Evald Flisar - My Father's Dreams

Once outside, I was faced with the question of how to get him home. I decided to keep the jar in the towel. I grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled it a little away from my neck, so it wouldn’t suffocate me. And so, with the unusual load on my back, I walked first down the main road and then up the side road to our house. I met quite a few people, who stared at me, turned and followed me with their eyes, even shouted something, but nothing reached me, I did not care, it was just Abortus and me. All the way, inaudibly, just by moving my lips, I kept telling him not to be afraid of being bounced up and down, that we would soon be safely at home.

When we reached the house, I put him on the kitchen table and unwrapped the jar. I took the towel and the rope to the metal rubbish container in front of the house and pushed them under some discarded clothes. I had already let the lid drop when something made me lift it once more. The clothes were Mother’s, skirt, blouse, cardigan, panties, bra, stockings, and coat. And slippers. On the coat, blouse and skirt I could see traces of blood and dirt.

I closed the container and returned to the kitchen. It was only now that I realised with a shock that, during my walk home, formaldehyde in the jar had become so cloudy that I couldn’t see Abortus at all. Nor was he able to see out. He was surrounded by a muddy liquid which had lost all transparency, and my first thought was to pour it out and replace it with clean water. But the jar was tightly shut with a large cork. Besides, water from the tap might not be the best environment for someone who had spent fifteen years in formaldehyde. I decided to wait for the cloud to settle and the liquid to clear.

I lifted the jar and carried it to my room. I placed it on the cabinet in which I kept my school books and music cassettes, which I had not listened to once since the beginning of summer. I lay down on the bed, joined my hands behind the back of my head, and stared at the fuzzy home of my little brother without once averting my eyes. I decided to wait for the liquid to clear, so I could once again see the frog-like face of my dearest, my only friend.

I joined my hands in front of my chest, closed my eyes and said, “God, if this is a dream, I want to wake up.”

Then I said, “God, if this is real, I want to start dreaming.”

There was no sign that God had any intention of responding. We never went to church, although it was not far away, on top of the hill above our house. Every Sunday we would see people passing our house on the way to morning mass, and then home again, we would listen to the sound of the bells. We would often pass the church on our way somewhere else, but we never set foot inside. I never asked myself why; that’s how it was decided by Father and Mother. Father lived in a world of science and, I am sure of that now, great unhappiness. Mother lived largely in a world of general disapproval of things. I lived in a world of my own. God lived somewhere else. But never before had I felt such a burning desire for him to pass by my window. And knock on the pane. And spend a moment with me.

I looked out the window and saw a patch of pale blue November sky. Winter was not far away, and I felt it was going to be cold, colder than ever before. I began to wonder what would happen to me. And to Father. How would we live from now on? Who would cook for us, wash our clothes? How could life have taken such a strange turn? I went to the kitchen, collected everything I could find to eat, carried it to my room and locked myself in. I decided to stay in the room until the liquid in the jar cleared and I could discuss all these questions with Abortus. There were only two of us now; I couldn’t talk to anyone else.

Father returned an hour later. I heard the familiar scrabbling sound of the car tires on the gravel in the driveway. I heard him switch off the engine, open the door, slam it shut, walk slowly to the door, unlock it and open it. I heard him go into the kitchen, open the fridge, take out a bottle of wine, uncork it and pour himself a glass. Then I heard him pace restlessly around the living room for what must have over half an hour. Finally I heard the creaking of stairs as he walked up to his library. Soon the sound of music could be heard through the ceiling. For quite some time he had been listening to only one piece, often repeating it endlessly: the third movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony . The library was above my room, I could hear the boards creaking as he walked up and down. Then the music stopped, and so did the creaking. I thought I heard quiet sobbing. I wasn’t used to hearing Father cry, so I was quite relieved when the music resumed.

Then I heard the doorbell. I thought that Father probably couldn’t hear it, the music was rather loud. But I did not want to leave my room. The ringing was repeated, this time more insistent. The music above me stopped, Father came creaking down the stairs, I heard him open the door. Judging by the voice that greeted him it was Grandpa Dominic. Almost instinctively I flew to the door, but my hand paused on the key just before turning it. What would I say to him, what would I say to Father? Would I say anything at all? And if Grandpa Dominic wanted to see me, he would ask for me; he must have come to see Father, although I could not imagine why.

I heard them talking in the living room. Father had closed the door behind them, so I could hear only muffled voices; I couldn’t make out what they were saying. All I could determine was that it was Grandpa Dominic who did most of the talking. Judging by the tone of his voice he was exhorting Father to do something. A few minutes later I heard them come out of the living room and go outside. Looking out of the window, I saw them walking among the trees toward the small shed at the bottom of the orchard.

I was surprised to see Grandpa Dominic wearing his uniform, cap and all. I was equally surprised to see Father still wearing his white coat, which he must have forgotten to take off ashe left the surgery. They walked very slowly and in step, Grandpa Dominic tall and straight, with the dignity of a captain in charge of a sinking boat, and Father stooped, as if carrying a great burden. His gait was a little unsteady, I couldn’t tell whether from he wine or anything else.

They stopped in front of the shed. Father produced a key, removed the padlock, opened the door, disappeared inside and almost immediately came out again with two notebooks, which he handed to Grandpa Dominic. He relocked the shed, and slowly they began to walk back to the house. They stared at the ground in front of their feet. Grandpa Dominic folded the two notebooks and pushed them into his side pocket, with half of them sticking out. They looked very much like my dream diaries. They had similar covers, one yellow, and one red. As they passed the window, I saw that neither of them looked very happy.

When they returned into the living room, Father left the door open. I began to hope that I would at last hear what they were saying. But they said nothing for almost five minutes. Then Father said that he would make a telephone call. He walked to the rear of the living room and dialled a number. Again I could not hear the words clearly enough, all I could gather was that he was explaining something and giving our home address, which he repeated twice. He replaced the receiver; then there was silence. After a while they began to speak once again. This time I did not want to miss anything, so I quietly unlocked the door of my room, pushed it open just enough to squeeze out into the hall, and crept as far as the half-open door of the living room, stopping behind it.

“Let me read you, while we wait, a little passage from a book by Robert A. Johnson,” I heard Father say.