Sleeping in Flame

by Jonathan Carroll

  The best part of the storms was when they got really bad, Daddy always came into the living room, and sitting down at the piano there, would begin playing along to the rain and thunder. He played the piano very beautifully and knew thousands of different songs and classical music. With every bang of thunder he banged out something nice on the piano. When the rain or the wind blew the curtains up high, he played music by a man named Delius who wrote music that sounded like the rain. Daddy said playing the piano like that was taming the storm, and I never had to be afraid of any storm he could play to.

  Since I was always the biggest scaredy cat about the storms, I was always the first one in the living room with my comics or coloring book or whatever I was working on at the time. But sooner or later my brother Ingram, or Mommy, would come in too, and all three of us would listen to the rain and Daddy playing the piano, and it would be like living in heaven for me. There we all were – safe and protected and cozy in the middle of the storm, surrounded by yellow light and my Daddy's music. That was the best part of the summer.

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "I think only three days. It depends on the production. They told me three days."

  She looked at me accusingly. "What if I have problems?"

  "I'll be on the next plane. I'm only going to Germany, Maris. They're paying me a couple of thousand dollars to hold up a champagne bottle. It's sort of hard to say no."

  "I've seen those champagne ads. Lots of beautiful girls in low-cut dresses."

  "Are you being serious or just grumpy?"

  "Grumpy. I know you have to go. This hospital isn't cheap."

  "Don't worry about that. You know we've got plenty of money from the film."

  "Plenty of money lasts an hour when you've got someone in the hospital. I don't want you to go because I'll miss you. No other reason. Even if you're not right here, knowing you're in town makes me feel better. Is that babyish?"

  "I love it. I love you too for feeling that way. Listen, I wanted to ask you a question about something else. Did you and your family ever spend a summer on Lake Maggiore in Italy when you were little?"

  She nodded. "Yes, near a town called Laveno."

  "Do you remember much of it?"

  "Pretty much. Why?"

  "Do you remember 'Sinbad'?"

  "Sinbad? No. What are you asking?"

  "I had a dream about you last night. I dreamt I was you in that house in Italy."

  "You were me?"

  "I was you, and I was in that big yellow living room where you all went when thunderstorms came at night. Your father played the piano to tame the rain."

  She sat up fast. "That's right! Oh, Walker, I'd forgotten all about that. It's so mystical. Tell me the whole thing immediately. Every detail."

  When I had finished her cheeks were flushed and she wore the biggest smile I'd seen in days.

  "That is so . . . It gives me little shivers all over. Sinbad! How could you know about Sinbad? You know why I called it that? Because sometimes I'd pretend it was my sailing ship and I was off on an adventure. Sailing past the Island of the Sirens. I would hold my ears and think I needed lots of wax to hold off their screams. My favorite movie when I was growing up was The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. Did you ever see it? With the cyclops and the princess who was shrunken down by the evil magician? I even remember the name of the actor who played him. Torin Thatcher."

  "You sound like Venasque. He knew the cast of every film made."

  "Sinbad. I saw that movie six times. Whenever they asked the genie in the lamp to do something, he'd bow and say 'I shall try, my master, I shall try.'

  "You were me as a little girl in Laveno. Walker, that must mean something good. Maybe it's a turning point. All your other dreams were so strange and disturbing. This one is only childhood and magic."

  "Your childhood. That's the kicker."

  "No, that's the beauty! Wouldn't it be something if that happened to us forever? Dream each other's dreams? We'd know each other so well we could be –"

  "Identical twins."

  "Ha ha. Not funny."

  "How do you feel today?"

  "Good. Especially after hearing that. I'm sad you're going away, but I'm okay. Listen, there's one thing, though. You don't have to call me from there as much as you do here. It'd be sweet, but eleven calls a day from Germany wouldn't help our bank account."

  "There's a lot to talk about when I'm away."

  "That's true. How long will you be gone?"

  "Three days. I'll take the night train back Tuesday."

  "Okay, then five times a day is enough."

  The night train to Cologne is strictly business. Night trains to Italy are full of excited tourists and lovers off for a weekend in Venice at the Danieli. Trains north, especially to the heart of German business, are quiet and full of tired men in rumpled suits with their neckties pulled down, looking wanly through their briefcases.

  I was in a first-class compartment by myself until a few minutes before the train was due to leave. I had the German edition of the fairy tales on my lap but only because I wanted to read some of the other stories. I had no further need of reading "Rumpelstiltskin."

  The compartment door slid open and a woman walked in. When I saw her I thought of a line my college roommate had once said when we were gassing about women.

  "Sometimes you see one on the street who's so beautiful you want to walk up to her, put your hand over her mouth, and just whisper 'Don't talk. Come with me.' You take her immediately to bed, never letting her say a word. Because no matter what she says, it's going to spoil that first beauty you saw in her. You know what I mean? Silent, she's perfect."

  The woman across from me was that kind of perfect. Dressed in a shimmery black leather coat and skirt, she had a small Oriental face that held a stunning mixture of voluptuous child and innocent woman; long straight hair fell down over her shoulders like a black waterfall. I smiled at her and turned back to the window.

  "Is this seat taken?" She spoke English in a high voice.

  "No. Can I help you with your bag?"

  "That would be very nice."

  She was already sitting when I stood to put her Louis Vuitton suitcase onto the rack above. She seemed very used to men helping her through life.

  "Thank you very much. You speak English?"

  "Yes."

  "That's so good. I'm so tired of speaking other people's languages. Are you going to Frankfurt? It's a long trip, isn't it?"

  An hour after the train started, Kiko had told me all about her modeling jobs in Europe, an Italian boyfriend who didn't appreciate her enough, and how lonely her life was. She asked if she could sit on my side of the car, and after she did, every few words were accompanied by a touch on my hand, my knee . . .

  If it had happened before Maris, I would have been a happy man. As it was, I smiled and was a sympathetic listener, but made no attempt to reciprocate her warmth. Plainly, she wasn't used to that, and her face grew more and more puzzled. After another ten minutes of long looks and long fingernails on my knee, I touched her hand and said I was married.

  "So? Is your wife on the train?"

  "No, but she's in my mind and that's enough."

  Angry as a swatted bee, she stood right up and went for her suitcase. I offered to help, but she gave me the evil eye and said no thanks.

  She was a small woman and had to reach all the way up to get hold of the suitcase handle. Giving one hard pull, the bag came flying off the shelf, knocking her back against the opposite wall head first. The bag hit the floor. She cried out and slumped crookedly into the facing seat. She'd cracked the back of her head against one of the metal coat hangers screwed into the wall. Blood was everywhere – dripping down the leather, spotting her white hands, the gray silk blouse.

  Her eyes were closed and she mumbled in either shock or pain. I leaned over, put my hand on the top of her head and said it. One moment I felt warm blood and wet sticky hair under my fingers. The next moment I felt only warm
, dry hair. I pushed her head up and told her to open her eyes, everything was okay.

  I sat there awhile calming her, telling her she'd fallen asleep and cried out something about her suitcase falling. But I told her to look – there it was up on the rack. She'd only had a bad dream.

  When it was clear she was all right, I got my bag and left the compartment. Before going, I put her to sleep. Nothing was simpler.

  In Cologne the next morning, I had a two-hour layover before my next train left. After a bad cup of coffee in the station restaurant, I found a phone and called Maris. I told her I was in the hotel and they'd given me a nice room overlooking the great cathedral.

  "How does it look? Is it like St. Stephen's?"

  I had never been to Cologne and knew nothing about it. The only things I saw were trains and tracks and commuters. Closing my eyes, I said it again and vivid pictures of the Gothic cathedral, the fourteenth-century stained glass windows, and the Magi's shrine inside the church came sliding into my head. I went on to quickly describe parts of the city, including the Roman-Germanic Museum and its million-piece "Dionysus Mosaic," even the cable car over the Rhine. She told me I sounded like a travel guide and she was jealous.

  I got off the other train in the afternoon. I needed only three hours to do what was necessary. The only real problem was finding the place.

  On the train back to Vienna I didn't dream, but looking out the window at the sun rising over the Austrian countryside, I let my mind go its way and this is what I saw. Or felt. Or knew somewhere inside.

  It is summer in East Hampton, Long Island. Victoria Marshall's parents own a house there by the ocean and invited me down for the weekend. That evening we'd gone to a play at the John Drew Theatre. It was boring, but the interesting part of the two hours was Victoria's hand on my thigh. It wasn't like her. At college we'd spent months rolling around on my narrow bed, touching and pushing clothes aside, getting too hot and too frustrated for our own good. She wants to be a virgin when she gets married, but she also loves me and doesn't know what to do. She wants us to sleep together, but she also wants to keep her promise to herself. I love her but she is beginning to confuse me.

  Her hand rubbing my thigh in the theatre, inches away from the eyes of her High Episcopalian parents, tells me something is very different tonight. Is this it? Is she saying yes?

  The parents know their daughter and don't worry that anything untoward might happen if they're not around to keep an eye on my shenanigans. They have one drink with us after the show and go off upstairs to their bedroom.

  Victoria and I are sitting on the couch. I have a drink in my hand but things have gotten so heated in me that the ice has melted. She waits until the toilet flushes twice up there and the familiar sounds of people getting into bed are over before she turns to me, her eyes full of smoke and promises. She says nothing, but when she reaches over to touch me, I almost pull back because the moment has really come and I can't believe it. Not only does she touch me, but pulls me to the floor with her.

  She whispers, "Do you have something with you?"

  "Yes."

  "All right." She begins to take off her clothes. Me too. When we're naked I remember at the last minute to take it out of my wallet. Hands trembling, I tear it open but leave it in its wrapper. I am afraid the floor will squeak and tell on us, but it is a silent conspirator.

  We kiss and touch and everything is hot. Plus, everything is not just this, it is leading up to the moment I've been waiting for almost a year. I touch her between her legs and she is wetter than I've ever felt. This is unbelievable. Moving away, I reach for the rubber. It comes gliding out of its envelope and expands into a circle in my hand. I have no trouble putting it on. Turning to her, she is more beautiful than ever. I rise up and gently part her legs. They move open quickly, and already she is moving her head from side to side.

  I can't get in. I move and use my hands and she does what she can, but it is no use. I simply can't get in. Her eyes are wide open now and they say something I can't hear. Is she afraid? Have I scared her into thinking she is too small and will be this way forever? Is it disgust? How could I be so bumbling and inept? How could I do this to her?

  We try more and more until my penis gives up any hope and says good night. We lie on our sides, fingertips still touching, but we are lost. What now?

  I see all this, but it's nothing new. I was there and remember too well that embarrassing night. What is different is something else I see with my new eyes. Something outside the house, sitting on top of the Marshalls' Cape Cod roof.

  He has been up there the whole time, watching. Squatting like a Fuseli creature, his hand over his mouth, he's laughing and snickering, trying to keep quiet so that no one inside will know something is up on the roof listening to the hopeless silence of two nineteen-year-olds.

  I called him on the phone.

  "How'd you get my number?"

  "I'd like you to come to dinner."

  "When? Where'd you get this number?"

  "Can you come tonight?"

  He was silent, suspicious, but there was nothing he could do anymore. I knew that, but he didn't.

  "Tonight? Why tonight?"

  "I have to talk to you."

  I convinced him. We'd have his favorite meal, done the way he liked it. I told him I'd had a dream and remembered how to cook it. I even called him Papa once and that must have done it. He agreed. Seven o'clock.

  I called Maris and told her I'd be home a day early. Then I went shopping.

  They wanted to help, but I said they were my guests and I wouldn't hear of it.

  At the market I bought Tafelspitz, Kren, applesauce, the makings for tartar sauce. Two bottles of good red wine from Styria. An old menu but one all of them would feel comfortable eating. If we ever got around to eating. No matter what happened, I didn't think it was going to be a long evening.

  They loved television; couldn't get over it. They watched a documentary about famine in Africa, a Bud Spencer film, a choral group from the Vorarlberg that sang some songs they knew. That made them especially happy.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. Maris was such a good cook that I hadn't whipped up a big meal for a long time. I enjoyed the hours putting the pieces together.

  I was done at six and went in to take a shower. This was going to be a big evening and I wanted to look right for it.

  At six-thirty they insisted on setting the table. I let them because I think they were so embarrassed that I'd cooked the meal.

  The bell rang promptly at seven. I walked down the hall, accompanied as always by Orlando. He walked faster now that he could see, but his sweet personality was still the same.

  When I opened the door I only saw a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in shiny plastic paper. Tilting his head to one side, he peeked out from behind them and said, "I brought you some flowers. You used to like roses."

  I smiled and took them. "I still do. That's nice, Papa. Come in."

  I let him pass me and gestured toward the living room. "Dinner's almost ready."

  He went forward a few steps, but then Orlando began weaving his way in and out between his feet, almost tripping him. "Get out of here! I hate cats!" He put his hand out, fingers spread. Orlando fell over, dead in an instant.

  I put my hand out, fingers spread, and the cat opened his eyes again.

  The old man stopped, back to me, and didn't move.

  "Your name is Breath, Papa. Come on, dinner's ready."

  He walked slowly forward. What else could he do?

  At the door to the living room he saw the two women sitting on the couch. Both had their hands folded carefully in their laps over the wide spread of their silk dresses. For two such plain-looking women, in that moment with their faces lit expectantly, they were quite lovely.

  "Papa, I'd like to introduce you to the Wild Sisters. Dortchen and Lisette."

  For the first time he turned and looked at me. "What is this?"

  "You're all my
guests for dinner."

  "What the fuck is this, Walter? Who are they?"

  "You don't know?"

  "I wouldn't ask if I knew!"

  I turned to the women. "Please excuse my father, ladies. He must be tired."

  He grabbed my jacket and pulled me to him. "What are you doing, Walter? What's going on?" There was no fear in his face, only distrust and malice.

  Did I feel any pity for what I was about to do? Pity for the man who'd once upon a time raised me like a son and taught me everything he knew? Taught me everything I knew once again now?

  I laughed in his face. "Do you want to eat first, or should the ladies begin?"

  He said nothing, only continued glaring at me, holding my jacket.

  "I think we should start with the story," Lisette said in her small, cultured voice. "A good story always enhances the appetite."

  "I agree," Dortchen said.

  "Good. Then please do."

  The two women looked at each other. Lisette told Dortchen to begin:

  Once upon a time there was a little man whose name was Breath. It was a strange name, but because he had such strong magic inside, whoever had created him chose a name no human would ever guess.

  Papa let go of my lapel.

  The little man was content with this magic for a time, but as he grew older, he realized it was not enough in life. What one really needed was love, especially if you happened to be Breath, who was immortal.

  One day he was out walking and saw a beautiful young maiden sitting at a spinning wheel in a barn. She was very poor, but so beautiful that the little man fell instantly in love.

  "What is your name?" he asked brusquely, not wanting her to know that already he loved her with all his soul.