The Masquerade of Sins and the Sacrifice of the Thirteenth
by Marcelo Almeida

PART ONE

‘So, what did you want to talk about?’ Sergei asked while buttoning up his coat.
    ‘I had a dream last night,’ answered Jonathan, blowing the hard, cold air out of his lungs.
    ‘So what? A famous guy said we dream every night. The only thing is we don't remember all of the dreams. Now who was that?’
    ‘I guess it was Freud. But I'm not too sure about that. I mean, the guy studied the psyche and all that. He related everything to sex, though. It's actually kinda creepy.’
    ‘Yeah. So, where are we going?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘We aren't staying in this fuckin' cold, right? Let's go to the Starbucks. I could use some hot chocolate.’
    ‘Okay, okay. Let's go.’

‘So, what's the dream about?’
     ‘Well, it was all very weird. And scary. It was one of those nightmares, it was so real.’
    ‘Hot chocolate?’
    ‘Give me a white mocca.’
     ‘You come to the Starbucks and you ask for a white mocca?’
    ‘What’s the problem?’
     ‘A white mocca? White?’
    ‘If that’s against you religion or something, I can order it myself.’
     ‘Okay, I’ll order it.’
    ‘I’m not forcing you to do this.’
     ‘You know, all of this 'I had a dream' thing reminds me of Martin Luther King.’
    ‘Yeah. “And no one would question their motives”.’
     ‘Deep stuff.’
    ‘Are we going to talk about my dream or what?’
    ‘All right. No need to be bitching.’
    ‘I'm not . . . Oh, just forget it.’
     ‘So, tell me about your dream.’
    ‘Okay. So, it starts more or less like this: I was in another city. Or town. Well, I was with Julia there.’
     ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘Yeah. But I can't remember who. Anyway, you know her tests are coming, right? And for some reason an old teacher of mine, a history teacher, was on that city. And he was teaching classes, free classes.’
     ‘Now that's a good deal. You know how much you have to pay for a private teacher these days?’
     ‘It wasn't private classes.’
     ‘Well, if it is for free, it's still a good deal.’
    ‘Yeah. So, I took her there to his classes.’
    ‘You went with her?’
    ‘Yup. We both went there.’
    ‘And the other guy?’
    ‘Yeah. He went too. It was awkward, though.’
    ‘What was?’
    ‘When I had classes with that teacher, his hair went down to his shoulders. Now he had a neat, trimmed cut. It barely went down his neck.’
     ‘So, your nightmare was about your teacher who had a haircut? Bitch.’
    ‘Just let me finish. He also spoke in English.’
     ‘You dreamed in English?’
    ‘Just the classes.’
    ‘But your native language isn't English.’
    ‘Really? I'm glad someone finally told me that. I wouldn't have realized it without your help.’
    ‘I never dreamed in English.’
    ‘What's so weird about it? We speak English every day.’
    ‘Learn some Russian and the problem’s solved.’
    ‘Yeah, right. Like I'm gonna waste my time like that.’
    ‘Fuck you.’
    ‘What's with you and all this swearing?’
     ‘English is a beautiful language’, and he raised his cup.
     ‘Do you swear like that in Russian?’
    ‘A little.’
    ‘It figures.’
    ‘So, what about the teacher?’
    ‘Right. So, we were sitting there, just listening to him. But he didn’t really teach, you know? We were just, like, singing. He brought a guitar and played.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘He brought a . . .’
     ‘I got that, I’m not stupid. What I mean is, what?! Or, to make it clearer: WTF?!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘W T F. What The Fuck. Don’t you use the internet?’
    ‘. . .’
     ‘Just go on.’
    ‘Ok. I know it’s weird, but . . . Whatever. We went to a few classes, but we were kinda mad at him, you know? I mean, the guy is a history teacher, but he just stays there singing.’
     ‘In English.’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Does he speak English?’
    ‘The teacher?’
    ‘Who else, Einstein?’
    ‘I don’t know. Not that I know of, no.’
    ‘You know, guess who I saw just the other day.’
    ‘Huh? What?’
    ‘Come on, take a guess.’
    ‘How should I know? Stephan?’
    ‘Andrade.’
    ‘The Spanish guy?’
    ‘Yeah, him. You know, I was just going my way, going to my job when I hear that voice calling at me.’
    ‘Gosh, I remember that. The guy is so scandalous. And it was always like: “Jonathan. Aquí. Mira, Jonathan”. Dear God!’
    ‘Yes, the fucker was there alright. Just like that. Only he wasn’t “aqui” or “mira” or any such fuck. He was speaking English.’
    ‘Andrade? For real?’
    ‘Yeah. I thought that pussy was never gonna learn English. Not a word.’
    ‘Did you talk to him?’
    ‘Of course not. I turned around and went away. Why would I talk to him?’
    ‘I guess you’re right. I can’t stand that accent. That Spanish accent. What’s wrong with those people? The whole world comes here and learns English, except for them. They think they’re special or something?’
     ‘Assholes.’
    ‘So, as I was saying, we were going to his classes and...’
‘You’re talking about the dream, right?’
    ‘Yes, I am, the dream.’
     ‘Okay, then. Go on.’
    ‘I already was . . . Anyway, we went to his classes until we kind of got fed up with it, you know? He wasn’t teaching what he should, so we left.’
     ‘You realize those were free classes, right?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
     ‘The guy was already teaching for free. You didn’t expect a super class, did you?’
    ‘That was a dream, not my real teacher.’
     ‘So?’
    ‘ . . . Whatever. Anyway, after his classes, we went to the port. Or harbor. Something like that.’
     ‘What were you doing there?’
    ‘I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. We just needed to be there.’
     ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘For the dream to happen. We had to be there to see what was going to happen.’
     ‘I don’t get it.’
    ‘You know how dreams have their own rules. Their own laws.’
     ‘Hum . . . Interesting. Know what I hate? Those dreams when there’s someone after you and you can’t run away.’
    ‘Yeah, I hate those too. I read somewhere that those are the problems you have.’
     ‘What kinds of problems?’
    ‘Tha depends. I think they could be anything. Anything you think is a problem. Like paying your bills, doing your homework, I don’t know. They just run after you, and you can’t escape. Not until you turn around and face them, anyway. But that’s a whole other deal.’
     ‘You remember that girl, Layla?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The one we met at that party?’
    ‘Which party?’
     ‘The one with the French guy. What’s the pussy’s name again? Laura?’
    ‘That’s a girl’s name.’
     ‘He looks like a girl. Those French guys are all gay. Just look at how they speak. It’s so gay.’
    ‘Now you’re being a homophobic.’
     ‘I didn’t say that’s a problem. As long as those faggots are a safe distance from me, I’m fine with them.’
     ‘ . . .’
     ‘What?!’
    ‘So, about the party? That was the one when those girls kissed?’
     ‘No, no. That was later.’
    ‘But it was cool.’
     ‘Wow. That was fuckin’ great. And they were fuckin’ hot, too.’
    ‘Yeah. And those breasts.’
     ‘Great tits.’
    ‘So, what party are you talking about?’
     ‘The French guy. Remember when Mark invited us to go to the harbor with him? There was a rave going on.’
    ‘Okay, I think I know which one now. When the French guy . . . what’s his name again?’
    ‘I don’t know. Something French . . .’
    ‘Laure . . . Laurent. Yeah, I remember. You pronounce Lohan. Or something like that.’
     ‘That. Exactly. Remember the party, then? When that girl came with, what, 6 pounds of ecstasy?’
    ‘No . . . Wait . . . That was Layla? The Irish girl?’
     ‘Fuckin’ right.’
    ‘Now that girl was something. What about her?’
     ‘Guess how she works now to pay her bills?’
    ‘ . . . Don’t tell me . . . No . . .’
     ‘Fuck yeah. I banged her alright.’
    ‘For real?’
     ‘Yeah. Fifty bucks. Fifty fuckin’ American dollars. I fuckin’ love this country.’
    ‘I think people are starring at us. And not because of your undying love for this land.’
     ‘Fuck it. So, what were you saying? About the harbor?’
    ‘Yeah. Well, that was when things started going crazy. Look, we were at the harbor when something weird was about to happen. Or maybe it wasn’t weird at all.’
     ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I told you before. Dreams have their own laws, their own rules.’
     ‘I still don’t get it.’
    ‘Well, how can I put this? Let’s say we go to another country. Huh . . . Japan. Okay? Let’s say we go to Japan and we meet this kid. He or she is not doing so well in school, so he or she decides to kill him or herself.’
     ‘Just decide if it’s a he or a she.’
    ‘Okay. So it’s a girl, right?’
     ‘Why do you want to kill a girl?’
     ‘I don’t want to kill anyone. She decided she should kill herself.’
    ‘Whatever. Just go on.’
    ‘Right. So, because she isn’t doing so great in school, she decides she cannot continue to live, because she must guard the honor of her family. What would you say about that? What would you think about someone like that in Russia? Or even here?’
     ‘That it’s fuckin’ stupid. Why kill yourself over something like that?’
    ‘Exactly. For you – and for me as well – this sounds ridiculous. But it’s their rule. To guard the honor of their family is their number one task. Honor is their higher standard, and you must do everything in your reach to preserve that. Even at the expense of your own life.’
     ‘And what exactly does that got to do with your dream?’
     ‘My dream is Japan. This foreign land with different rules. Some things may not be the same. Or they might be downright weird to us, but that does not make it stupid for the people there. It’s not strange for them. Get it?’
    ‘I guess. That kind of makes sense.’
     ‘You know what? I feel kinda bad sitting here when we finished our drinks already and there’s a lot of people standing just looking for a place . . .’
     ‘So?’
     ‘I don’t know. I feel kinda bad about that. Just wait here, I’ll go and buy something else.’
     ‘Another white mocca?’
     ‘You got a problem with that?’
     ‘Is it a white mocca?’
    ‘No, I’ll buy a hot chocolate.’
     ‘Bring me one as well.’
    ‘Okay. Just gimme the money . . .’

‘So, about the harbor?’
     ‘I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I think it came in a swirl. Just . . . I dunno. One moment of calm, of stillness. And then it began. A swirling motion that threatened to swallow the whole dreaming.’
     ‘Will you please speak English? I know you want to become a, how do you call it, a far-fetched writer?
    ‘Full-fledged.’
     ‘It’s all the same to me.’
    ‘I’m sure it is.’
     ‘Anyway, just saying that this is not one of your stories.’
    ‘Oh, but it is. It is all a story. The only question is:”whose?” And right now, it is mine.’
     ‘Fuck you. Keep talking like that and I’ll leave.’
    ‘But don’t you understand? That thing, it came and . . . It felt like it traveled space and time and blackness and . . . and it was there. Like a Chtulhu, emerging from the depths of the unconscious mind, an archetype of anger and angst and suffering and longing and . . .’
     ‘And . . . ?’
    ‘It was . . . Pure. Pure madness and horror. An untamable beast, rising from the ocean. And as it ascended, it drowned all else. Villagers were thrown at it to placate its anger. But its fury was too vast. Don’t you understand? I saw the sacrifices being torn to shreds by its humongous tentacles as if they were nothing. And its rage was so… monstrous that nothing could stop it. We all fled in a mix of terror and hopelessness before it. This great beast from within . . .’
     ‘Beast . . . ?’
    ‘We fled from it. I ran and found my family. But I lost Julia. I don’t know how or why, but she wasn’t there anymore. So I tried to call her. I got my phone, but there was no signal. Instead, there was a voice playing a message. Something like: “do not panic. Go to the church, where you’ll be safe.” Also, she said something about the monster not taking children. It would not risk harming them. They were safe. And there was something about the reason we should all go to the church, but I can’t remember it.’
     ‘Could it be because of God, perhaps? I’m no fuckin’ genius – I mean, I am a fucking genius, but not a genius. Get it? But, ahem, that’s what churches are for.’
    ‘I know, but dreams are metaphorical. The church probably stood there as a figure of sanctuary. But it wasn’t about God. It was something else.’
    ‘Hey, I just thought about this. If the voice was saying all that, doesn’t it mean this happened before?’
    ‘Yes. Once. At least.’
    ‘Once?’
    ‘This is the second time I had this dream. The first time, I saw the beast’s tentacles entering the church and taking a man – at least I think it was a man – next to me. And the dream was over. But this time, for some reason, I knew it was coming for me. And there was this commotion. My father wouldn’t shut up, my brother was going everywhere, he didn’t stand still, and I couldn’t find Julia.’
     ‘And what did you do?’
    ‘I did what everyone did, I grabbed onto one of the seats. Interestingly, they were made of stone.’
     ‘They were stuck to the floor?’
    ‘Pretty much, yeah.’
     ‘And then?’
    ‘The monster came. It’s tentacle, that is. The thing was huge, stretching for miles. It breached into the church so swiftly. We were petrified. So silent. Do you know what that is? Pure silence? The absence of sound? An emptiness in the air. I feared so much. At first, I feared Julia was caught.’
     ‘Did you see her?’
    ‘No. That’s why I was afraid. She had disappeared from my dream. And then, I feared for myself. I saw the tentacle grabbing someone close to me. It was a child.’
     ‘Didn’t you say the thing didn’t get children?’
    ‘I know. It let go. The kid was safe. I was horrified. I knew it was coming for me. But then I saw my brother a few seats away from me, and I thought the monster was going to get him.’
     ‘Did he get him?’
    ‘No.’
     ‘Did he get you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘I woke up. I was covered in sweat. Almost crying. I grabbed Julia as hard as I could – I think I might have hurt her. I just had to hold her.’
    ‘That’s what you did? That’s what you fucking did? You woke up and hugged her?’
    ‘What else could I do? We were sleeping together, and I didn’t dare face the dream by myself. I had to wake up.’
     ‘And that’s what you wanted to talk to me about?’
    ‘Pretty much, yeah.’
     ‘Right . . . You know what, let’s go outside. I need to stretch my legs.’
    ‘Fine.’

‘Listen, Jonathan. I know this may not sound very sensitive, but: stop being a bitch. It was just a dream.’
    ‘No, it wasn’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Something was different.’
    ‘What was?’
    ‘It changed.’
     ‘So? A lot of things change.’
     ‘But . . . Listen, it was the second time I had this dream, and it changed. It evolved. And it scared me. It genuinely scared me.’
     ‘So you woke up and hugged Julia. Did you tell her about it?’
    ‘Not really. I only told her I had a bad dream.’
     ‘And?’
    ‘And then she cuddled me and I went back to sleep.’
     ‘What did you dream of, then?’
    ‘I can’t remember. Which in this case is a very good thing.’
     ‘Jonathan, just get over it.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Like you said before, you have to turn around and fuckin’ face it. Look the monster in the eye and say fuck you real hard.’
    ‘Do I say: “fuck you real hard” or do I say real hard: “fuck you”?’
     ‘You bitch.’
    ‘Just teasing with you.’
     ‘I don’t know what else I can say.’
    ‘You don’t need to say anything. You already helped me a lot by listening. And advising. I just don’t know if I can face it. I’m not sure I have the guts to go back there and curse it. Heck! How am I even going back to that dream. How do you do that?’
     ‘How the fuck should I know? That’s your problem, not mine. Try talking to Julia. Maybe she can help.’
     ‘I don’t know. I don’t feel really comfortable talking to her about this.’
     ‘Why not?’
    ‘I kind of feel guilty about the dream. Like I left her all alone. Like I wasn’t there when she needed me. Like I didn’t have her when I needed her.’
     ‘You sound like a pussy.’
    ‘Aren’t pussies a good thing?’
     ‘Only wet. And we’re frozen already.’
    ‘It’s strange how people say “asshole” to someone else as if that’s a bad thing. I’m particularly very fond of assholes.’
     ‘They’re fuckin’ good. And good fucking. As long as they have a wet pussy nearby, at least.’
    ‘Or two. Or three.’
     ‘The more, the better.’
    ‘The merrier. The more the merrier.’
     ‘Whatever. Now go fuck yourself.’
    ‘That’s a goodbye then?’
     ‘Man, I got to go to work. I wish I could stay and talk more about asses and pussies. You know I wish.’
    ‘Don’t I?’
     ‘And Jonathan, take care, ok? Try not to get yourself too much into this thing. It was just a dream.’
    ‘Yeah. Thanks, anyway. I’ll see what I can do.’
     ‘Good luck, then. See ya.’
    ‘See ya.’

 

PART TWO

 ‘What are you reading, hon?’ asked Julia, looking at Jonathan, who was sitting on the couch across from her.
     ‘Borges’, he replied, advancing a page. He seemed trapped in the world that book created for him.
     ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Borges. Jorge Luis Borges.’
     ‘Who’s that? I never heard of him.’
    ‘He’s from Argentina.’
     ‘So, he writes in . . . Spanish?’
    ‘Yep.’
     ‘Can you read Spanish?’
    ‘Just barely.’
     ‘But I thought you didn’t like Spanish.’
    ‘I don’t.’
     ‘Then why are you reading it?’
    ‘Just because.’
     ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
    ‘I know. Go figure.’
     ‘. . . So, do you understand what’s written there?’
    ‘Trying to. This guy, it’s just . . . I dunno. He had such a grasp on writing.’
     ‘Makes you want to be him?’
    ‘Yeah . . . but no. It makes me want to be myself. But to be able to write as well as he does.’
     ‘So that’s why you are reading it.’
    ‘I guess.’
     ‘Can you read that for me?’
     ‘It’s Spanish.’
     ‘Well then, can you translate that for me?’
    ‘It’s a little bit difficult.’
     ‘Please?’
    ‘. . . Okay. But I’ll only read this part.’
     She smiled.
    ‘Okay. It reads something like this: “When I was a kid, I feverously adored the tiger: not the pink tiger from Parana and from the Amazonian confusion, but rather, the striped, Asian, the real tiger, the one that only warriors can face, atop a castle, mounting an elephant”.’
    ‘Parana?’
    ‘It’s a region in Brazil.’
     ‘Ok.’
     They smiled for each other.
    ‘Ahem, “I used to face the tigers’ cage for days without end at the Zoo; I appreciated the enlightened encyclopedias and the natural history books for the splendor of their tigers     (I still remember those figures: I, who cannot remember without error the face or the smile of a woman)”.’
     ‘For someone who can barely read Spanish, you’re doing great.’
    ‘Thanks . . .’ and he smiled shyly. ‘Continuing, “Childhood has come and gone, tigers have grown old, just as my passion for them, but they still inhabit my dreams. In this memory, submerse or chaotic, they still prevail, and thus: asleep, a common dream distracts me and I know for sure that I am dreaming. So I think: This is a dream, sheer fun of my will and, since I have limitless power, I shall create a tiger”.’
     They exchanged a quick glance before he went back to the reading.
    ‘“Oh, incompetence! My dream can never produce the beloved beast. Forth comes the tiger, yes, but weak or puny, or bearing impure variations in its shape, or short-lived, or seemingly a dog or a bird”.’
     Julia came closer to him, then kissed him in his mouth.
     ‘That was really good.’
    ‘Who are you complimenting, me or Borges?’
     ‘You silly, of course it’s you.’, and she started tickling him as punishment.
     ‘Stop it, please. I surrender, I surrender!’
     Laughing, they rolled to the floor, where they kissed, caressed, and then loved.

 

PART THREE

‘So, hon, how is your story coming?’, asked Julia, walking beside Jonathan through the park.
     ‘What story?’, he replied, looking at her.
     ‘Weren’t you writing something? I saw you the other day . . .’
     ‘Oh, that. It was nothing, really. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t.’
     ‘What . . . ?’
    ‘I was trying to write something, but it wasn’t coming out right.’
     ‘How so?’
    ‘It just . . . wasn’t quite what I expected.’
     ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I mean . . . I had an idea for a story. The concept was, is, in my head. But when it was time to put it down on paper . . .  I dunno.’
     ‘Aren’t you cold?’
     ‘A little, yes. But the park gets so pretty like this. It has, I dunno, a blasé quality.’
     ‘Blasé?’
    ‘Yeah, like, how can I put this. You know that person who sits by the window with a pipe on his mouth looking outside? His eyes are lost somewhere in time, in a place far, far away. And when he speaks, his deep voice only pronounces a sentence or two, enlightened in his wisdom. And then he goes back to the window and his distant eyes. That’s blasé.’
     ‘I’m not really sure I get it.’
    ‘Okay, maybe that example was a bit too long. That poise of a man drinking his whisky like he doesn’t even care. He has other concerns. I don’t think I can explain much better than that.’
     ‘It’s okay, I think I get it. You mean the park has a . . . distant . . . air?
     ‘Something like that.’
     ‘All of that just to say this?’
    ‘No, of course not. Let me tell you something. Do you know the novel Madame Bovary? Written by Flaubert?’
     ‘I think I heard of it . . .’
    ‘Well, in a nutshell, it’s about a woman in the seventeen, eighteen hundreds, in France, who cheats on her husband. It’s a very erotic novel.’
     ‘It sounds like you.’
    ‘This is not about the erotic part.’
     ‘Really?’, and she raised an eyebrow.
     ‘Yes, really. It’s about the author. The French have an expression, “le mot just”, which would be something like “the just word”, “the perfect word”. It’s that exact word which in a given context will have the greatest effect. For example, the perfect word to create suspense, or to give the text an eloquent quality, or maybe a very simplistic one. It doesn’t matter what you are looking for, there must be a word that will fit perfectly in that context. Are you following?’
     ‘Yes, yes I am.’
    ‘Well, Flaubert was a great – shall we say – follower of this expression. So in Madame Bovary, he used to write less than a page per day, searching for the exact word for every sentence. No word would ever be used unless it was absolutely necessary for it to be there to generate that context.’
     ‘That sounds complex.’
    ‘It is. And that is why he chose one word instead of the other. That’s why you’ll read in a book, let’s see, something like . . . can’t think of anything . . .’
     ‘Need help?’
    ‘. . . Okay, got it. I read this a couple of years ago. It was something like: “love is the antidote for carrots”.’
     ‘That’s a . . . funny sentence.’
    ‘In a way, yeah. I guess it is funny.’
     They looked at each other, giggling, and held their hands tighter.
    ‘You know what this means, right?’
     ‘The sentence?’
    ‘Yeah. Think about it. What is an antidote?’
     ‘Something to heal . . . I guess.’
    ‘Okay. Let’s say it’s a healer. What do carrots do? I mean, we all know carrots are good for . . .’
    ‘The eyesight.’
    ‘Exactly. So if love is the antidote for carrots, then . . .’
     ‘It’s the antidote for eyesight?’
     ‘Which is the same as to say that love is blind. Only it’s different. See how important the word is? I mean, I could give you an example like: “that’s a beautiful dog” and “that’s a gorgeous dog”, but that wouldn’t handle the whole picture.’
     ‘And it’s pretty dumb, too.’
    ‘ . . .’
     ‘What?’
    ‘Thank you for your compliments . . .’
     ‘You’re so silly’, and she started tickling him.
     ‘No, please, not again. Stop, please’, and he held her tight and kissed her longely and gently. ‘You’re a pain in the ass, you know?’
     ‘I’m just glad to be of service,’ she said, with a smile.
    ‘So, do you understand now why I said blasé and not another word?’
    ‘I can’t believe this! You really said all of this just to justify the “blasé”? You never give up, do you?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘So, tell me, what is this story about?’
    ‘You, mean, the one I didn’t write?’
     ‘That one.’
    ‘About stories.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Well, this got to me the other day, but what if our life, our reality, is made of stories? Like it all happens as if a story.’
     ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Life follows the course of the plot twist, the surprise, the fantastic. Out of everything that could happen to us, only the most interesting occurs, because that’s how a story develops, it needs interesting “hooks” to keep us entertained.’
     ‘So life is like literature?’
    ‘Yes and no. Literature is just another way of telling a story. I was talking more about myths.’
     ‘How so?’
    ‘Do myths conform to reality or is it reality that conforms to myths? And when I say reality, I don’t mean this tree that we can touch or the wind that we can feel, no. What I mean is the reality of our culture, the way we lead our lives. Have myths been shaped around our reality or was it our reality that was shaped around myths?’
     ‘And by myths you mean . . .’
    ‘Stories, I guess. I haven’t really developed it as a theory. It’s all very clear to me in my head, I just can’t get it on paper, though.’
     ‘Can you give an example?’
    ‘Let’s see . . . It could be Greek myths and all that, but it could also be that black people have really big cocks, or that Jews are stingy, or that there are monsters in our closets, or even that love exists.’
     ‘Does love exist?’
    ‘Well, I believe I love you. And I like to believe that you love me too.’
     ‘I do love you’, and she pulled him close to her and tenderly kissed his mouth. ‘You know that. Brat.’
     ‘Always so gentle. And besides, I’m not even a month younger than you.’
     ‘You’ll always be my little brat.’
    ‘I’m… glad to know.’
    ‘So, what were you planning to write?’
    ‘Well, my idea, or the concept for the idea, was that of a man climbing the stairs of a building up to the last floor. I’m not sure where he is going, if it’s an apartment, or the roof, or whatever. But on his way up, in the other apartments, he sees myths and legends that we know taking place in everyday lives. Like the elder son killing his sibling because they were competing for their father’s love. Or maybe a man who killed his father and slept with his own mother – unknowingly. Something like this. I’d have to do some research.’
     ‘That sounds interesting.’
    ‘I was thinking of mixing in some urban legends as well . . .’
    ‘Don’t do that.’
    ‘Wha . . . Why?’
    ‘I think it’s nice just the way it is. I mean, try to find some myths and stories that could fit in everyday life and do it. You don’t need to mix those. It’s kind of awkward.’
    ‘Really?’
     ‘That’s what I think.’
    ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe in this world they don’t belong together. And I was also thinking about the ending. I was in doubt. Tell me what you think. I’m still working it out, but in the end the man goes all the way to the top floor and sees the lights in his apartment – or wherever it is he’s going – are off. So he walks in and says: “let there be light”, and he turns on the light switch.’
     ‘So he’s God?’
    ‘Only a representation. I was thinking that, when he turns on the light, maybe we see that he has many plants, animals and a small baby on the corner of the room. What do you think?’
     ‘I think it needs work.’
    ‘That I know. It’s what I’ve been telling you for the last few minutes. It’s just ideas. But do you like them?’
    ‘I do. But they need some more work. So, in your world, life is made of stories.’
    ‘Or stories are the ingredient for life. Either way, we can go all the way back to Shakespeare: “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”.’
     ‘You are just showing off, you know?’
    ‘Yeah . . . I could quote The Lord of the Rings if you wanted, too. “One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them…” ’
     ‘Please, God, not again.’
    ‘ “. . .one ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them”.’
     ‘But that has got nothing to do with what we are talking about.’
     ‘I know’, so he brought her closer to him, and they hugged yet again, caring for each other.
     ‘But how come you couldn’t write it? You know what you’re going to write.’
     ‘More or less. But, how can I put this . . . I didn’t know how to begin. I mean, how do I start a story like this: “there he was, climbing the stairs”? Or maybe: “step after step he climbed”? I don’t know. Maybe I have a good idea on where it’s going, but I’m terrible at beginnings. You know, beginnings are as important as endings, and just as random.’
     ‘Random? That actually makes sense. When do you begin a story? Why there and not somewhere else?’
     ‘Exactly. I read a book once that started with a coma and ended with a colon.’
     ‘That’s crazy. What’s its name?’
    ‘I don’t remember. I was still a sophomore.’
     ‘That reminds me, how are you going to call it?’
    ‘What?’
     ‘The story. What’s the title?’
    ‘I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t really given it much thought. Maybe I’ll write something really awkward and bizarre. Names are also very random. Why “The DaVinci code” and not “The mystery of the rose” or something? I mean, obviously the author has his reasons, but they are mostly aesthetical. A very long and strange title, how about it?’
     ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like . . . uh . . . lemme think . . . “The long serenade of the man who wouldn’t sleep”. What do you think?’
     ‘Horrible. Give it another name.’
     ‘You’re right, this name does really suck.’
     ‘I’m freezing already. Let’s go back to your place.’
     ‘Wanna get warm, is that it?’
     ‘Not the way you think.’
    ‘Really?’
     ‘Okay, maybe a little.’
    ‘I love you, you know that?’
    ‘Of course I do. And I love you, too.’

 

PART FOUR

That night, Jonathan had one of those dreams in which we are actors and audience at the same time; for although he moved and thought, he saw himself walking to and fro at will, and it was not his own. He followed his moving body across the town until it met Julia and they headed elsewhere.
     They paraded around and about, entering different and distinct places, searching for the right one – wherever that was. Until they entered an underground building, knowing that they had at last found it.
     Jonathan calmly observed his surroundings; there were other people nearby, all sitting in a circle. Then a man entered the room holding a guitar. He looked at them and spoke something inaudible – or senseless. He sat down to be on their level and started to play the instrument, searching for the right chords, the rhythm to follow.
     He played a nice and easy song, changing tones and velocity at random. He seemed to be studying the people around him. They, on the other hand, glanced back at him with a sort of disguised disdain. ‘I was here to study’, spoke Jonathan’s body. ‘Not for this’.
     Then the people in the room began to mumble, as if complaining. Their voices slowly evolved from a low complaint to a loud and powerful chant, replacing the melody as the sound to be heard. The guitar was mute. No matter how much it played, how hard or how far, it could not find space to breathe, until it choked.
     Jonathan’s and Julia’s voices were lost amidst that myriad of sound and fury.
     Slowly but surely, the ballad of voices began to take shape and gain in consistency; soon, it was more than a song. It resembled a mist in the ocean, shrouding the air in its grayish cloak. The voices however did not stop. The mist grew and swirled, and soon they were no longer there, but in a harbor, facing the ocean. They changed places at the speed of sound and song. Or maybe, at a velocity only found in dreams.
      Jonathan looked about, seeing his body and Julia a few yards away, longly gazing at the seas ahead. All was peace.
     But then there was no more quiet, for the voices sounded yet again, lifting that curtain of stillness, producing a strong swing in the mood. And the wind howled, echoing high across the skies; the waters stirred and swirled, bubbling violently as the people gathered there to watch dumfounded at that terrific spectacle.
     Clouds gathered, covering the land in darkness. Then there was no more bubbling, no more swirl; it was so much more. As if rejoicing from the darker depths of the Dreaming, the ocean folded and erupted. And from that sadistic explosion, there was pain, and hunger and solitude; for the voices sang stronger, united in their mutual emptiness.
     Soon, all of the sadness took shape, fed by that ominous serenade; it embodied the pain, the hunger and the solitude. And in their gathering, it formed a dreadful being, covered with a shell carved of broken hearts. It swallowed everything it touched, staining their existence with its huge blackness.
     Like a Kraken rising from the depths, it hunted for nourishment it could not find in the wet lands below. The people, unknowing of the beast’s properties, fed it with their fear, their terror. And in their flight, they were swallowed by it. For the monster that now emerged from the murky water of dreams caught all of them with its humongous tentacles; and it swept the land in search of things to devour.
     The people ran away, whilst a few stayed and tried to placate its rage, but to no avail. Suddenly, Jonathan felt his body rising up in the air, and, as if he had no control, he was thrown to feed the beast.
     In a moment of desperation, Julia jumped to him, holding onto the man she loved. Even though that was only a dream – and maybe she knew that – she would not let him go. Never. And together they were engulfed by the darkness.

When that dream was over, another one began.
     Jonathan opened his eyes to the newfound surroundings and he saw – far off in the horizon – a long, dark tower, enlightened by the glittering shine of the full moon.
     It called to him, ever demanding of his presence. So he woke Julia up and together they waded across the plains. As they drew closer, slowly they realized the tower was wrought in the shape of a spiral, twisted as it was. It was carved in blackness, and seemed to absorb the moonlight to its depths.
     Holding hands, Jonathan opened the large door out of the wasteland and into the Spiral of Dreams.
     Deep inside the Spiral, there was a circular stairway that followed the shape of the walls closely, escalating into the darkness above. The building exhaled a shrill of decadence that was hard to avoid, tasting of forgotten loves and bitter farewells. It would be a long walk.
     They climbed up to the next floor, where they saw a little girl inside a well-lit room; she moved back and forth towards an old oven in the back, baking cookies with tenderness and dedication, pouring love in them with a kind of happiness Jonathan had not seen for long. She cared for them as if they were her newborn babies, feeding them with growing powder and sugar. And what power do they hold in dreams, for they were ready in no time, and smelled of life and beauty.
     After all of the cookies were made, she packed them carefully and put them in a basket. Then she put on a red hood and left her home, gaily climbing the stairway before her.
     After the little girl had gone out of sight, Jonathan and Julia moved to the next floor, where they found a closed room. Julia walked slowly to the door, looking through the peephole. She stared at the other side for a moment, then covered her mouth and turned her face away, startled.
     Jonathan went to her and they hugged for a moment. He spoke softly to her ear, meaning to calm her down. His voice was like a lullaby, and soon she was numb to the terrible moment that had preceded it.
     Then, very carefully, Jonathan reached down to the door knob and opened the door wide. Eyeing the room from the entrance, he noticed only the blood-sprayed carpet; but as he looked from one place to the other he realized it was everywhere. A thick scarlet substance decorated the walls and the furniture in a chaotic pattern, gushing from the body of a child lying on a table in the middle of the room; the kid coughed lightly, enjoying the final moments he had in this world.
     Then they heard a voice; coming from deeper within the house, a child dragged his father by the hand, anxious to show his work. When they entered the room, however, the father stuck to the floor, completely paralyzed, as the boy laughed hysterically.
     ‘See what I did? This is for you, dad!’, he shouted.
     Suddenly the father regained control over his muscles and hit his son as hard as he could, throwing him head-first to the wall.
     ‘Go away!’, cried the father. ‘Get out! Get out! And never come back!’, tears ran down his face as he punished his son.
     So the boy, standing as he could, left the house sobbing, climbing the stairs and into the blackness above. Julia and Jonathan looked at each other and sighed. The sight of the father mourning not one, but two sons, was too much to bear. They had to keep going, and so they did.
     As they walked up the circular stairs, they heard the loud sound of footsteps fast approaching from above; a woman wearing a long purple dress was followed swiftly by a man in an elegant tuxedo.
     ‘No! Leave me be!’, she cried, but he would not give in, nearly reaching with his body what he must have done a thousand times in his mind.
     The woman would run down as she could, only inches away from her persecutor, escaping a fate she should not have to endure. And the man, bearing a lustful look, drooled at the violet smell of the fleeing girl. It seemed a game to him. And maybe it was.
     Watching that sick spectacle, Julia felt her skin crawl, and prepared to intervene. When the two – man and woman – were close enough, she threw herself at the man, but by some miscalculation – or misfortune –, she and the woman in purple hit each other, and the woman fell off the stairs, plummeting into the darkness below.
     ‘No! My love!’, cried a voice from above, and they heard the sound of footsteps yet again.
     Jonathan, while holding Julia in his arms, who was still in shock by what she had done, managed to climb that last flight of stairs as a man carrying a music instrument raced down.
     On the fourth floor, there were many people reunited before an empty stage, watching the hollow performance of a desperate man. All of their eyes gazed below, and not one of them looked at either Jonathan or Julia as they climbed the next flight of stairs, escaping the blame, but not the guilt.
     Reaching to the fifth floor, they saw a small run-down house blowing smoke from the chimney. They were ready to go on and ignore it when they heard strange sounds coming from the inside. Jonathan left Julia at the stairwell and went by himself to investigate, ready – he thought – for whatever sort of treachery the Oneiros had to throw at him.
     He opened the front door slowly, carefully entering a home he was not welcome in. The sounds were quite stronger there. He ventured deeper to investigate and soon he found himself in the kitchen. There was a basket lying on the table and a red hood hanging from a chair.
     A few feet from where he was, he noticed a couch facing the other way. When he walked around it, he saw an old woman lying quietly, seemingly asleep; only she had taken an axe to the gut.
     ‘Please, no!’, cried a faint voice from the bedroom. ‘No, please! Don’t!’
     Jonathan looked at the old woman and carefully took the axe out of her body. Carrying the weapon, he walked easily to the bedroom, trying not to make any sound. Step after step, taking care not to breathe, he came up behind a couple having sex. The man had stripped the woman of all her clothes and pushed her onto the bed. Now, he had turned her around and gripped her steadily, preventing her from screaming. She moved and clawed and cried and gave up. There was very little left of the girl he had seen just a few floors below.
     Jonathan looked straight at that man and raised his axe. He aimed for the best spot, waited for the perfect moment, and then

‘Are you ok?’, Jonathan asked the girl, who was now sobbing on the bed. There was blood coming out of her.
     He tried to comfort her, but she moved and screamed so much at his touch that there was nothing he could do. Then he turned around and realized that the man on the ground was in fact the boy from the third floor; the scar on his forehead was still bleeding.
     There was no more to be said or done, so he left and climbed another flight of stairs alongside Julia; he had never held her so tight before.
     Reaching the last floor, all there was before them was a dark room at the end of a hall. They slowly moved towards it, holding hands.
     At last, when they faced the room, Jonathan realized there was a light switch nearby. He looked at it and back at Julia, then said:
     ‘Are you ready?’
     She nodded.
     Breathing softly, he reached for the light switch.
    ‘Let there be light.’
     And he hit it, lighting up the room. All there was inside was a desk with a book – pages blank – and a pen nearby. Finally, he realized:
    ‘This is a dream, sheer fun of my will and I have limitless power.’
     She looked at him curiously, then asked:
     ‘And what are you going to do?’
    ‘Why, I shall create a tiger,’ so he sat down and began to write.

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