 |
||
Perchance To Dream
An original short story
by Des Nnochiri
Copyright © Des Nnochiri 2005
Author: Mr. Des Nnochiri
21 Ohafia Street
Trans Egbu, Owerri
Imo State, Nigeria
Mobile: +234 (0)803 3316667
E-mail: desnnr@yahoo.co.uk
I don't sleep anymore.
They say in dreams that you can face the worst- that nightmares are an opportunity to confront the darkest parts not only of ourselves, but of the world around us.
But what happens when the waking world itself is worse than any nightmare could ever be?
It began innocently enough- almost comically. Finances were tight, and I was drinking perhaps more than was good for me. One night, after a few too many glasses of red wine, I fell asleep in the lounge.
I dreamt that I was in the main vault of the Security State Trust. Fresh stacks of currency filled the room; there were no guards around. I grabbed what I could.
Something startled me awake; fear of being caught, perhaps. I found myself on the sofa, covered in piles of bank notes. Dollars and Euros, mainly.
Well, I was shocked, as you can imagine. I sat up, and considered the implications. I spent an anguished couple of seconds reflecting on what to do next.
During the shopping bonanza that followed, I bought a wide-screen television and entertainment system. Made a year's worth of payments on the credit card. Remodelled the interior of the house. Put on 8kg in weight.
The phone company, electric power authority, and other utilities actually owed ME money, for a change. I bought a motorcycle.
Soon after, I set about renovating the exterior of my home, as well. By the time the landscaping was done, I had become an object of envious speculation to my friends and neighbours.
To explain my sudden good fortune, I spun yarns of an old inheritance, and investments suddenly coming good. I laughingly passed off suggestions that I had discovered a way to make money grow on trees. Yet, in a sense, I had.
I've been blessed with a vivid imagination, coupled with a highly detailed visual memory. Dreams and fantasies came easily- and were often quite bizarre in nature. My work as a researcher and contributor to various online publications exposes me to images and information about all manner of things.
But what exactly went on, when I dreamed?
Did my dream-self travel across Space and Time, bringing objects back through some kind of gateway, when I awoke?
Was I acting as a convertor, somehow making dream-stuff solid?
I didn't know, and I truly didn't care. The process was its own reward.
In the meantime, I was refining my technique.
Hungry at midday, and no way to get out of the office? No problem. A brief catnap would find me sitting, moments later- glass of beer in one hand, hamburger in the other.
I could go through an entire week without spending a penny of my own- even though I now had cash and valuables to spare.
Of course, such conspicuous consumption leaves its mark- not only on the waistline, but on the environment.
The fast food packaging and other wrappings were easily disposed of. There were bottle banks for the empty wines and liqueurs. And my kitchen cabinets acquired a growing collection of orphan utensils- often, quite ornate.
The rare coins and other artefacts I stored in the wine cellar- along with a substantial horde of ready cash.
Then came the unfortunate day when I was sideswiped by a delivery van as I tried to push my Harley Davidson round a tight bend.
I was taken to a local hospital with internal injuries, and for corrective surgery to my knee- a procedure requiring a general anaesthetic.
When I woke up, I found myself in a private ward, surrounded by various objects.
Beside the vase of primroses on the bedside table were a carriage clock from the mid-1800s, a beach ball, two carrots, a fountain pen, and a putrefying slice of pizza- pepperoni, I think.
The floor was littered with a variety of larger items, greatly inconveniencing the people gathered around my bed.
Besides the charge nurse, and Mrs. Gupta (the surgeon who operated on my knee), there was a small Oriental man- Mr. Tam- from the Accounting Department of the Security State Trust. Next to him stood Mr. Jurgens- a police detective (he didn't specify from where), and lastly, a thin fellow who declined to introduce himself, but looked as if he belonged to one of those secret government agencies with three letters in its name.
They grilled me- subtly at first, then with increasing desperation- for three days. I lied my proverbials off; Lucifer would have been proud.
No, I hadn't the faintest clue where the objects had come from.
No, I had never been to Hong Kong- much less to the corporate headquarters of the Security State Trust. I had no idea that the company had recently "misplaced" over a million dollars in used bank notes.
I had no recollection of what happened to me while I was under anaesthesia- nor was I aware that objects kept appearing in my hands and falling to the floor.
No, I hardly ever dreamed- not that I could remember, anyway.
Occasionally, I would come over all faint, and ring for the nurse.
When it became obvious that I wasn't going to break down and openly confess to being the new Sai Baba, they let me go. I was discharged and sent home- with an unspoken understanding that Big Brother would be watching.
I tried to keep a low profile. I went about my daily affairs quietly; did my work, ate in moderation. At night, though my dreams were strange, any objects I extracted from them were unremarkable in nature.
My anxieties dissipated. I was able to smile again, and congratulated myself on my powers of restraint.
And then, the Mona Lisa went missing...
This caused the expected furore in art circles, and wild speculation in the world at large. There was talk of international criminal gangs, conspiracy, and collusion at the highest levels.
I, meanwhile, spent solemn hours gazing, horrified, at the object on my dining room table.
The painting was obviously genuine. But what to do with it? Destroy a thing of such beauty... an object of veneration? Hardly. I placed it in a corner of the wine cellar, beside the pterodactyl fossils.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait. And worry. And eat.
In my agitated state, I invented horrible scenarios.
Financial institutions would have me arrested, handcuffed, and thrown in jail for the rest of my days.
Government agents would arrive, and quietly spirit me away in a nondescript grey vehicle. They would take me to a top-secret installation, and put me to bed in a sealed room. They would drug me, wire me up to all kinds of monitors, and have me bring objects out of my dreams in the interests of national security.
Violent international criminals would abduct me at gunpoint, and bundle me off to an undisclosed location in the dead of night. They would lock me in a grimy basement. There, they would alternately ply me with drugs and rip out my fingernails until I brought back precious artefacts for them to sell on the Black Market.
The visit- when it came- was from an unexpected quarter.
The woman on my doorstep was in her mid-thirties, and wore an agitated expression. It took me a moment to place her. It was the charge nurse from the hospital where I had recently been treated.
"Mrs...?" I faltered on the name.
"Chigozie," she supplied. "Florence. And this is my daughter, Bridget." She indicated a tiny girl of about 7.
I invited them in, and listened to Mrs. Chigozie's story. It concerned an heirloom- a gold necklace which passed down through the female generations of her family.
She produced a studio portrait of a plump elderly woman in a plain white dress, whose entire appearance and demeanour shrieked "Grandmother."
She then handed me a digitally enhanced blow-up of the old lady's neck and shoulders, which brought the necklace out in finer detail. As she did so, she tearfully explained that the trinket (which was to go to little Bridget on her wedding day) had disappeared down a bathroom drain.
She added that, while she hadn't dared sneak any tranquilizers out of the hospital pharmacy, she DID have some extra-strength aspirin tablets with her. Could I possibly...?
I stopped her with a gentle pat on the arm. With a sincere assurance that drugs would not be necessary, I took a final look at the photographs, excused myself, and lay down on the sofa.
In my dream, Grandmother Chigozie was cooking beans and plantain beneath a clear, African sky. Her brilliant dress of multiple hues contrasted with the gleaming gold necklace...
I awoke to the sound of laughter, and the sight of Mrs. Chigozie in animated conversation with her daughter, and with her GRANDMOTHER- a woman who had been dead for the last 25 years...
Word gets around. No matter how severe the warnings you give, or how sincere the promises you extract.
Within 48 hours, I received a delegation from the Louvre, in Paris. They arrived (ironically enough) at dead of night, accompanied by dark-suited officials from Interpol.
The upshot of the conversation that followed was that all parties would benefit from discretion. Little harm done; no publicity needed.
The group left with a large oblong package, discreetly wrapped in plastic bin liners.
The following day saw the dramatic return of Da Vinci's famous painting. With it came a convoluted tale involving a drunken janitor, a failed security system, and a storage cupboard that hadn't been checked in the resulting confusion.
A short while later, my phones started ringing.
The last call (before I unplugged all the house extensions, and buried my mobile in the laundry hamper) was from the Marilyn Monroe Appreciation Society. An earnest young man begged me to consider using my unique abilities to restore that legendary figure. I thanked him politely for his interest. I then suggested that any effort to bring back the screen goddess would be entirely for my OWN benefit, rather than that of any fan club, thank you very much.
An avalanche of paper came through the letter box. My Inbox was deluged with unsolicited e-mails. There were earnest appeals for me to bring back the dead, or to start my own ministry. Lucrative offers for artwork and relics.
They're camping outside my gate now, in their hundreds. The treasure hunters. The New Spiritualists. The Dead Celebrity Fan Clubs. The hungry and homeless.
I suppose I could help some of them, or even all of them. But I know human nature; once started, the process would never stop. And there are only so many hours in a day (or night). Only so many dreams that one could have...
I'm still expecting the government agents to come calling. And I'm taking what precautions I can to deter the violent criminals.
In the meantime, I'm trying to convince Mr. Presley (or Elvis, as he prefers) not to use my home as a base to relaunch his singing career. I foresee mayhem on an epic scale if it gets out that the King is dead, and living in my studio loft.
It was an accident, you understand. I nodded off while watching television, and had a dream about the 1950s. Several notable items from that era came back with me.
Still, it's not all bad, I suppose. My home entertainment system now includes the King of Rock 'n' Roll- and a certain screen goddess from Hollywood's Golden Era. My weight is back to normal, as I don't each much, anymore. I have developed a taste for coffee, though. On top of that, I'm getting more work done now than ever before.
You know, there's a fine line between reality and dreams which, once crossed, alters the fabric of reality forever. It is as tenuous as the boundary between Life and Death. Or Sleeping and Waking.
I think I'll try the Mocha Java, tonight.