Evald Flisar - My Father's Dreams

This was enough to get Mother to her feet and into a flaming rage.

“You,” she pointed her finger at him, “you are responsible for all this. You encouraged him to dream about that little slut, you said this was part of his growing up — what Father on earth would ever say that? And now she is here again, I saw her on the way home. You, yes, you did everything to drive your son crazy.”

“What do you know?” Father struck back with all his authority. “What do you know about the human psyche and its mysteries, about the inner landscapes you don’t even know exist, let alone be able to visit them in your dreams?”

He got to his feet and folded the journal as if about to swat a fly.

“What do you know,” he continued, “about the solitary places in the soul, where desires change into vultures, and where your own shadow is trying to strangle you with every step you take? What do you understand, with the horizon you possess? Don’t you realise that dreams are a universe into which we must propel ourselves with the full force of intellectual power, if we are to explore it?

“If you don’t leave him alone,” Mother took a step toward Father, “I shall report you to the Medical Association. God is my witness. I will ask them to examine your head. I’ll go to the police and tell them that you’re deliberately driving your own child crazy. And don’t think — ”

She could not finish the sentence, for Father took a step toward her and struck her on the face with the folded journal. The blow dislodged her spectacles, which fell to the floor, bounced a few times and ended in front of my feet, with one of the lenses broken. I picked them up and felt the shattered lens with my fingers. I must have pressed on it too hard, for the lens disintegrated, with the bits landing on the floor. Father and Mother stared at me as if trying to apportion the blame for what happened to me.

Then Mother distorted her face as if trying to quell a surge of tears welling up inside her. She rushed into the hall and hastily put on her coat.

“You’re never going to see me again,” she hissed at us venomously. She slammed the door behind her. I ran to the window and looked out. I saw her cycling furiously down the driveway toward the road.

“Mother!” I called weakly.

“Let her be,” Father said grumpily. “Didn’t you see she left with slippers on? She’ll be back. Much too soon.”

Late at night I was suddenly thrown out of sleep; it seemed to me that someone was quietly calling my name. I listened intently, but all I could hear was my breathing. Just as I was about to sink back into sleep, someone rapped on the window pane and a mysterious voice whispered my name. I pressed my face against the cold glass. At first all I could see were the stars, the moon and the sharply delineated shadows of trees. Even a few moments later, as my eyes got used to the conditions outside, I could see nothing more than the bare orchard and the silhouette of the wood in the background. The whole thing must have been an illusion. I decided to climb back under the duvet, it was cold.

Just then a figure appeared among the trees in the orchard, and moved slowly toward the window. As it leftthe region of the shadows I could see clearly that it was a young woman with a mane of black hair, which was falling over her shoulders. She was wrapped from head to toe in a grey blanket, but barefoot. She seemed to be smiling at me. As she came right up to the window, I recognised her. It was Eve.

With a quick movement she drew the blanket apart. She was completely naked. In the moonlight her body appeared to be softly rounded and more enticing than ever. I was assailed by feelings I had never experienced before: cold and heat spread through my veins in simultaneous waves, making me glow and shiver. With the last vestiges of reason I tried to find an explanation for why she had come. She might have come in the hope that I would once again get those ampoules for her. Or she might have come for a less selfish reason: to enter with me into that dream she had promised me. Or both. Or just to say hello to me, which seemed unlikely. But none of this really mattered. The only thing that mattered was that she was there, in front of the window, smiling at me.

Was she really there, or was the whole thing again only a dream? I pinched both my ears, and the pain was sufficiently pronounced to make it unlikely that I was dreaming. Then again, in many of my dreams things had remained as real, or become even more so than in a waking state. To make doubly sure I wasn’t dreaming I banged my head against the wooden frame of the window. This time there was no doubt that I was awake, and that Eve was real, and that she had come for me. But why was she wearing a black wig?

Without any further misgivings I opened the window, climbed onto the sill and jumped out into the orchard. Eve had already moved away and was beckoning me with a curved forefinger to follow her. As I moved, barefoot and wearing only pyjamas, across the shadows spread out on the cold, dewy ground, she floated away towards the edge of the wood, light as a fairy. I ran after her as hard as I could, but she kept evading me, flickering through the moonlit wood like a large moth, turning every time she emerged into a clearing to wave me on. At first I did not feel any cold, but soon the chill of the November night began to bite. Gradually, my elation began to subside, giving way to a strange premonition that this midnight pursuit through the woods would not end well. My fear became even more pronounced as we reached an intersection of two forest paths, where Eve took the left one, which led toward the edge of the forest and across the meadows into the village. Again she turned and beckoned me to follow.

But something forced my eyes to the right, along the path which led through a thicket of bushes and newly planted pines to the main road. Not far away, standing in the middle of the path, was a human figure staring in my direction. I froze. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I could see Eve drawing away to the left. At the same time the figure on the right began to move towards me. I could not move, I was stuck to the ground. As the figure emerged into a patch of moonlight my fear turned to horror: walking toward me, leaning on her bicycle, was Mother. I could even hear the familiar creaking of the rusty axle of the front wheel. Soon she was standing right next to me. Her eyes were red from intense crying, and filled with hatred. She was wearing the slippers in which she had stormed out of the house the previous evening.

I looked to the left and saw that Eve was already far away, still beckoning me to follow. I gathered all my strength and began to run. Mother climbed on her bicycle and pedalled after me; I could tell by the creaking of the axle that she was gaining on me. Another few moments, and she was cycling alongside me. She began to speak. The tone of her voice was unlike any I had heard before; it was ugly, crow-like and threatening. She was saying that she had finally caught me red-handed, right in the middle of contemplating an indecent act that would bring even greater shame on our family. This she could not allow. If I turned back now and went home with her, she would forgive me, and no more would be said about it. If I didn’t, I would have only myself to blame for the consequences.

I said nothing, my lungs were nearly exploding with the effort I was putting into the running. I wanted to call to Eve to wait for me, for she was already getting lost in the darkness, but I was so out of breath I couldn’t utter a single word. Then I saw the bicycle shooting ahead. Mother had started to pedal furiously to catch up with Eve.

“No!” I shouted after her. “No!”