Dreamer

by Daniel Quinn

  Greg nodded, already half asleep. He got his clothes off somehow and tumbled into the bed. As he was dozing off, a stray thought crossed his mind: I’ll wake up back in my apartment in Chicago.

  But he didn’t.

  XVII

  “WOULD IT BE POSSIBLE FOR ME to get a dial phone in my room?” Greg asked the voice on the phone.

  “Certainly, Mr. Iles.” She sounded a little hurt. “But I’m happy to dial any number you want.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I hate to keep bothering you. I’ve got a lotta calls to make.”

  “No bother, really, Mr. Iles. That’s what I’m here for.”

  He suddenly appreciated rude phone operators: you can be rude back to them. Finally he said, “I really need the exercise.”

  “Oh,” she said, as though that explained everything. “I see. I’ll have one sent over right away. Just dial 9 for an outside line.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  A few minutes later he was dialing a familiar number in New York. He got a recorded message: “The number you’ve reached is not in service at this time. Please check the directory. If you need assistance—“

  Greg broke the connection. Well . . . numbers do change from time to time. For some reason. He dialed again.

  “Directory Assistance. May I help you?”

  “Yes. Do you have a listing for Ted Owens on the Avenue of the Americas?”

  “One moment . . . I have a Ted Owens and Associates on Madison Avenue.”

  “You do?”

  “Would you like that number?”

  “I sure would.” He dialed the number she gave him.

  “Ted Owens and Associates.”

  “Wow,” Greg said.

  “Hello?”

  “Can I speak to Ted?”

  “May I say who’s calling?”

  “This is Greg Donner. In Chicago.”

  “Uh. May I tell him what it’s about?”

  “He’ll know. I’m working on a project for him.”

  “One moment.”

  A moment later: “This is Ted Owens.”

  An unfamiliar voice. “Ted?”

  “Do I know you?”

  “This is Gregory Donner in Chicago.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

  “Christ, Ted, I’ve worked on a dozen projects for you.”

  A pause. “You’ve got the wrong party.” He hung up.

  Greg made one more call to Directory Assistance, this time in Iowa. After that, he sat down beside the window and spent the rest of the afternoon staring out of the window.

  “So you put it to a test,” Agnes said.

  They were once again seated at “Richard Iles’s table” in the dining room. A friendly young waiter named Alan, tanned and muscled like a tennis pro, had served them drinks: a sherry for the doctor, a bourbon on the rocks for Greg. Watching him work among the tables, with a smile and a good word for everyone, Greg had been strongly reminded of someone, but he couldn’t think who. He had, of course, seen him hundreds of times in this very room—presumably. But the memory he stirred wasn’t Richard Iles’s; it seemed to belong to Greg Donner.

  “And your conclusion?”

  Greg shrugged off his reverie. “You don’t have to rub it in, Agnes. There’s no one out there named Greg Donner and apparently there never was.”

  A familiar smile was playing on her lips as she asked, “Have you considered the significance of that name?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know of only one notable person named Donner: George Donner. In 1846 he led a party of settlers westward, was trapped in the Sierras by early snow, and ended by devouring his com-panions.” The psychiatrist smiled. “In a psychological rather than physical sense, that seems to be what you’ve done to your own companion, Richard Iles.”

  He rolled his eyes in disgust. “Yeah. Very cute. I suppose that’s—” He broke off abruptly, blinked twice. “Something you once said. Except of course that it wasn’t you who said it.”

  “I’d like to hear it anyway.”

  “You said, ‘Such puns are very common in dreams.’”

  She took a sip of sherry and smiled. “That’s interesting. I’m sure I never said anything like that to Richard Iles, since he never talked about his dreams. But it’s something I might well say.”

  “That’s terrific,” he observed and sent his eyes on a grim tour of the room. “Is there anything to stop me from getting out of this place tomorrow?”

  “Whoa,” Agnes said. “Hold on. You’re not ready for anything like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Good heavens. I suppose I see what you’re thinking, but you’ve got to be a little realistic. To you, Gregory Donner must seem like a completely stable entity who’s trod the world for decades. In fact, Gregory Donner is a remarkable psychological phenomenon that’s less than a day old. You must see that.”

  “So what do you think’s going to happen, Agnes? Am I going to dissolve like sugar in the rain?”

  “I hope not. But I certainly wouldn’t want to put it to the test, shoving you out into a world you’re not prepared to meet.”

  “I’m prepared. I feel as prepared as I ever did.”

  She shook her head wonderingly. “I suppose you can at least tell me your name.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut.

  “Who are you going to be out there, Greg? Gregory Donner has no money, no job, no home, no friends, no relatives.”

  “I’ll manage somehow.”

  “I see. You’re going to manage by turning your back on reality. And this is supposed to reassure me that you’re in the pink of mental health.”

  “I don’t want Richard Iles’s life.”

  “Perhaps not. But this headlong flight hardly strikes me as a mature, reasoned decision.”

  “Do I have to be mature and reasonable to get out of here?”

  Agnes sighed. “No, but I have to be mature and reasonable, because I’m responsible for your welfare. And to release you at this point would be an act of sheer medical recklessness. Shall I frighten you with possibilities? Is that what you want?”

  Greg laughed sourly. “Yeah, do that.”

  “I hadn’t intended to worry you with any of this, but I’d rather have you stay by choice than by compulsion. It’s entirely possible that Gregory Donner is just a trial personality. Haying tested the waters of reality, through you, the ego of Richard Iles may reassert itself, may say, in effect, ‘Thanks, Mr. Donner, for reminding me of how it’s done; I can take over for myself now—you’re no longer needed.’”

  “Jesus,” Greg said. “That’s frightening, all right. You think it’s likely?”

  “I think it’s possible, and until I’m sure, I’m not about to sign you out of here.”

  He nodded sourly. “Yes, I can see that. How long do you think it’ll take? For you to be sure, I mean.”

  “I’d say this depends on you. What we have here is a vacuum in the area of ego-identification. Your own identification is with a phantom by the name of Greg Donner, and Richard Iles himself has opted out entirely. The trouble is, this vacuum just has to be filled—someone’s got to own up to being Richard Iles. If you refuse to do it, then I think one of two things is going to happen. Either Richard Iles is going to come forward to fill the vacuum—or you’re going to be sent back for recycling.” Greg winced. “You’ve just got to face this, Greg. The day you wake up and automatically think, ‘I am Richard Iles, a school teacher, a married man, and a millionaire,’ the vacuum will be filled—and I’ll be ready to talk about your getting out of here.”

  He nodded, closed his eyes, and felt depression sink into his brain like a heavy oil.

  XVIII

  THE NEXT MORNING Greg found himself reluctant to leave his room. He showered, dressed, paced from corner to corner, stared at himself in the mirror and finally sat down and gazed out at the lush hills. He understood his reluctance well enough. To find his
way to the dining room and order breakfast would be the beginning of the end of Gregory Donner. In the very act of opening his door, he would adopt the routine of Richard Iles, a school teacher recovering from a mind-breaking ordeal. Stepping into the hallway, he would be saying a first good-bye to a life and a woman he loved. Along with Gregory Donner, Ginny would also slip away into an imaginary past, her face and voice fading away little by little into nothingness like a photograph left in the sunlight.

  At two o’clock there was a knock on the door, and, without stirring, he murmured, “Come in.

  Agnes entered, hesitated, and said, “May I join you?”

  He shrugged indifferently.

  The doctor seated herself, crossed her legs neatly, and leaned back as if preparing for a long stay. Greg continued to stare out of the window.

  “You didn’t join us for breakfast or lunch,” she observed.

  She sat quietly for a few minutes as if considering the quality of Greg’s silence. Finally she said, “What you’re doing is fundamentally healthy, I think. Do you recognize what it is?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re mourning.”

  Without taking his eyes from the window, Greg sighed bitterly, as if in disagreement. But finally he nodded.

  “It’s a beginning, my friend. A necessary beginning that we all must make at one time or another. Do you understand?” She stood up. “I’ll leave you to it for now. But will you promise to be with us for dinner?”

  Two minutes passed, but at last Greg nodded again.

  He was grateful that no hush fell over the dining room as he entered, that no one called out his name or nodded as he made his way to the booth in the corner. He sank into it with a sigh, as if he’d reached a safe haven. In a moment Alan appeared at his side like an affable genie.

  “Your usual, Mr. Iles?”

  Once again Greg studied the young man’s cheerful, healthy face, trying to place it, not succeeding. “That’ll be fine,” he said.

  As he waited for his drink, he guardedly studied the people around him. With a few exceptions—a couple who stared vacantly into space, another who nodded brightly but without apparent relation to the conversation around her, another who sighed monumentally into every lull—they might have been patrons in any restaurant anywhere. Occasional ripples of hilarity swept the room, but the laughter was always refined and controlled. He considered that those who could afford treatment so manifestly expensive as this must make a better class of loony.

  His drink arrived and soon thereafter so did Dr. Jakes. “May I join you? Don’t say yes if you’d rather be alone.”

  He smiled ironically. “Please do, Doctor.”

  She slid into the booth and breathed, “Ah,” as if she’d had a hard day.

  He took a swallow of his drink and asked, “Don’t you have any alcoholics here?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  He held up his drink. “Isn’t it awkward to serve this stuff around them?”

  She smiled indulgently. “I’m afraid your notions on the treatment of alcoholism are a bit dated, Mr. Donner.”

  “Probably,” Greg said. “Look, what are we going to do about this ‘Mr. Iles’ - ‘Mr. Donner’ business?”

  “What would you like to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose . . .” He shook his head emphatically.

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose I should start getting used to ‘Mr. Iles.’”

  “It would be a step. You needn’t press it, but you’re going to have to get used to it eventually. That is, if—”

  “I know, I know,” he nodded furiously. “Don’t say it.” Agnes smiled gently and said nothing.

  Without quite knowing why, Greg found himself acutely embarrassed. “So what do we do now? What’s the program?”

  “We talk. We pass the time. And, as ever, we try to live.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Owing to a set of circumstances beyond your control, this is for the time being your home.” She sent her eyes around the room. “These are your neighbors. There are people to be met, friendships to be formed, things to be done.”

  He shrank back into his seat. “I don’t feel any need for that.”

  “I understand. The longer you stay buried in yourself, the longer you can remain Greg Donner.”

  “Yeah.” Greg bared his teeth in a grimace. “Okay. Christ.”

  The doctor chuckled softly. “Is the prospect really as gruesome as that?”

  “Not gruesome . . . I just don’t want to admit I’m here.”

  “I know. And having acknowledged that, you’ve taken a step forward.” She thought for a bit. “Another aspect of trying to live is learning to recognize and do the things you want to do.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “There is something you’d like to do, something you’d like to fix, to remedy.”

  “There is? How do you know?”

  “You mentioned it yesterday. It’s something that would make you feel more comfortable.”

  Greg looked up as Alan approached to ask him if he wanted another drink or if he was ready to order. “Both,” he told him. He glanced at the menu and ordered a steak au poivre. The waiter nodded and turned away, and Greg said, “I don’t remember saying anything yesterday.”

  “I should let you rediscover it for yourself, but it’s no great matter. You’d like to shed the clothes of Richard Iles. You’d like to assert your own personality in the matter of dress.”

  “True. Is that unhealthy?”

  Agnes smiled. “Not at all. Your task is to fit yourself into Richard Iles’s life—not his clothes. If you like, you can go into town tomorrow and make a new beginning of a new wardrobe.”

  “I’d like that. You mean Louisville?”

  “Well, that depends on you. If you’re looking for something more formal, say a business suit, then it would have to be Louisville. If you’re looking for casual clothes, there are several excellent shops in a resort town nearby.”

  “That’ll do,” Greg said. “And what do I use for money?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We have accounts in all the shops. Let’s see if we can find you a guide.” She turned in her seat and began to survey the faces around the room. Finally she nodded toward a table across the room where a morose-looking hulk sat with a jaw propped on a fist. Middle-aged, overweight, round-shouldered, and with a battered face, he looked to Greg like a retired longshoreman.

  “Your friend Robert Orsini,” Agnes said. “He’d do nicely.”

  “My friend?”

  “He’s spent a lot of time with Richard Iles. In addition to appointing himself your special protector, he seems to appreciate your boundless capacities as a listener.”

  Greg closed his eyes. “Christ. Do I really need a guide?”

  “You need someone to vouch for you, someone to confirm your right to use our accounts. Besides,” she added with a smile, “you’ll like him.”

  Greg looked again at Orsini. Though their eyes didn’t meet, they might have been exchanging scowls. “He’s a patient?”

  “He is.” Agnes chuckled. “But I assure you he won’t try to bite your neck. Shall I bring him over? Then the two of you can work out a plan for tomorrow.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  She got up, hesitated, and then turned back. “I assume you’d like me to brief him on this . . . latest development?”

  “He’d be pretty confused if you didn’t, wouldn’t he?”

  “Very true.”

  Agnes’s departure coincided with the arrival of Greg’s steak. As he ate, he was careful to keep his eyes on his plate or on the vacant seat opposite. His steak finished, he had ordered coffee and Drambuie by the time she returned with Orsini. She performed a quick introduction and asked to be excused.

  Orsini shifted his mass awkwardly into the booth and stared at Greg as if he were an apparition.

  “Robert, was it?” Greg asked, just to be
saying something.

  “Robbie. Dr. Jakes calls me Robert, nobody else.” He raised his brows comically. “You honest to God don’t know me?”

  “Not from Adam.”

  “Wow, that’s terrific, terrific.” His bullfrog face was beam-ing.

  In spite of himself, Greg laughed. “Is it? Why?”

  “Well, sure. Wow, what a breakthrough. A whole new you. I wish I could do that.”

  “Why?”

  Robbie laughed and shook his head delightedly. “Listen to this guy,” he said to an invisible audience. “Everybody else in the goddamned place runs when they see me coming, ‘cause I’m the world’s biggest bore, and he says why would I want to be a whole new person.”

  “Well, why?”

  Robbie laced his thick fingers together on the tablecloth in front of him. “I’m a depressive. Started five, six years ago.” He looked up. “You ever been depressed?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, I’m depressed every minute, I wake up depressed, go to bed depressed, eat depressed, have sex depressed. Did you ever see the movie Airplane? I saw Airplane and laughed myself sick and was depressed every goddamned second.”

  “Sounds pretty awful.”

  “It is, pal. And the worst of it is that I can’t figure out why I’m depressed. I got no reason at all to be depressed. I got money coming out the kazoo. I got a nice business, no problems. Good health, good family. And every morning I wake up wishing I was dead. Can you beat that?”

  Greg shook his head.

  “Hey, man, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is it okay if I bite your neck?”

  “What?”

  The giant threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he looked at Greg solemnly and said, “No kidding, I even make jokes depressed.”

  XIX

  “HEY,” ROBBIE SAID as he was driving them back from town the next afternoon, “I’m the one who’s supposed to be depressed here.” In just four hours, under Robbie’s relentless urging, Greg had spent close to four thousand dollars on shirts, slacks, shoes, lightweight sweaters, and sports coats, any one of which he would have considered ridiculously extravagant in his remembered life. Where alterations had been needed, Robbie had cajoled, brow-beaten, and bullied to have them done right then, on the spot.