Book of Dreams

by Bunn, Davis

  Today, however, she greeted the gentleman and said, “I need a minute of your time.”

  “What, here?” His gesture took in the church, his wife chatting with three other ladies, and the day. “What could possibly require such an interruption?”

  She was saved from responding by the vicar’s approach. Brian’s robes were of shimmering white satin, with brilliantly embroidered sleeves and frontice. He asked Elena, “Is this regarding what we spoke about last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” He gestured to the back of the church. “Use my office. Let me get out of these robes and I’ll join you.”

  Elena said, “This is very important, Jeremy. Five minutes. Please.”

  When they arrived at Brian’s office, the pastor was back in his normal street clothes, but the air of stern authority still surrounded him. Jeremy Yates waited until the door was shut, then demanded, “Now what’s this all about?”

  “I have to make a trip tomorrow,” Elena said. “Very unexpectedly.”

  “Might I inquire where you intend on going?”

  “Rome.”

  “Don’t you have patients?”

  “I’m booked solid all week.”

  “How long were you intending to be away?”

  “I don’t know, Jeremy. Hopefully just a couple of days.”

  “Out of the question. You’ll simply need to reschedule your journey.”

  “Jeremy,” Brian said. “Elena is going. And you are going to help her.”

  Jeremy swiveled back and forth between the pair. “I detect a faint whiff of conspiracy here.”

  “I wanted to be a part of this meeting so I could lend my voice to hers,” Brian replied.

  “I say. This is all rather unorthodox.”

  “You have no idea,” Elena said.

  “Elena will stay as long as is required, and not a moment longer.” Brian leaned across the desk. “It is vital that Elena make this trip. Without delay.”

  The chief counselor blew out his cheeks. “I suppose we can make some adjustments. At least for a day or so.”

  “If Elena can’t make it back by Wednesday, she will phone you. Won’t you, Elena.”

  “I’ll call every day.”

  “Does this have anything to do with that new patient of yours, the rather striking American lady and her hulking bodyguards?”

  Elena looked down at her hands.

  Jeremy rose ponderously, straightened the lapels of his jacket, then said, “Well, if the pair of you are quite done, I’ll go share this utter lack of clarity with my wife.”

  When the door closed behind him, Brian said, “Jeremy Yates can be an overbearing pachyderm. I didn’t want him trampling on this mission of yours.”

  Elena said, “I wish I was half as confident about all this as you sounded.”

  “As I was preparing for bed last night, I had the most vivid impression that God addressed me. I’ve never doubted the Spirit’s potency for communication. But it has rarely occurred to me.” Brian fastened his gaze upon her. “Spiritual gifts are not intended for the recipient. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I-I’m not sure.”

  “Sitting in this chair over the years, I’ve learned to tolerate just about anything. But the one thing that still raises my hackles is when a parishioner comes in here spouting off about receiving some gift of the Spirit or another, like they’d just been crowned on High Street. God bestows moments of higher awareness for a divine reason. Your job is to remain humble before the throne, and accept whatever direction he points you in.”

  “You’re not suggesting I’m proud of all this.”

  “Of course not.” His gaze was filled with an authority that could not be denied. “I’m saying you’re comfortable. You loathe the spotlight. You like your carefully defined little existence. This is about a mission God seeks to place upon your life. This is about something far larger than we can imagine. Your job is to be ready and open for whatever comes.”

  “You’re frightening me.”

  “I know I am.” Brian reached across the desk. “Now take my hand and let’s pray we both have the strength and the determination to see this through to the eternal end.”

  17

  MONDAY

  The morning flight to Rome was not full. Elena sat by the window and stared over the cloud-draped vista and recalled the morning’s events. She had risen with the dawn and eaten her breakfast with Miriam’s book opened on the table before her. Elena did not know why she had done it, and she still had no idea why she was making this journey at all. Then it had happened, a sweeping intensity so commanding that the outer world faded to an almost dreamlike appearance. She had the impression that the image had lasted only a moment, a few heartbeats at most. And yet it seemed as though she had remained within the amberlike force for eons.

  As the plane started its descent into Rome, Elena’s mind tracked back to her one other trip to Italy. Jason had spent his last winter working on a series of articles, running the department, and teaching. For months he had slept poorly. In February he had caught a cold, and the cough had lingered for months. Elena could find him by listening for his next raspy bark. Finally in late March she had booked them a week at a seaside resort in Sicily. Jason of course had not wanted to go. He spent the entire flight complaining about what needed doing. Upon their arrival, he went to bed and slept for almost two days. The remainder of their holiday had been perfect. They took long walks and talked for hours and dined on the hotel’s veranda, overlooking the Mediterranean. Jason had lost both his pallor and his cough, and regained his smile. On the return flight, they had made plans to spend two weeks exploring the Amalfi coast that autumn. Seven weeks later, he was gone.

  The plane shook violently from turbulence, followed by the chime signaling the seat-belt light and the flight attendant’s hasty announcement. Elena continued to stare out the window, her interior world shaken far more than the plane. Following her husband’s death, Italy had become just another place to avoid. Yet here she was, traveling there for reasons she could not explain even to herself. Her pastor’s words rang softly in her ears. Mission. Odd how easily she could say it to someone else. How different it sounded when applied to herself.

  The taxi ride into Rome gave her the sensation of having stepped through a mysterious door and entered a new realm. One where the sun burned more fiercely, where light etched everything with a crystal beauty, where even the most mundane sight held a singular aura. Elena rolled down her window and let the hot wind rush in, peeling away the airplane odors and the fatigue she always felt after a flight. The taxi driver caught her eye in the rearview mirror and grinned. Elena feared the elderly driver with his bad teeth and three-day growth was coming on to her. Then he raised three fingers to his mouth, kissed them, and opened them to the breeze. “Ah, Roma!”

  Elena laughed out loud.

  On the city’s outskirts the traffic congealed. It took longer to arrive in the city center than it had to fly from England. The taxi finally halted before a marble-clad building of imposing dimensions. Elena rose slowly from the taxi. This might be her first visit to Rome, but she knew where she was. The dome of Saint Peter’s cathedral peeked over the neighboring roofs. She said, “There must be some mistake.”

  The taxi driver shrugged his incomprehension. Elena pointed at the handwritten address. He nodded and pointed at the broad marble stairs leading up to a pair of massive bronze doors.

  Elena paid the driver, hefted her case, and climbed the stairs to where a uniformed officer now waited. “Excuse me, is this the office—”

  “Your name?”

  “Elena Burroughs.”

  “Yes, Dr. Burroughs. You are expected.” The young officer spoke heavily accented but clear English. “Please, you are to leave your valise here with me, yes? Security. You understand?”

  “Of course.” She followed him inside. The foyer was even grander than the exterior, a vast chamber of marble and gilded cherubs
and columns and chandeliers. She passed through the metal detector while a second guard went through her purse and then her suitcase. He wore latex gloves and a professionally detached air, and did an extremely thorough job.

  The first guard said, “You are please to leave transcripting here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I say this wrong? Any device for taping.”

  “A recorder. No, I don’t—”

  “And your phone. It will all be here when you finish.”

  By the time the second guard had finished replacing everything but her phone back into her shoulder bag, a woman had descended the stairs and was waiting for her beyond the security station. “Dr. Burroughs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Signor d’Alba is ready for you.” The woman was impossibly elegant, her clothes as impeccable as her hair. She crossed the vast lobby, her heels clicking upon the marble.

  Elena hurried to catch up. They climbed a sweeping marble staircase, each banister carved from what appeared to be onyx. The distant ceiling was painted with a vast angelic sunrise. Elena felt wrinkled and frumpy and utterly out of place. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t able to stop by my hotel and freshen up. The drive into Rome took forever.”

  The woman did not respond. She maintained a model’s walk, back and head rigidly erect. She led Elena down a long corridor and knocked on a pair of polished doors. At a voice from within, she pushed open the large brass handle, cast Elena a single frosty glance, then said, “La vostra visitatrice da Londre, Dottore.”

  “Ah. Very well. I suppose you might as well come in.” The man was seated at a long refectory table. A younger man was seated beside him, tapping furiously into a laptop. A woman perhaps Elena’s age stood to his left, sorting through what appeared to be graphs and sheets of statistics. The gentleman spoke a few soft words. Immediately the young man closed his laptop and the pair departed. The young woman glanced at Elena as they passed. Her expression was as rigidly cold as the receptionist’s.

  “So. My friend the cardinal has insisted that I see you.” The man seemed reluctant to face her. He waved her forward without actually lifting his gaze from the pages spread across his table. “Please come in. Will you take coffee?”

  “No thank you.”

  Elena walked stiffly across the largest office she had ever seen. The room had to be seventy or eighty feet long and half as wide. The ceiling was domed and frescoed like the entrance hall. The French doors behind his massive desk were open. The view was over the square and the tourists. He waved vaguely at a leather-upholstered chair on the desk’s opposite side. “Perhaps you would care to make yourself comfortable.”

  Elena crossed the room and settled into the seat. She did not speak. There was nothing for her to say.

  He still had not looked at her. His manner was as stiff as his voice. “My friend was wrong to ask you to come.”

  Elena felt distanced enough from his irritation to study him openly. Antonio d’Alba was a spare man, perhaps three inches taller than herself. She guessed his age at somewhere around forty, but she could not be certain. He had a timeless face and what she assumed was prematurely graying hair. His eyes were dark and intelligent, his manner somewhat professorial.

  “Carlo has always been hard to refuse, however. Since he became cardinal he has grown even worse, if that is possible.” He raised his hands in a gesture of Italian defeat. “And so we are here. On an extremely busy day. I am sorry you were forced to make this journey, Dr. Burroughs. I can only give you a very few minutes.”

  Elena remained silent.

  Her stillness clearly irritated him. Antonio d’Alba finally looked at her directly. “Do you not have anything to say, madam?”

  Elena did not speak.

  “This is rather odd, wouldn’t you agree? Traveling all this way, only to sit and stare at me?”

  Even with his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up, he remained formal in an extremely Italian manner. The tie was woven silk and shimmered as he moved in and out of the sunlight. His shirt was starched and looked tailored to his slender form, gray striped but with white collar and cuffs. His gray hair was fashionably cut and long enough to touch his ears. He had sensitive lips for such a strong chin, and eyes that were filled with the only emotion he had revealed so far, which was impatient irritation. Antonio d’Alba rose to his feet and began striding back and forth between his desk and the French doors. Elena watched him pace and wondered if he expressed other emotions as vividly. She thought he might have a very attractive smile. But she doubted he smiled very often. His eyes seemed shadowed by more than just the dream they now shared.

  She realized where her thoughts had taken her and felt her face go hot.

  “Am I reduced to an amoeba on your personal petri dish? How long before you render an observation, Doctor? All day? Well, I don’t have the time to dedicate to your professional curiosity. Nor to my friend the cardinal’s petty whims.”

  Elena knew it was time for her to speak. “I have seen your dream,” she said quietly.

  Antonio d’Alba glared at her. “What you say is more than impossible. It is offensive.”

  “I have seen your dream,” Elena said. “And I have felt your pain.”

  The office’s French doors were open to the afternoon light and the sound of tourists bustling about the square. A bus trundled by, its brakes squeaking. A cloud of pigeons rose from the square, their flapping wings a quiet applause. Antonio d’Alba stood where the shadows began, his pacing halted now. He stared at her.

  Elena said, “I have no idea who you are. I can only assume you hold some immense power. You are obviously accustomed to people coming in here with one thing on their minds. How they can obtain something from you.”

  It was Antonio d’Alba’s turn to remain silent. He crossed his arms and backed farther into the shadows. Only his eyes remained clearly visible, burning with a dark and slanted fire.

  “I don’t know anything about you. I only met your friend the cardinal on Friday. I did not come here seeking anything except to help. This is all so new to me, I’m still trying to find my own way.”

  “What precisely is new?”

  “The interpretation of dreams.”

  “And yet you are called a world authority on the subject. That is what Carlo claims.”

  “This is very different. And we both know it.”

  “Different how?”

  “I did not come here to speak of your dreams in any clinical sense. Your friend did not approach me on this basis. I am here because …”

  He waited with her. The cathedral bells chimed softly. A group of tourists began singing in a language Elena did not recognize. Elena realized Antonio d’Alba was going to force her to finish the sentence without his pressing.

  She said, “I am here because I felt God calling me to come.”

  Antonio d’Alba turned and shut the French doors. Instantly the noise was reduced to a soft murmur. He pulled on a cord, drawing the drapes. The afternoon light filtered through, softened and transformed into a rainbow pastel. The noise was muted now to the point that Elena heard a telephone ring in some adjoining room.

  He seated himself and said, “So how do you wish to proceed?”

  “The Bible is very clear about this. I know because I’ve gone back and studied the relevant passages. Divinely directed dreams come at a time of great need, and normally result in considerable distress. Even so, interpretations are only offered when they have been requested.”

  She waited.

  Antonio d’Alba nodded slowly. Again. He opened his mouth. Shut it. Tried again. “Very well, Dr. Burroughs. I am asking. Tell me of my dream.”

  18

  Antonio d’Alba requested that Elena cancel her hotel reservation. He then had his secretary book her into a hotel just down the road from his home. The secretary stared at Elena in utter confusion as she returned to confirm the reservation. The two staffers Elena had seen leaving Antonio’s office did the same.

&nbs
p; When she arrived at the hotel, Elena showered, then dressed in the hotel robe, and lay down on the bed. She did not bother to pull back the covers. She was not interested in falling asleep. She needed to be at Antonio’s home for dinner in less than an hour. What she wanted was a chance to sort through the day. She had found this very helpful after a particularly stressful series of sessions. Her mind would rebel against the idea of slowing down. But if she could force herself to stop, even for a moment, the perspective to any problem or issue was clarified. Elena shut her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. In and out. Steadying herself. Feeling the little jolts of rarefied energy shoot through her. Flashes of images. The instant of realization that came over breakfast. The taxi to Heathrow. The security check-in. The flight, the Rome airport, the traffic, the office, the man.

  Gradually Elena’s breathing eased and her mind slowed its frantic wrestling against issues that no longer surrounded her. The hotel room had French doors, not unlike those in d’Alba’s office. Only these overlooked a hotel garden and a pair of pencil-thin trees that were filled with chirping birds. The sun was setting, Elena could see the light softening through her closed eyelids. She drifted now, breathing easily. She had intended to look again at the moment when she had related her experience of the dream. Instead, her mind drifted back further, settling upon the moment in the cardinal’s office.

  This often happened in such times of forced repose. Her mind would sift through various sessions with the same patient, revealing a pattern that she had missed until then. Only this time it was Elena’s own experiences that were being woven together. She recalled sitting in Brian’s office the previous morning and hearing him describe his revelation. Elena’s entire body trembled slightly, as though Brian’s words were a hammer and she a bell. She hovered there until she knew she was going to be late for dinner. When she rose from the bed, the light outside her window had dimmed to a purplish glow. Elena dressed hurriedly and left the room.