Ritual was everywhere in Madurai, and, as Daniel soon discovered, one could not negotiate the streets surrounding the temple for long without encountering an opportunity to be blessed by an elephant. The elephant, considered a good-luck symbol in India, was exemplified by the most favoured of all Indian gods, Ganesh, the elephant-headed son of Siva and Parvati. The elephants that cruised the streets of the city were friendly, lumbering beasts, often painted in bright, colourful patterns along their flanks and across their trunks. Daniel wasted no time in taking some shots of these mighty animals, particularly as they performed the blessings. Men, women and children would gather round for their chance to be blessed. They would place a small coin in the elephant’s dextrous trunk; the elephant usually ‘shook hands’ with the participant, before passing the coin to its mahout. The elephant would then raise its trunk high and bring it down on the participant’s head with a gentle tap. Then it was on to the next one.
Both these events - the ritual of the palanquin and the elephant blessing - were perfect examples of that aspect of India that Daniel found so appealing. In India, by and large, religious and spiritual matters were not separated from the everyday: on the contrary, they were integrated. Spirituality was not ethereal or other-worldly; it was commonplace, down-to-earth, immediate. People spoke of the gods, not as if they were mythical beings, but more as if they were their next-door neighbours. Even the notion of what was and wasn’t sacred had a completely different spin on it; when one of the most sacred objects in a culture is the humble, docile cow, one’s views on the sacred are bound to come in for a bit of revising.
But it wasn’t just religion that had secured its place in the day-to-day routines of existence. Indians were much more comfortable with matters of the mind, the psyche and the subconscious than even the most learned or open-minded people that Daniel met in the West. Without the heavy rationalist, materialist bias, the Indian mind seemed much better equipped to deal with and understand those esoteric areas of everyday existence that, at home, caused such consternation, confusion and controversy. Ghosts, spirits, visions, gods, miracles; all were a daily reality for many if not most Indians, regardless of their caste, status or education.
And dreams were never marginalised, never dismissed as irrelevant or meaningless. Every dream meant something. It did not necessarily have to be profound or far-reaching; it could be relatively trivial. But it was never without relevance, and as such had to be treated with as much respect as any sensorial information.
So when Daniel mentioned at breakfast to one of his colleagues that he had dreamt he had returned to his home town and spent the whole night trying unsuccessfully to find his father, it came as no surprise to hear the waiter chip in, ‘Oh, your father is missing you,’ in a manner which suggested the waiter had personally received a letter to this effect.
Of course, the waiter had received nothing, save for the accumulated wisdom of generations, which informed him that, when one dreams about a friend or relative who does not actually appear in the dream, then this has one (and only one) meaning: your presence is missed - perhaps actively being sought - by said person.
Needless to say, Daniel phoned his parents that very morning.
Daniel had always felt that in the West - and perhaps most of all in England - people were too blasé about dreaming. The ease with which such a complex area of human existence was dismissed by supposedly sensitive, intelligent individuals was extraordinary. Even in the arts - one of the few areas that at least paid homage to dreams - there was still surprisingly little attention given to the whole process. There was no serious literature in Britain that dealt with dreams (unless one counted horror and the occasional foray by science-fiction practitioners). Otherwise, mention the subject in polite company in anything other than a trivial context and people thought you were halfbaked; a New-Age, crystal-toting, mantra-chanting weirdo.
Either that or a dope-head.
But dreams had to mean something. Why else did they exist?
‘My God,’ said Lisanne between mouthfuls, ‘this is fantastic. I didn’t know you could do Greek food? Why haven’t you done this before?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel, in complete honesty. ‘It just never occurred to me, I guess.’
‘You’re full of surprises, you.’ She smiled then, with genuine pleasure, for the first time in an age. She could not have been more delighted. To others it might have seemed a small matter and nothing to get excited about, but to Lisanne the fact that Daniel had made the effort to cook was enough to make her think that perhaps, just perhaps, there had been a small shift in their circumstances.
Maybe this was the start of the recovery that Dr Fischer had been promising for months. Perhaps Daniel would start to become interested again in all the things he used to enjoy, the things that had given him such pleasure in the past: reading, photography, going to the theatre and concerts. Who knows, she thought, maybe he will rediscover his interest in me. It was so long since they had made love she had almost forgotten what it felt like.
She shovelled another forkful of moussaka into her mouth. ‘So what’s the secret, champ?’
‘Huh?’ said Daniel, who found himself starting to tune out of their conversation. He too was enjoying the meal, but something about it made him anxious.
‘Your secret; for cooking such a brilliant moussaka.’
‘Uh... I don’t know. Luck I guess.’
Lisanne found this unenlightening response disconcerting, considering how enthusiastic her reaction to the meal had been, but she knew better than to question Daniel closely. Rather than provoke or annoy him with unnecessary questions, she comforted herself with the knowledge that, all being well, this was the first step on the way to recovery. She couldn’t wait to tell Dr Fischer about it.
They did not make love that night, as Lisanne had hoped, but they did cuddle for a while, which was a marked improvement over their usual bedtime arrangements. Lisanne eventually drifted off to sleep secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would be a brighter, more hopeful day.
Daniel, however, was not thinking about the following day at all. His own concerns were much more caught up with the night, and while Lisanne snored peacefully and contentedly in the bed beside him he waited anxiously for sleep to arrive.
Chapter 3
‘You okay?’
Daniel opened his eyes and blinked once or twice. He found he was staring at a concrete floor and a set of wooden table legs. He looked up and was both surprised and relieved to see a young man staring back at him. The man had a dark, swarthy complexion and a thick rug of matt black hair. When he spoke his deep-blue eyes registered genuine concern.
‘You okay? You fall off chair!’
Daniel shook his head and tried to lever himself off the floor. His new acquaintance held out a hand and helped pull him to his feet. Daniel steadied himself, brushed himself down, then quickly found a chair to sit on. He felt dizzy, as if he had just jumped off a fast merry-go-round.
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel, decidedly disoriented. He was still having difficulty focusing. ‘I’m fine, really.’ He clenched the fingers of his right hand: they felt stiff and a little sore; he wondered if he had used that hand to break his fall.
‘You fall off chair. I think you hurt,’ said the man. Daniel could see that he was worried, so he smiled to put him at ease.
The man was dressed in a white-collared shirt and neatly pressed black trousers. Daniel suddenly realised where he was: he was back at the vine-covered restaurant that overlooked the funny old hand-pump, and the man standing over him with such concern was evidently the waiter.
Daniel smiled. I’m back, he thought with delight; I’ve come back!
He looked down to his feet and saw that, once again, he was wearing sandals. His feet were grey and dusty from the road outside, his forearms, bared to the sun, tinged with the first pink of sunburn.
After a moment or so his vision cleared. There was no doubt that he had returned to the same pla
ce. Everything was as he had seen it the first time; the vines, the whitewashed walls, the shuttered windows: exactly the same.
And the music. That glorious melody, the haunting strains of the bouzouki, played gently and slowly rather than in the frenetic style that he had always associated with the instrument. He would have to find out the name of the song - if that was what it was; he had never heard anything so beautiful in his life.
Daniel licked his lips and tasted the salty tang of fresh sweat on the fringe of his moustache. He realised that he was immensely thirsty, and in dire need of a drink. On cue, as if he had read Daniel’s mind, the waiter spoke.
‘What you want? You want drink maybe?’ His accent was thick yet musical. Daniel nodded. The waiter smiled and pointed to the table. There, lying on the red-chequered tablecloth, was a menu, with bright-red letters printed on shiny white card. Daniel was surprised to see it there; he did not remember seeing a menu on the table previously.
‘Do you have coffee?’ asked Daniel, picking up the card but unable to make sense of it; he was still a little groggy from his fall, and although his vision was clearer the words on the menu seemed to dance around continually, and would not settle long enough for him to read them. ‘And some water perhaps?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the waiter enthusiastically. ‘Water yes, coffee yes; I bring you.’ He turned and headed towards the doorway of the taverna.
Daniel gazed around at the pretty, flower-bedecked patio. The temperature in the shade was just perfect and a slight, mimosa-scented breeze brushed past now and then to freshen the otherwise still air, His head was full of questions, but curiously none of them seemed urgent. His most pressing question - where was everyone? - had been partly answered; the very fact that there was a waiter, busily rushing around to assist visitors in distress meant that Daniel was not alone. And presumably there were others. Somewhere.
Daniel shifted a little in his seat so that he could see out on to the dirt track and past the pump. He looked out to where the road forked and wondered where the right-hand track led. He thought that on his previous visit he had seen buildings nestling among the foliage, but he could not now see anything of the kind. He looked in the opposite direction, back down the track, but there seemed to be no other houses or buildings of any description.
And yet, he surmised, if this was a restaurant, then surely there would be a town or a village nearby. Daniel sighed. He wondered if he would ever find out about this place.
A moment later the waiter returned with a large white cup full of steaming black coffee, and set it down on the table along with a small stainless-steel jug.
‘One coffee!’ beamed the waiter.
‘Thank you,’ replied Daniel.
‘You welcome. You like maybe baklava?’
‘No, no, that’s fine.’ He wanted to talk to the waiter, to ask him where this place was, where everybody was, but he didn’t want to appear foolish. He was also fearful that too many logical intrusions - questions included - might break whatever spell had returned him to the taverna. More than anything he hoped he might be able to stay a little longer this time. It was so relaxing, so easy. Perhaps, he thought, this was what he had needed all along; a holiday in the sun.
While he played with these thoughts, the waiter once again disappeared inside, and Daniel was left to sip his coffee alone. The warm brew tasted strong and refreshing; it was dark and fragrant. He looked into the steel jug, dipped his finger into the thick white liquid and tasted it. It was sweet and sickly: condensed milk.
The last time he had tasted condensed milk was in the same circumstances, pouring it into a cup of black coffee while sitting in a remote taverna somewhere in the Cyclades. It had been many years ago now, but the taste of that coffee had never left him. He took a sip from the cup and savoured it. He took great, rather exaggerated pleasure from the idea that something as simple and down-to-earth as a cup of coffee could bring such rich rewards. But was it real? Was any of it real? The branches of the large olive tree swayed gently in the breeze, its roughened boughs contorted into wondrous shapes that held the direct sunlight at bay.
This is a dream, thought Daniel. I’ve been here before, but only in a dream. If I pinch myself, I shall wake up and find myself back in London. If I pinch myself this wonderful place will disappear.
Daniel toyed with this idea for several minutes, unsure whether to test it out. He knew there was such a thing as a recurring dream; indeed, when he was younger he had suffered from one, a nightmare in which he was chased along an empty street by a big black dog with huge fangs and flashing red eyes. It was a dream he had had every week for the best part of a year. He knew all about recurring dreams.
But not dreams like this. He had never heard of anything quite like this, where you returned to the same place and picked up where you left off. That wasn’t a dream, that was a soap opera. Besides, the whole place felt far too ‘real’ to be a dream; all his senses were intact; he could taste and smell and see everything vividly. The sound of the music was clear, and the table had substance, the coffee was hot and fragrant, and even the breeze could be felt brushing across his skin. But if he were logical about it he knew it wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be, and that, as he had already found, one little shove, one abrupt fall, was all it needed to jolt him back to reality, to wakefulness, and - if he was completely honest about it - a world that he cared little for.
With that admission Daniel realised that he wasn’t about to test this idea, because if this was a dream, with its strangeness and sunshine and sweet, sweet smells, and reality was a darkened room in a terraced house in a busy, crowded street in north London, then despite the strangeness, despite the mysterious circumstances, despite the lack of answers, he’d rather stay than return. At least for a while.
Daniel looked back towards the doorway. There must be someone other than the waiter working there, he thought; he couldn’t be alone. What if someone wanted to eat, or a whole family came along? Perhaps the owmer was there, or a cook or someone?
In the darkness, Daniel could see the shadows move. ‘Excuse me!’ he called, quite loudly. The shadows stopped moving for a moment, and then the waiter appeared at the doorway.
‘Yes?’ he said cheerfully. ‘You like some baklava now?’
‘Ah... no. I was just wondering who owns this place,’
‘Eh?’ replied the waiter.
‘This place... taverna,’ continued Daniel undaunted, ‘it belongs to you?’
The waiter smiled again and then started to laugh. ’Belong me?’ he chortled. ‘No, no. Taverna belong Berry.’
‘Berry?’
‘Yes yes, Berry. You not know Berry?’ Daniel shook his head. ’You wait, I bring Berry!’
Daniel nodded. Berry? Well, perhaps this Berry might be able to answer some of his questions. He sipped some more coffee and reached into his pockets to see if he had brought any cigarettes. At the same moment, a rather prosaic, but none the less relevant question arose: how would he pay for the coffee? It had only just occurred to him that he probably hadn’t any money with him, and even if he had, it would certainly not be in the right currency, whatever that might be. He feared an embarrassing situation.
But that’s plain daft, he thought. After all, it’s just a dream and, what’s more, it’s my dream.
In his pocket, much to his surprise, Daniel discovered a full packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, and a few dirty, crumpled banknotes. He spread them out on the table and examined them carefully. There were three notes, all the same size and colour - a sort of dull pink - and they all had “100” printed on them. The rest of the script looked similar to that he had seen on the sheet of newspaper that had tumbled towards him along the dirt track outside.
Drachmae? Daniel had no idea whether possessing three hundred drachmae made him rich or poor, not that it could possibly matter. After all, was he really expected to concern himself with such mundane matters as conversion rates and paying bills? Surely one did not have to w
orry about such things in dreams.
And yet, this place, the circumstances that surrounded him, seemed to demand that he take it seriously; after all, it had few qualities to distinguish it from waking life, so how was he to know that he was in a dream at all?
Daniel opened the packet of cigarettes, tore out the carefully folded rectangle of gold paper that covered the filter tips, and eased a cigarette out. He placed it carefully between his lips, ensuring that his actions were not sudden or dramatic. His last fast move had knocked him from his seat and sent him hurtling back to his home in Cyprus City.
He held the matchbox in his left hand between his thumb and forefinger and, with a match resting against the edge, closed his eyes and struck. This, he thought, is when I wake up; the intensity of this action, the release of this energy, will be sufficient to hurl me back to reality. He felt the resistance of the match-head rasping against the roughness of the striking surface, the tiny, intermittent hesitations as it caught, the friction activating the chemicals into combustion. The match spluttered and sparked.
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