Dimensio

Chapter 4: Emily Taylor

"I hope you're not serious there," Martin Bernard said, scrolling up and down on his desktop computer. Seated across the table was a thin lady in her late fifties. She had a brown-coloured ice-cream bowl in her right hand, and a red metal spoon in her left.

"I am." She swallowed a spoonful ice-cream. "I have places to go. Cannot make it this Sunday."

"Where exactly, may I ask?" 

"That's something you really don't need to know, Martin."

"Well, is it that important?"

"Not exactly, you see. But then there are only few Sundays that I do get some time for myself, and I don't want to waste it in a boring dinner with you."

"Not I, not just I."

"Oh, yes. And your journalist. What did you say her name was?"

"Turner. Laura Turner."

"Which magazine does she work for?"

"A lot of magazines. At least, that's what she told me."

"Wasn't she going to send you her work on the topic or something?"

"That's what I'm reading right now."

"I see. How's the girl in science?"

"Not bad, I should say. Beyond my expectations, for sure. Don't know why she's working for that stupid excuse of a magazine." Martin shook his head.

'Which magazine?" The lady had another spoon of her ice-cream.

"The Great Scientific Journal. Too great for me."

"Oh, that journal. Isn't that your favourite journal?" Her eyes were expectant of a violent reaction.

"It's not, Emily. I loathe that journal." Martin huffed.

Emily pointed towards the lower left shelf of the room, partially concealed by a large almirah. "There," she said. "I see a stack of those magazines. Are you sure you aren't a fan?"

"I read them for the occasional gem. Like this one over here."

"I see. Did you tell that journalist anything about me?"

"'An experienced neurologist', that's the phrase I used. Nothing beyond that."

"Uh, thanks." She had the last spoon of the brown ice-cream. "I adore this flavour." She kept the bowl on the table.

"Chocolate?"

"Oh, no." Emily winced. "It's cinnamon. Beautiful cinnamon."

"So, you're sure you're not coming on Sunday?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that, Martin? I cannot make it on Sunday. Period."

"I've booked a table already. And...it's kinda expensive. Belle de Jour. So, you might want to think about it once again?"

"I don't. That's my final decision. I'm not wasting my time on some pretentious ass restaurant."

"Surrealism. You don't like it?"

"Not particularly. Some surrealism has depth underneath the veneer. But most artist want to pass anything they create as art in the name of surrealism."

"Sometimes it's just not supposed to have any meaning at all. You know, looking at reality through different eyes."

"That would have interested me if it were not so abstract in its nature. More physical and down-to-earth, and perhaps a bit more scientific. I'd love to get into something like that. But examining abstract perceptions of men -- not my cup of tea!"

"Great unification theory," Martin said, unexpectedly.

"What?"

"That's what she bases her ideas on. The great unification theory. Heard of it?"

"Yes. All the forces of nature trace back their origin to one mighty force. That one?"

"Correct. Girl knows quite a bit about the theory. That's the reason she thinks there might be a slight difference in perception of all human beings."

"How is that related to the great unification theory?"

"I'll forward the mail. You can read it."

"Fine."

"Now that it's decided you're not going to come, would you mind telling me what that ultra-essential job is?"

Emily opened her red handbag, and extracted a pamphlet. She laid it on the table. Martin adjusted his spectacle to read:

METAL FESTIVAL. Have the Greatest, Most Brutal, Most Metal Experience of Your Life.

"Are you serious?" Martin winced. "You're giving up the dinner for this?"

"It's once in a blue moon kind of thing. I don't think I'll ever get chance again. The dinner can wait, Martin. I don't think that journalist is as busy as I. Nor are you."

He sighed. And continued scrolling up and down in his desktop. "And, how's your work on Cognit going on?"

"Fine. There's this young boy called Jacob who's assisting me. Silent and passive, just as I like. He's tremendously helpful."

"Good. Just tell me when you're free again. I'll plan one more meeting," Martin said, switching off his desktop.

"Sure, I will."

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The lights were off. The gleam of moon and the street lights on the roads illuminated the room dimly. Martin Bernard was having a glass of whiskey, and contemplating as Shostakovich played on the music system.

Since his teenage, the time when Martin gained a particular interest in the sciences, he had dreams of becoming a famous physicist. Success, as they say, is the best vengeance. And nothing would be more grating to the idiots who had thrown him off from the second floor in high school than to see the name of Martin Bernard in the list of top ten physicists ever.

But the optimism of achieving the dreams faded along with his teenage passions. The desire, however, did not. As his lust for fame swelled, and his dreams shrunk, he became aggressive and frustrated in his middle-age. At one point, he even decided to plan a big con to convince people he had discovered something that indeed did not exist. 

With numerous pills and therapies, his mental state improved. But his desire for fame was too strong -- even the alcoholism, drug addiction, psychological problems he faced in his middle age could do nothing to his ambitions. 

It was in one such therapy that he met Emily Taylor. His psychiatrist had advised him to meet the neurologist, and to be frank to her. 

His phone rung. Martin placed his glass on the side-table carefully, and rushed to his bedroom for picking it up.

"Hullo?"

"This is Emily Taylor," the voice at the other end said. "Did you cancel my booking?"

"I'll do that tonight."

"Don't do it," Emily said. "I'm coming for the dinner."

"Well," his voice was one of joyful surprise. "Did that music festival get cancelled?"

"It didn't. I just changed my mind."

"How? You really wanted to attend the fes-"

"I just did! I don't want to go there anymore. Fine? Don't cancel the booking, kay?"

"Fine. And, thanks?"

"Oh, you're welcome, Martin."

"Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye."