(16) In The Back Of His Mind
In the back of his mind Andrew was ruminating on the possibility of a dream. A revealing dream, an instructive dream, a dream demanding his full attention and interpretive skill. In back of that was a lingering satisfaction in playing house with Lara, a temporary oasis of cosy domesticity in the dangerous and unpredictable waters of this thing called life. Or at least the life he now lived. And here he was, wanting to bolt from it. And run to what? The wealthy man in his upholstered aerie, with all his toys safely tucked in for the night? The lover locked up with the beloved? The book at bedtime, warm cocoa and cookies at hand? He’d had years of privacy and anonymity in his apartment. He had never been disturbed. Quieter than a Fife fishing village on a rainy night.
He listened to Lara’s breathing. He was surprised to hear it at all, so quiet had she been previously. It sounded emphatic without being troubled. Maybe she was dreaming. His imagination spiralled: he would fall asleep and dream himself into her dream. It sounded like something he’d read somewhere. Mind you, he was getting to the point in his reading life where almost everything, in the way of ideas, sounded like something he’d read somewhere. The phrase vaguely familiar occurred to him regularly. Where would this ruminative elusiveness lead him? He was only thirty-nine now. If he kept this up, he’d be up half the night thinking. Dangerous nightime practice, thinking. And it never really got you anywhere. Thoughts circling thoughts, endlessly reproducing careless offspring.
He reached for Alexander McCall Smith and resumed The Sunday Philosophy Club, tilting the neck of the reading lamp to inches above the page so Lara would not be disturbed. The easily flowing prose pushed his impudent thoughts away and lulled his slight anxiety. Twenty or so minutes later his eyes grew heavy. He closed the book gratefully, switched off the lamp and lost the waking consciousness that had troubled him so recently. It had found its place, after much anguished deliberation, and settled into it, much like a fussy, aging dog.
Darkness assumed its reign, and his body shifted into stand-by mode, resting but ready. From deep within the seemingly indefinable arose the desire for the dream. Whether the desire moved towards the dream, or created it out of the raw energy of its own ambition, was not to be immediately ascertained, but the dream, complete in all its parts, assembled itself in his mind’s eye. It was not a dream of heaven, or anyplace remotely like it.
It was a house, the interiors thereof. He had not entered; driveways, gardens and doors had been sidestepped somehow. Well appointed, verging on stately but with a touch of being staged for resale. A decayed mansion with a bit of a make over. Something was fake, something was pretence, he could feel it. But how? He moved through a lobby of sorts, about the dimensions of the family run hotels his parents had favoured when he was a boy. The better quality of seaside resort accommodation. Why was he spooked, he was the ghost here. He floated upstairs, his feet about four inches above the carpeted steps. Odd feeling but somehow familiar. At the top he knew to turn right. Doors, undoubtedly bedrooms, were closed. He moved through the first as though it was the most natural thing to do. Inside was dim, but really no dimmer than anywhere else. Two single beds separated by a dresser. Each with a boy asleep. A little more down at heels, as if someone was trying to save a few bucks. Boy was the operative word. Young men they were not. He drifted out and into the next bedroom. Much the same. And the next. The annual grade eight trip to Quebec City? He suspected not.
He thought about downstairs and was there. Large kitchen area, spacious dining room. A couple of sitting rooms. Something that suggested reception area. It was all much too grand. Establishments like this never received this much investment. Weren’t they all chintz curtains, pink light bulbs and doors with peep holes that opened onto back alleys? He found another couple of small bedrooms off the kitchen area, each with its own security guard type bruiser snoring under covers.
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