nodded.

She slid off the bed, stood up and looked out of the window.

“But not here,” she said. “We couldn’t dream here. The house is closely guarded by the African gods.”

I told her that three were missing; someone must have broken in and stolen them.

“Fat chance,” she said. “Grandpa has put them out, so they would scare off young men trying to sneak into the house and make off with my virginity. One is standing near the pond, the other near the front entrance, and the third at the bottom of the orchard. Haven’t you seen them?”

“No”, I said, “I haven’t.” I must have been too much in a hurry every time I came rushing into the house.

“Grandpa thinks that I’m pure, the kind of ideal granddaughter he’d like to have. Well, sorry, grandpa. Your granddaughter just isn’t that kind of girl. You’re old; you’ve lost touch with reality.”

I wanted to say that, on the contrary, it was Grandpa Dominic who seemed to be the most in touch with reality, but she went on.

“That’s the reason I prefer to be here. At home I can’t even breathe. My parents know me too well. Although they don’t really care. Do you think they’d be upset if I died today? Not in the least. They’d get some peace at last. They wouldn’t have to be ashamed of my mega success at school. No, it’s much nicer here. Much, much nicer. Also because of you,” she put her hand on top of my head, stopping short of stroking my hair.

The touch of her hand was brief and, at least it seemed to me, slightly forced. But it filled me with soft, pleasant warmth.

“Do you know where we’re going to dream?” she suddenly remembered. “On the wall by the stream. Where we almost started, and would’ve started, if your father hadn’t come between us. The dream could easily have been ours alone. It may be partly my fault that it wasn’t. But it’s too late now. We can only find a way back by starting again. It’ll be just as nice as it would’ve been if none of this ever happened.”

Once again she reached out to stroke me, and once again she withdrew her hand; as if afraid that she was promising too much too early.

“Three ampoules,” she said. “And a syringe. You mustn’t forget the syringe.”

Before I got the chance to explain how impossible this would be, she put her arm round my neck and began to suck at my lips with her mouth as if trying to suffocate me. The sensation was far from unpleasant. I wouldn’t have minded if she never stopped. But she did.

She pushed me away and said:

“You don’t know how to kiss. I’ll have to teach you.”

She collapsed back on the bed, ending up in the position in which I had found her.

“I’m so tired,” she said. “I must have a sleep. Come tomorrow. And don’t forget.”

This was the last opportunity to pull out of the deal I never made, although she had got it into her head that I did. But as I searched for the right words I could see that they would be to no avail; she had already fallen asleep. I crouched by the bed for another ten minutes, watching her. She seemed very fragile, much more so than one would have thought by the sound of her voice.

At that moment it became clear to me that I had no choice; I would have to bring her the ampoules she wanted so much.

But how to get into the surgery? To steal Father’s keys in the middle of the night seemed impossible; he was a light sleeper, and he kept the surgery keys on his bedside table. To lure him and Nurse Mary out of the surgery on some pretext was equally far-fetched; I would need at least a few minutes to find a syringe and the right ampoules. Besides, the glass cabinet in which he kept them was probably locked.

The only option remaining was to break in. To get through the door would be difficult; I would have to break it down, or break the lock, which would create a lot of noise. Besides, I would have to break down two doors, first the main one and then the surgery door; far too much for an inexperienced fourteen-year old burglar. That left the window.

Late at night, when I was fairly certain that both Mother and Father were asleep, I sneaked out of the house and ran barefoot and in pyjamas down to the village, hoping that no one would be about. In the shaking light of the torch — I had taken it from a cupboard in the hall — I managed to reach the health centre without stumbling or injuring my feet on the rough surface of the road. I soon discovered that the surgery window was much too high, and there was nothing I could grab hold of to climb up. What to do? Looking around I noticed a large metal container on wheels, used for depositing rubbish at the end of each working day. It was only half full, so it required little effort to wheel it under the window and climb onto it. From there it was easy to get onto the window sill.

But the window was closed on the inside, and the only way to get in was to break the glass. This could be dangerous, and I had nothing with which to do it; the torch did not seem the right tool. Again I was in a quandary. But not for long: I remembered reading about a burglary in one of the many books in Father’s library, and did exactly what the burglar did in the story. I removed my pyjama top, wrapped it round my right fist and hit the pane so hard that it shattered. I removed the pyjama top, put it back on, reached inside to find the handle, and opened the window. Another few moments, and I was in the surgery.

In the beam of the torchlight I soon discovered what I was looking for: the big medicine chest with a glass door, secured with a padlock, as expected. It was not really glass but Perspex, impossible to break with a fist. I picked up a chair and smashed it against the front of the chest. To my dismay, it was the chair that broke, while the Perspex sustained no more than a graze. I looked around for a sturdier chair, and found one with metal legs. But as I swung the chair against the door the legs bounced off the Perspex as if made of rubber. What to do? I pointed my torchlight into every part of the surgery, but could find nothing that would serve the purpose. Sensing defeat I became angry and kicked against the chest with my bare foot. Miraculously, this move dislodged the padlock, which jumped off its hook and fell on the floor. Evidently it hadn’t been pressed together, but merely placed on the hook in such a way as to create the impression that it was locked.

It wasn’t difficult to find the ampoules containing Eve’s medicine; all the other containers were labelled boxes. There were nine ampoules altogether, and I took them all. All I needed now was a syringe. As if by chance I remembered that earlier in the afternoon Father had thrown one into the rubbish bin after injecting Eve with the dose he described as the last one. Fortunately the cleaning lady had not emptied the bin. I rummaged among pungent blood-stained bandages, tissues and other unpleasant things until I found it, lying right at the bottom, undamaged. Now I had all I had come for.

The next morning I stayed in bed until I heard Father and Mother leave for work, Father first and Mother half an hour later. Then, my spirits higher than in many months, I made myself a sumptuous breakfast of bacon and eggs, and ate it with slow, deliberate attention; as if performing a sacred ritual. Feeling pleased with myself gave me a sense of composure and lightness, of floating in air. Finally I slung my bag over the shoulder and set off in the direction of school. Halfway up the hill I looked back and saw a police car in front of the health centre; the break-in had been reported, and the police were already checking the place for fingerprints. I felt secure; I could not imagine that anyone would suspect the doctor’s son.