Read an Excerpt
THE COLLECTOR OF DREAMS
“God preserves all, especially the words
of reconciliation and of love, as if they
were His voice.”
Joseph Brodsky
I had an agonising dream, the kind that leaves an utter void behind: the tyranny of silence, a gloomy sky, vapours rising in a smoke-like haze from the hillsides… No air at all: it is absorbed by the unspeaking mist. At the foot of a malodorous volcano people mill about to no good purpose. Why are they here – stooping, fearful, agitated, malevolently dour, nervously spitting their damp tobacco onto the black loose earth, awaiting something? A corpulent lady, full of herself, is taking a seat with an authoritative air upon a spindly folding small chair, plaintively whining: ‘So, when are we starting!? When?... Oh when?...’ Tearful shrieks fly by, without causing a flicker of emotion in the exhausted people. With indifferent curiosity they watch the gradual immersion of the obese body into the gray, leaden clay. Helplessly the body flails against the muck, yelping out obscenities, but her voice is barely audible: it is drowned out by the greedy, slurping of the sleaze. Exposed, her naked legs squirm in the dead air, tying invisible strangle-knots. Her helplessness evokes a burst of laughter. Irritated faces look at me reproachfully, and I back down. Why? With a kind of ecstasy, she tramples upon the dignity of each of us, but everyone keeps quiet: a voluntary, unspoken consent. I despise her coarseness and also remain silent. It begins to drizzle; the sky is like an inverted stinking abyss. Inescapable, filthy rain. Clothes and even people themselves swell up from the damp earth, shivering, as if buffeted by a squall. From far away, the order to start shooting is heard; dozens of restless eyes search out the man capable of setting the dream-making machine in motion. With trembling fingers, the young assistant hesitatingly fiddles with her blue, pompom-topped ski hat that has slipped down onto the back of her head, as she hurriedly digs out a stack of photographs from her canvas bag: landscapes, panoramas.
She rummages through her pockets – something is missing; smeared rivulets streak her frightened face. I rush over to her – at her! I shout at her to put the photographs away, quickly. But she just keeps on digging around in her bottomless canvas bag, not hearing me. She cannot hear me! Too late… The photographs slip from her hands and the rain nails them to the earth. Perplexed, she angrily starts trampling them into the stinking, sticky core, which avidly devours the long-awaited prey. Fear blinds reason, leaving only an animalistic grin of instinctive self-preservation on her face: stamp them into the dirt as quickly as possible, hide them, before someone stronger grabs her by the hand, as when she was a child, when accidentally her mummy’s favourite teacup got broken (she’d broken it!)… the main thing is to cover up the traces! No witnesses, except for the shapeless shards. The first innocent crime. A second and third would follow, but by then all fear will have diminished. I try snatching the bag from her, but she pulls free and runs off. Suddenly it strikes me like an electric shock that she leaves no footprints behind! The crowd that had formed around us dissolves and I shout after her ‘Witch!’ She turns round and smiles, the kind of smile that certain types of people for some reason called ill in the soul; but after all, if your soul does not ache, you’re not human. I run after her and to my horror I notice that I also leave no footprints behind me… My heart skips a beat, even as my thoughts pulse all the louder: this cannot be, I’m only dreaming, I’m different, it’s just the rain… But it’s not rain, there’s no water here. I fling myself upon the ground, sliding feverishly along the smooth clay, trampled by feet. It seeps through my fingers, sticking. I grope around for the photos, which one by one are withering before my very eyes. They are barely decipherable. They must be washed clean... along with my face, hands and nerves. Sadness and solitude shroud the world. Tears warm my frozen face, flow onto the photographs and wash away the dirt. Here’s salvation – tears! Tears instead of rain, then all will be saved. A crowd gathers around. I joyfully prod the rescued photos with my muddy finger. People clamour in agitation, scrutinising me. For the first time I can see their eyes, and in that moment I love them all. I no longer want to weep. Blue Hat Girl shouts joyfully that the shoot has been postponed and everyone runs back. Strange people in a constant rush… But however much you rush, you’ll not coax any extra time out of God. There’s no time to think... keep the photos safe – that’s the overriding goal. I stay alone by the toxic puddle. I examine the salvaged photos that no one needs. Those treacherous landscapes. It’s all wrong! All wrong! Then suddenly, instead of those disturbing landscapes, the contours of your face appear. I know that it’s you – you’re pensive, watchful, vulnerable, doomed even in moments of happiness… A bird’s astounded gaze… The hilltops smoke, they devour sounds. Even the sound of tears falling cannot be heard. Accursed, howling silence. The tears dry up, but I have to cry. I have to go, but I can’t catch my breath. You watch me, breathing the warmth of my tears, you narrow your eyes, and those familiar arrows dash in all directions out of the corners of your eyes… Just the way they did during that July downpour, when we were running past the chilled juniper bushes, shaking the heavy drops from them. The rain lashed our faces, but we just ran and laughed. You were holding my wet hand and shouting above the noise that poured forth from the heavens:
More tender than tender
Is your face,
Whiter than white
Is your hand,
From the whole world
You are distant,
And everything in you
Is from the inevitable.
The wind of life, bringing happiness and suffering, was blowing over us, leaving us breathless: ‘Your hand in mine – what bliss…’
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