Niklas remembered seeing a gift shop down in the lobby —it was his only hope. He called down and was told by a pleasant-sounding Mexican woman in melodic, Spanish-accented English that they had some lovely clothes for sale. What Niklas found when he got to the gift shop were Mexican beach wedding shirts called guayaberas: four pockets, long sleeves, linen, with embroidery running down the front. He shook his head in disbelief. He matched a navy shirt with a pair of off-white linen pants and went back to his room to change. He had no other choice.
Walking into the reception that was now in full swing, Niklas decided to put on a brave face and tell people that he had decided to “go native.” Within seconds of entering the reception, before he could even get a drink, he spotted the three conference delegates he had hoped to avoid. Pekka, Rafu, and Otto stood in a ring, with their wives just outside their circle. They were already well on their way to becoming intoxicated, and their dialogue kept switching between Finnish and English. Niklas had attended university with all of them, and the three of them had left Finland for America, settling at wireless companies that paid millions. Their wives were American, blonde, and younger, with sculpted boobs, faces inflated with Botox, and enough jewelry showing to start their own stores.
“Hi, Niklas Okkonen. Hell, is that you?” Pekka called out loudly. Numerous conference delegates turned their heads. Pekka swayed forward, grabbed Niklas around the shoulder, and herded him into their group. He was a big man with a large face that sloped into a forehead sprouting wispy blond hair that was unfortunately leaving his head quickly.
Rafu and Otto both gave him bear hugs and then turned and introduced Niklas to their wives. There was a Sandra, a Carol, and a Laura, who all briefly feigned interest in Niklas and then got back to their conversation about shopping in Cancun and spa treatments that the men had so rudely interrupted.
“So, Niklas, you’re a star speaker at the conference, I see. Still forging ahead with new technology you’re not getting paid for?” Otto said as he swigged his beer and looked at Pekka and Rafu, who both smiled. They often made fun of their intelligent friend who had never been interested in money. Otto and Rafu looked like ex–hockey players: blond, fit, and still good-looks in their mid-forties.
Niklas shrugged. “Yeah, I discovered some new encryption techniques I thought you wireless tycoons might want to make more billions on.” Niklas felt trapped. He was only a short distance from the bar, and there was no line at the moment, but he might as well have been across the room. This pack of wolves would not release him —he was a lamb caught for their sport.
Rafu laughed loudly, spilling some of his beer. “Ha, Niklas, you were always the class clown. You and your visions of sound and waves and new technology, I don’t understand why you aren’t in America with us getting rich. Otto and Pekka just bought new houses, and they’re almost as big as mine.” He laughed loudly again and spilled more beer. His wife glared at him. Rafu straightened up and composed himself.
Niklas managed a weak smile while looking furtively around for an escape. “Gentlemen, I love teaching, the icy cold of Finland, and discovering new technology, but…” He was about to launch into a discussion of his passion, which he knew would help the three lose interest in him, when Malcolm Turnbull sauntered by. Malcolm was the conference organizer, the one who had invited Niklas, and he seemed to Niklas like an oasis in the madness of his old friends.
“Niklas, thank God you made it.” Malcolm grabbed Niklas by the hand and pumped it several times. “My God, boy, you haven’t a drink in your hand. We must remedy that.” Malcolm was English, very English: Oxford education, upper-class upbringing, and a love of queen and country. Malcolm was only in his mid-forties, but his clothes, a navy, double-breasted blazer, white shirt, school tie, and gray wool pants with patent leather shoes, were a throwback to the 1950s. Appearance-wise, Malcolm looked all of thirty. He was tall and had carefully groomed dark hair and eyebrows. Niklas thought Malcolm could be gay, or the subject of the best tutor and mother in England.
Malcolm apologized to the other men. “I must have a word with Niklas,” he said, hustling him away and to the bar. Niklas ordered a double vodka, with ice and lime, and took a long gulp to equalize the bullshit he had just consumed.
“I say, Niklas you do look rather local in your getup,” Malcolm said, holding a gin and tonic in his hand and looking Niklas over. “I do like it, but I couldn’t carry off the look. You do it quite well. I believe you’re the envy of all the stuffed shirts at the convention.” Malcolm mildly elbowed Niklas’s arm.
“Ah, yes, well, I saw it in the gift shop and thought what the hell? When in Rome. Or, when in Mexico. It’s very comfortable, but I’ll probably wear my business attire later this week,” Niklas said before taking another long drink of the vodka. He looked down at his garb and smiled at Malcolm.
“Nonsense, my good man, wear these or something similar all week, if you like. You look great, and our Mexican conference participants just told me how pleased they were to see you. My God, man, you have your finger on the pulse of these people…eh…what?” Malcolm nudged Niklas’s elbow again, which was now beginning to annoy him slightly. Niklas scanned the room again, trying to look for other participants he could latch on to without being too conspicuous. Anyone who mingles at conferences knows that leaving one conversation for the next must be done with finesse.
Niklas saw another professor from MIT and was about to politely say his goodbyes when Malcolm grabbed his arm and said,” Dear man, we do need to speak about the little bit of bother you have yourself in.”
Malcolm had Niklas’s attention. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck and his pulse rise ever so slightly. The English term “little bit of bother” had been used to describe Luftwaffe attacks on London and the sinking of the Titanic.
Malcolm directed Niklas to the edge of the ever-growing conference crowd. Five hundred delegates were registered, and most of them had arrived at the reception. “There seems to be a bit of noise about a certain car you did something to back in Finland,” Malcolm began. “I’m sure this thing will blow over as they usually do. However, just to give you the heads-up, old man, a certain YouTube video featuring you arrived just before you did. You may have already seen it, but if you haven’t, you may want to do so.” Malcolm looked around the room as if he were providing Niklas state-secret-classified information.
Niklas took yet another long sip of his drink. His lips hit ice, and he almost lost some of that ice down his shirt. He composed himself, swallowing hard. “A YouTube video of me? How odd. No, I haven’t seen it. Been traveling all day. Is it something serious?”
“No, no old man, seems you are feeding a dog in a car park. There’ve been some allegations of the dog doing its business in the car and destroying it. I’m sure you were having a bit of fun, perhaps what the Fins do for pranks during your cold winters, but thought I’d let you know. This YouTube stuff can be quite strange…don’t you think?” Malcolm dropped the question on Niklas like a grand inquisitor as he stared into his eyes, looking for an answer.
Niklas laughed it off and looked around the room. “YouTube…yeah, YouTube can be silly. Once I’ve seen the video, I’ll let you know what it’s really about…” Niklas smiled weakly at Malcolm, rustled the ice in his otherwise empty glass, and headed in the direction of the bar.
Out of Malcolm’s sight, Niklas ducked out of the conference room and walked towards the lobby. He had seen a business center there. His BlackBerry was still powering up in his room. There was no one in the center when he arrived. He punched in the YouTube address and searched “dog and car park.” There he was, a full and complete picture of him feeding his dog through the window of Vilpas’s Volvo. The mall security must have caught it —not only caught it, but zoomed in on it. Niklas looked happy, almost blissful, and the bottle of dog laxative was clearly visible.
Someone in mall security must have known Niklas, as the video was titled “Professor exacts revenge on former friend
and ex-wife, using his ex-dog as a weapon.” The video had been on the morning news in Finland. Some dog owners wanted Niklas’s head, the police of the town were seeking him for questioning, and his old friend Vilpas was quoted as saying there would be a lawsuit for damages.
Niklas then opened his email. Over three hundred messages appeared. Some were from people who supported him and his actions and others were from those who condemned his actions and the use of the dog to make his statement. There was also one from his lawyer: “You need to contact me soon” was all it said.
CHAPTER FOUR
AWAKE
Niklas returned to the reception and remembered little of it. One vodka followed another as his mind tried to assess how much trouble he was in back home. He chatted with people, tried to make sense of pleasantries, and then realized that most were as drunk as he was, so it mattered very little.
He briefly spoke with Caroline Gillette, Malcolm’s assistant. She was fifty pushing sixty with the body of a thirty-year-old and a taste for young men that had landed her the name “Conference Cougar.” She preferred young, married men who strayed into her sights. Niklas, now divorced, was no longer on her radar, and he was thankful for that.
Caroline prowled only briefly near Pekka, Rafu, and Otto. They closed ranks as reindeer would with a wolf nearby. Their wives threw glances of disgust at Caroline, and she slinked off in search of new prey —Niklas thought he heard her purr.
A mixture of fatigue and alcohol finally reached Niklas. He needed his room and sleep. His actions in Finland were still on his mind, and sometime tomorrow morning he would deal with them. He said some good nights to the thinning crowd as participants made their way to dinner or other bars and walked back to his room.
The moon was full, a soft breeze blew, and the smell of flowers filled the air. Niklas wondered how a person could be sad or troubled here, but he was. His feet moved slowly towards his room, as if his balance were ebbing away. He crossed the bridge over the pools where the dolphins were swimming.
There were no attendants at the pool now, only the dolphins. Niklas stood there, transfixed in the moonlight. Two dolphins swam towards him, blew a little air, seemingly smiled at him, and turned on their sides. Niklas was sure they were waving.
He finally found his room, stripped off his clothes, and climbed under the covers. He was asleep in seconds. The large ceiling fan in the room blew a soft breeze, and the air conditioning kept the room temperature low.
The first dream Niklas had was of riding a dolphin. It pulled him along while another one pushed him from behind, nudging. Feeling a bump in his back, he woke up. He rolled over and looked back at where he had been sleeping to see what was there but found nothing, so he went back to sleep.
He was not sure when the splashing entered his consciousness, but once it did, it would not leave. One splash followed another. They kept coming and getting louder. He woke up again. The clock beside the bed read 12:00 a.m. The splashing sounds were coming from outside.
Niklas got out of bed, walked slowly to the balcony door, and opened it. A warm wind was blowing, and the moon was full and high overhead. Below in the pool, the dolphins jumped. One after another, they rose out of the pool in twirls and flips near where the pool ended and the beach and sea began.
In the smaller second pool, the one that the bridge crossed over, other dolphins moved in circles, seemingly agitated by the splashing in the larger pool. Niklas wondered if they splashed because they wanted to be free. Just then, a thought came to him —he did not know from where.
I can free them.
As soon as the thought came into his head, he laughed out loud at his own foolishness. He had already made a statement with his ex-dog, and his ex-wife, and his ex-friend. He was not about to free the dolphins.
He walked back into his room and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep would not come. He finally took a small beer out of the bar fridge, a Coronita (a small Corona), then went back to the balcony, pulled up a chair, and continued watching the dolphins.
A few people were walking about on the resort grounds. Night cleaners rearranged poolside chairs and swept the patios around the two swimming pools attached to the bars and restaurants. Two security guards in jeans, polo shirts, and nylon jackets with fluorescent SECURITY labels on the backs wandered by the dolphin pools and watched them jump. One of the security guards looked like a small mountain. He moved slowly with the smaller guard beside him.
Niklas felt content as he sat there on his balcony watching the dolphins. He wasn’t sure why, as he was in a pile of trouble back home, but he told himself he would deal with it when he returned. Right now, in the warm, night air, everything was fine.” And you will free the dolphins”, said a voice inside his head.
“Where the hell did that thought come from?” he asked out loud. Niklas stood and looked around the small balcony. A solid partition of concrete hid the neighboring balcony. He crept slowly and looked both left and right to see if anyone could have said what he thought he had just heard. There was no one on the other balconies. Empty deck chairs greeted him.
Niklas shook his head, went back inside, and cracked open another Coronita. The 200 milliliter bottles went down well, and Niklas was thirsty from the salty food at the reception. He planted his feet on the balcony once more, watched a cloud pass over the moon, and then looked down at the two dolphins below. They had swum up to the middle of the pool, directly below his room. Half out of the water, they rocked their heads back and forth.
Then Niklas heard a loud voice inside his head: The sea wall has cracks, and you can set us free.
Niklas had had enough. He had never heard voices in his head before. Sounds, yes, waves of sounds from vibrations that few others could hear, yes. But this was too much. He downed his beer, went inside his room, and turned the television on. The fatigue of air travel, the vodka, and the beer must be getting to me, he thought. He put a pillow over his head and attempted to sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE BARTENDER INTERPRETS THE VISION
A shriek pierced the morning stillness. Niklas’s head bolted off the pillow. The sound was something between a harsh alarm and the scream of someone whose arm was being pulled off. It happened again, then again — it was coming from behind the door that led to the hallway.
Niklas rolled out of bed and advanced towards the door, ready to do battle with whatever fiend had deposited itself at his front door. His two years of naval training kicked him into high alert. He opened the door quickly and assumed a combat-ready stance only to face a Mexican cleaning lady, sweeping the hallway that looked at him in amusement.
He heard the shriek again and noticed a small black bird with fierce black eyes sitting at the top of one of the palm trees decorating the atrium on his floor. Niklas smiled meekly at the lady, and she smiled back and greeted him with a buenos días. Her eyes darted only briefly to his underwear. His day had started.
The clock glowed 6:00 a.m. Niklas was not sure what time he had fallen asleep. He went to the bathroom, showered, shaved, and then headed to his closet to dress. The clothes that had been wet in his travel bag were now stiff. Something besides water had gotten into them. He had planned on wearing his casual dress pants with a golf shirt and perhaps a sports coat. All were like cardboard.
Niklas stood back, looked at his clothes from the previous night, the Mexican beach wedding shirt and linen pants, and realized they would have to do. Then he noticed the large salsa stain on the shirt. He had forgotten he had run into Caroline Gillette, literally, and she had doused him in pico de gallo, a concoction of tomatoes, onions, and peppers. The shirt smelled and needed to be cleaned as well. He threw all his clothes into the hotel laundry bag and called room service to pick it up for cleaning.
Finding one serviceable T-shirt and a pair of shorts, he made his way onto the balcony. The sun was coming up, and the day was getting hot. Below him, pool attendants were putting out towels on beach chairs and maintenance staff was tending to the
grounds.
Niklas decided he would buy another Mexican beach wedding shirt at the gift shop and another pair of linen pants —they would have to do until his clothes came back from the laundry. The hotel had promised his clothes would be processed that day and returned to him that night. One more day of Mexican beach wedding outfits might be okay, Niklas reasoned.
The dolphins below were in the one large pen, watching the maintenance staff and playing with one another. Niklas decided on a walk on the beach. He grabbed his sandals and bottle of water from the small bar fridge and made his way down the five flights of tile stairs. His flip-flops made a slapping sound in the morning stillness.
Gentle waves lapped the beach, a few seagulls flew overhead looking for scraps, and hotel guests eager to get the best beach chairs deposited books, magazines, and bags to claim their domains for the day. Niklas wandered by them, smiling at this one and that one, and wondered why he was smiling.
He walked slowly, his feet kicking the warm sand, his skin feeling the warmth of the sun, and then he saw it: the sea wall that held the dolphin pool had cracks in two places large enough…large enough to hold charges of C-4 explosives.
A vision of the sea wall exploding and the dolphins flowing with the pressure of the water into the sea, which was only one hundred meters away, filled his head. He saw it. He heard the rushing water and the shrill cries of the dolphins as they rushed into the sea.
He stopped and shook his head, thinking his cerebral cortex needed a reboot. I need more sleep, he muttered. He walked the beach in front of the mass of hotels with guests beginning to stir and past the docks with scuba divers loading gear into boats and workers getting Sea-Doos and kayaks ready for morning renters.
Niklas tried to let his mind go blank. He wanted to rid his mind of the vision of Dolphins and the trouble he was in back in Finland and fix his mind on the conference. He was a guest speaker who had been brought here to Cancun to speak on his new theory regarding improving encryption technology.
Dolphin Dreams Page 2
