SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 39

Sergio's Dream

Sergio is reclined on a bed of the myriads arrayed at the shore. He suspects we are watching him and so he is hiding his face. He is wearing his spats, his shoes are sunk in the flat sand. It's dawning; only when the sun rises he manages to fall asleep. He is searching for his shoes, he lifts the laces and empties the sugar weighing them down. He mistakes his breath for the wind, he can't concentrate on it. He stands on the creased mattress, he is wearing his shoes, his coat floats.

He is observing the beds. His feet leave crumpled dents on the sheets. A dozen is between the waves; the sea reaches the brass legs and splashes the mattresses with azure spots. The beds reach a stagnating horizon that promises of nothing. At times he is convinced the curved line of the domed sky will lead him to a sharp and archering destination. He is jumping from one bed to another, he grasps the headboards so his unstable slip-ups won't kick him over; some are wooden and carved, others have brass rail rods, and there are a few marbled or gold-plated.

He is leaping on the beds. He sits. He stands. He jumps on the sand, his feet sink to the ankle. He is striding. He finds shapes of bodies on the sheets. Where are those who've slept here? There's no one around to keep him company. He finds a dusty Victorian mirror. He's cleaning it with a thin blanket's tassel. He stares at his reflection but neither him nor us can behold himself. A woman encounters him. He turns his head astonished. She is not waiting. His sight returns to the mirror, the woman smiles at his naiveté. Sergio doesn't attempt to speak for she cannot utter either. He walks as if he slides. He is searching in the reflective glare, he finds a stained glass presence motioning like a Vari-Vue creature. He wanders holding the crystal mirror.

He arrives at a bed with twenty piled mattresses and twenty eider-down beds – monochrome, checked, velvet, embroidered. A spinning staircase leads at the top. He removes his shoes to follow the steps. He kneels on the primary bed, the azure canopy garland combs his hair. He curls in his coat. He takes his glasses off. He undoes his watch, his chevalier ring, his golden cross. He holds them in his palm. He reclines restless. He muffles with a transparent sheet that manages to cover his legs. He leans his head on his shoulder hunted. He presses his hands on his ribs, he clutches the sheet. He stretches them distressed. He raises his torso, he rubs his spine. He feels the coat dump. He touches his back, his cloth is soaked. He pulls his clothes, he undresses. He discovers a wound. He lies curious, terrified. He turns his back to the ocean. Something tickles his rib. It stings. He finds another wound. He sits up. He is tired, he cannot stand to fall asleep. His pillow rends, he smells it, a sickening cough. His finger unravels the edge; seaweed squirts, burnt book page pieces, spider web from dark lighthouses, a dismal rime like a traitor's shadow emerges, nettles, wasp stings, a matador's bleeding cape, lash leash, chain rust, reek of a squealer's breath. He rips the pillow case. He pulls the embroidered hairs of a rogue horse. He grasps his head, he pinches his ear and clumps. He is seeking a pair of compassionate eyes.

He stands ashamed. He crawls to the staircase and rushes to leave. He searches for sharp springs on the mattress. They're nowhere. He walks down a few steps, he shoves his unsatisfied arms in the deep mattress layers. They come out yellow and faded. He sits on the final step, he hesitates because he has understood he doesn't want to find what he was eager to. His delusion is horrifying.

His fingertips are round and hard like chickpeas when they touch the rough brass object under the last mattress. He grabs it. He drags it. He holds it in his firm-fisted hand. The bulgy skin of his palm hides it. He sees the carved shell. Empty and warm, it leaves red marks on his hand. His guilty sight seeks the shore. He holds the shell sensing his burning, pulsing wounds.

He stands, a glow upsets him. The following clash makes him grab the cluttered blankets. Fireworks spark. A hundred fireworks are released and spread. The ash rests like silver dust on his shoulders. The wind cleans his refined bespoke. The St. Tropez plage is like an anthill – Nobody is swimming.