Book of Dreams

by Bunn, Davis

  Downstairs, she showed Antonio’s handwritten note to the concierge. He walked outside with her and pointed her up the road. He offered to get her a taxi, but her destination was less than five hundred yards away. Elena thanked the man and said she would walk.

  Elena wore charcoal-gray slacks and a white silk top with a high collar and oriental-style cloth buttons. Her only jewelry was a string of pearls worn over the blouse. The night was cooling rapidly, and she was glad for the sweater she had knotted about her shoulders. The street sloped upward and curved around the hillside. Elena could see nothing except high stone walls and metal gates. Trees fronting the road were carefully trimmed, so that their limbs could not be used as a passage over the walls. Streetlights cast everything in a harsh glare. Even the trees’ springtime blossoms were tainted yellow. All the gates she passed, both for pedestrians and cars, were flanked by more yellow lights. The tops of the walls were lined with broken glass embedded in the concrete. As she approached her destination, a blue sedan slowed so that two uniformed officers could inspect her.

  The house number was painted on a ceramic tile set in the wall beside a tall whitewashed metal gate. She pressed the buzzer and watched a security camera swivel over to study her. The blue sedan did not pull away until the gate clicked and pulled back on electronic hinges. The camera followed her inside. The gate swung shut.

  The villa was three stories and gray and not particularly impressive, at least from the outside. A woman as gray as the house stood in the open doorway, waiting for Elena to climb the stairs. She nodded a silent greeting, let Elena into the house, then shut and double-locked the door. She said in fractured English, “Il dottore, Signor d’Alba, he have phone.”

  “I understand.”

  “Please, you to wait, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “He no be long.” The woman scarcely came up to the base of Elena’s rib cage. She was dressed in a simple dark sweater, black ankle-length skirt, and lace-up shoes. Her hair was drawn back into a tight bun. She led Elena through a second pair of doors. “You like veranda?”

  “Wherever you want me to wait will be fine.” Elena followed the servant down a long hall. The doors to her right were shut, and she thought she heard a man’s muffled voice. To her left were another set of tall mahogany doors, open to reveal a high-ceilinged parlor. The hallway’s white marble tiles were veined in rose and purple. Recessed alcoves lining the hallway held inlaid tables and alabaster vases. Four alcoves, four tables, four ancient vases. Their golden rims had been partially worn away with the centuries. Above the vases hung dark oil paintings. The paintings to her left were of pastoral scenes, those to her right were portraits. Everything she saw, the rooms and the hallway and the furniture, was immaculate.

  The older woman led Elena out the rear doors and onto a broad veranda. Elena walked over to the railing and sighed, “Oh, my.”

  The view was a breathtaking swoop over night-clad Rome. The dome of Saint Peter’s glowed like a polished diadem. The river was an inky line snaking through streets and buildings and monuments to lost ages. Traffic noise drifted upon a breeze that carried the flavors of eucalyptus and wood smoke.

  “Signora, please.”

  She walked over to a covered canopy holding a table set for two. As Elena took her seat, the servant released woven cords and shut the windward cloth wall. Now that the breeze was blocked, the old woman went about lighting candles set in tall glass globes.

  The servant clasped her hands beneath her rib cage and asked, “You are liking drink?”

  “I’ll wait for Signor d’Alba, thank you.”

  The woman remained where she was. “Please, you are helping il dottore?”

  “I will do what I can,” Elena replied. “You must care for him very much.”

  Now that she was seated, the old woman’s face was almost level with her own. She showed Elena an inscrutable mask. “I am with family since before he is born. When la signora die, he is so sad. Then he is better. Now the dreams.”

  “I’m sorry, who died?”

  “La sposa. His, how you say, wife.”

  “He lost his wife?”

  “Since three years. You are not knowing this?”

  “I’m sorry. No.” When the woman started to turn away, Elena asked, “Do they have children?”

  The servant inspected her for a long moment, clearly uncertain whether to respond. Finally she said, “A daughter. She study in New York. Here too is much sadness.”

  The old woman turned and walked away. She might have sighed as she left the veranda. Or perhaps it was merely the wind.

  Elena relaxed on the padded metal chair and enjoyed the night. The veranda was tiled in ancient marble that had been repeatedly cracked and repaired. The outdoor table was covered by layers of fine damask cloth, but the whitewashed metal legs were blistered where rust was seeping through. The padding to her chair was mended in several places, as was the veranda’s covering. Elena could understand now what she had seen inside the house and here on the veranda. The house was frozen in time, everything held as it had been when laughter had filled the rooms. And song. Elena saw a dozen more chairs lined up against the veranda’s far wall, shadowy reminders of old friends and long dinners and nights that ended far too soon. She turned back to the view. She knew everything there was to know about futile efforts to freeze the passage of time.

  “I’m so very, very sorry.” Antonio d’Alba rushed out onto the veranda. He waved his hand vaguely back toward the villa. “Some days the world refuses to let go of me.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, no, this is not right. I invite you into my home, and leave you here …” He glanced at his watch, then at her. Antonio looked genuinely harried. “You have been out here for an hour?”

  The length of time surprised her, but on a very superficial level. “I didn’t mind.”

  “Did they not offer you something to drink?”

  “Of course she did.” When he started to rise from his chair, Elena said, “Antonio.”

  “Eh, yes?”

  She realized it was the first time she had used his first name. “Sit down. Relax. Everything is fine.”

  Slowly he lowered himself back into the chair. “First I am rude to you in my office. Now this. What you must think of me I cannot imagine.”

  “What I think is that I would like to know more about you. Such as, what do you do?”

  “Carlo did not tell you this?”

  “The cardinal told me nothing. Except that you were having dreams.”

  “Until recently, I was chairman of a bank. Now I serve as adviser to the Vatican on the church’s investments.”

  “When did you resign from the bank?”

  “Three years ago. A bit less. Why do you ask?”

  “Your servant told me about losing your wife. I’m so sorry.”

  “You obtain such information from Angelica? I am astonished. She will not tell most guests the time of day. In this she is very Sicilian.”

  “Angelica cares for you very much.”

  “She was my nanny when I was young. After my mother died, she raised me. I have offered to give her a house in the Sicilian countryside, where she is from. But she stays. Ah, excellent, food. Are you hungry?”

  They were served by a slender young man named Gino. The table swiftly filled with an assortment of antipasti. Thinly sliced prosciutto draped over melon, flaky pastries filled with goat cheese, melanzane served with olive oil and fresh basil, delicately grilled aubergine and asparagus with flakes of parmesan cheese. On and on the plates came. Elena had eaten nothing since a hurried croissant at Heathrow. There followed shallow bowls holding pasta blankets filled with ground veal and spices, swimming in a meat broth.

  The conversation started out at a casual level. Antonio explained that his villa stood upon the crest of the Cavalieri Hill, north of Vatican City. It was not one of the original seven hills of Rome, as those were all on the river’s other side. His family had settl
ed in this area during the medieval era. They had served as merchants to the Vatican, bakers and candle makers and then importers of fabric. This was the seventh villa that had been erected on the same spot, completed in the waning days of the eighteenth century. Over a third course of roast lamb, Antonio pointed out various sites within the streetlights far below. Elena listened and nodded and ate in silence. She knew Antonio had not invited her here to discuss the view.

  Coffee was served by the same old woman who had led Elena onto the veranda. She accepted their thanks for the meal in unblinking silence. After Elena refused the offers of dessert and a digestif, the servant turned and padded away, leaving them alone with the night birds.

  Antonio stirred sugar into his coffee and said, “You are very quiet.”

  Elena sat and sipped her coffee and waited.

  They shared another moment staring out over the veranda railing. Finally he said the words she had been waiting for. “Will you tell me again about my dream?”

  “Of course.”

  “I do not mean to suggest that you left something out. I am simply trying to digest the fact that someone else knows what I have been experiencing.”

  “I understand.” Elena took a long breath and related again what she had told him in his office that afternoon.

  In the image that had transfixed her over breakfast, she had stood in the road. In the gutter, actually. Water flowed over her shoes. She was dressed in a man’s fancy suit. In the illogical pattern of a vivid dream, she knew the shoes were handmade. The shoes were ruined.

  She also knew that this was not her own dream. She was looking through the eyes of another person. Seeing his dream. As her own.

  The sun had blazed in an empty sky. Even so, the gutter was filled with savage floodwaters. She wanted to step out of the way, but she could not move. In front of her was a line without beginning or end. Men and women and children. They were homeless and bankrupt and destitute and broken. As she studied the endless line, she realized two things. First, it was not water that flooded over the curb and ruined her clothes. It was a flood of shattered lives and hopes. And second, it was her fault that these people were here. She could have done something to stop this from happening. And she had done nothing.

  When she finished, Antonio d’Alba stared into the darkness for a time, then spoke in a voice that was scarcely stronger than the night breeze. “I have never told anyone about what my dream contains, you see. And yet here you are. Arriving in my office, where I am the authority. Even the pope listens to me when I speak about financial matters. And you tell me the dark mysteries that have ravaged my nights.”

  “For how long have you experienced this dream?”

  “At times it feels like all my life. In truth, perhaps two years now. It comes and then goes, and I am sometimes able to pretend that it is over and done. That I am free. And then it comes again. It attacks me.” He addressed the city and the night beyond his home. “Last week it attacked every night. Which is why I mentioned it to Carlo. I never spoke of it before. To anyone. Now I wonder if perhaps the dream came more frequently to make sure I would pay attention when you arrived.”

  “Or so that you would mention it to your friend, the cardinal.”

  “Just so.” He looked at her. “In the office, you said something else. You said you felt my pain.”

  Elena shuddered. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, are you cold?”

  “No. It’s not that.” She took a very hard breath and related what had happened next. When the image had ended, Elena had started sobbing so hard that she could neither draw breath nor rise from her chair. Instead, she had rolled onto the floor and crawled to the bathroom. She had lain on the cold tiles until the weeping finally came under control. She had cried for the people, and she had cried for how her life was being taken from her control by this, this thing. And yet try as she might, she could not turn from the invitation. Because no matter how hard she wept then, she could feel the gentle presence of God. There. With her.

  He watched her solemnly. His features were made craven by the flickering candles. He said softly, “Invitation.”

  “That was the word that came to me then, and how it feels now.”

  “For you or for me?”

  Elena searched for a response. It was a good question, one she should have asked herself long before now. “This awareness of another’s dream has happened only once before. That other time, the revelation carried a clear sense of a message. One intended for the dreamer. I shared the dream, as though it was a sign from God that I had the right to speak the message. This time …”

  “Yes, this time was different?”

  She carefully tasted the words. “Perhaps the message is intended for us both.”

  He studied her. “Two invitations.”

  “Perhaps. I have spent years hiding away. Mourning the loss of my husband. Remaining within my comfort zone. Everything about these experiences challenges me.”

  “You lost your husband?”

  “Five years ago.”

  Antonio d’Alba gave a visible shudder. He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “It is late. Gino will drive you to your hotel.”

  “That’s all right, I can—”

  “No, no, I must insist.” He led her back into the house, where he addressed the young man who had served them dinner in rapid-fire Italian. He then turned to her and said, “Please, will you join me for breakfast?”

  “If you like.”

  “It would give me great pleasure to speak with you again. As for now, I have much to think about.” He bowed over her hand, not quite drawing it to her lips. “Carlo was right to bring us together. Buona notte.”

  19

  TUESDAY

  When the phone rang early the next morning, Elena needed a moment to remember where she was. She fumbled for the receiver and thanked the operator for the wake-up call. She took a quick shower, then dressed in the same slacks she had worn the previous evening and added to that a different blouse and a navy jacket. She checked her reflection in the mirror and was halted by a sudden memory.

  When Jason had still been alive, Elena would travel back to the States at least twice each year for professional conferences and meetings. She had carried this navy jacket as a fallback, because it went well with most outfits and added a trace of formality. She had not put it on since then, mostly because she had refused to travel. Now as she checked her reflection, she heard once more Brian’s final words: Be ready and open for whatever comes.

  Elena stopped in the hotel coffee shop for a cappuccino, then walked the same street up to Antonio’s house. The street glowed in the morning sunlight. The trees she passed were heavy with blooms. The cloying fragrance reminded her of honeysuckle. A few cars trundled by. Otherwise she shared the road only with the sun and the birds.

  The servant woman buzzed the gate open as soon as Elena touched the button. Angelica stood by the doorway again, showing Elena the same inscrutable face. To Elena, the name Angelica suggested a delicate lady, fragile and ephemeral, only partly connected to the earth. Certainly not this stodgy woman dressed in black with her tight bun and dark, unblinking gaze.

  Once again Angelica led her down the hall. The first set of double doors were shut, just like the previous night, and again Elena heard a man’s voice inside. She followed the servant back to the veranda. The table was set under the covered alcove with fresh damask and places for two. A crystal vase holding lilies and tulips sat at the table’s center. The alcove’s cloth walls were all open now. The view was out over rooftops and gardens to the city below. Elena caught the faint hint of roses upon the morning wind.

  “How you like coffee?”

  “With milk. Please.”

  “Con spremuta? Juice?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Angelica turned away. Then she stopped and said, “Il dottore, he sleep. All night. No dream.”

  Elena started to ask how the servant knew this, then decided it didn’t ma
tter. “This is a good start.”

  “Yes. Very good.” The woman hesitated, then reached out and touched Elena’s arm with one wizened hand. “You can stay?”

  “I’m afraid not. I have a practice in Oxford. Patients. I must …” Elena stopped because the woman turned abruptly away, dismissing her answer as a feeble excuse.

  Antonio was dressed in a fashionable suit and appeared both polished and disheveled. Elena decided he could be a very attractive man, if only he would make an effort. Instead, he seemed not merely distant but removed. He was there in body and mind, but his heart was elsewhere. Elena understood perfectly. He followed Angelica across the veranda, gave Elena a brisk smile, and asked, “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine. Wonderfully, in fact.”

  “I also. A big surprise.” He thanked Angelica as she poured them both coffee and then juice from a large crystal pitcher. Then he toasted Elena with his cup. “I am very glad you came.”

  The words warmed her. The old woman must have seen something in Elena’s expression, for she sniffed softly and muttered something Elena did not need to understand. Elena felt her face redden.

  Antonio asked, “Do you mind if we continue our discussion?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I found myself resonating with that word you used last night. Invitation. Did I say that correctly, resonate?”

  “Your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you. Yes. I find it very interesting that the divine message might have been intended for both of us.”

  Elena took a moment to respond. She found herself captured by a variety of thoughts. First, that he had simply moved beyond the previous day’s rejection, as though his initial response no longer mattered. To either of them. It was the sign of a highly intelligent and very stable mind. Second, that he was a man of strong enough beliefs that the issue of divine guidance was not something he felt any need to question.