“Okay,” Iain said, looking over a folded museum map. “Here we are.”
Ben looked past the thicket of people to the painting on the wall. It was another work by Leonardo da Vinci: Saint John the Baptist.
The painting was that of an effeminate-looking man with long, curly hair pointing to the heavens with his right hand. His facial expression was reminiscent of the Mona Lisa’s, yet Saint John’s smile was more pronounced.
“Ben,” Dr. Wulfric said, “we’re going to do this just as we practiced in the lab.”
Ben stood beside Dr. Wulfric, shoulder to shoulder among the sea of tourists, until they inched their way as close to the front as possible. Dr. Wulfric unbuckled the leather satchel bag hanging from his shoulder and removed a sketchbook along with a folded cloth, which contained several pieces of charcoal, all whittled down in various sizes.
“We’ll be here for a while,” the doctor whispered. “It will look rather odd if we’re not doing something.”
“I didn’t know you’re an artist.”
“I don’t consider myself to be one; it’s just a little hobby. Let’s begin.”
Dr. Wulfric took Ben through the same process as before. Ben studied the picture closely from corner to corner, focusing on detail, scanning from left to right one section at a time. He took in the strokes of brown paint, circular and shadowed to form the strands of curly hair. He observed the peaches, whites, tans, and browns that made up the soft flesh of John the Baptist’s arm and hand pointing to the heavens. He then viewed the painting as a whole, both consciously and subconsciously.
He focused on the painting as his eyes wandered over it, and then again as his mind was elsewhere. Ben focused on the pleasant eyes, seeing the face and body together, the dark background, the animal skin he wore, and the cross in the background. The lines of white where the paint had been scratched and worn with age were clear and evident.
It was hard to stay focused under the conditions in the museum: the bustling crowds, hundreds of people nudging shoulder to shoulder, speaking various languages from every corner of the globe. Ben had to clear his mind and focus on his breathing more than ever. As they walked away from Saint John the Baptist, Ben found himself rubbing his temples. Nearly an hour had passed, and the sea of tourists around them had changed a dozen times over. Dr. Wulfric closed his sketchbook on a rather nice charcoal sketch.
“That’s good,” Ben nodded at the paper.
Dr. Wulfric smiled.
Iain Marcus was nearby with his back to them, talking on his cellphone.
“No, Michael, that’s not an excuse.” Ben heard him say.
Iain turned to see them. “I got to go. No. Okay, tomorrow. Bye.” He looked at Ben, still rubbing his temples. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. This is just a hard place to focus. It’s much louder than the lab.”
Dr. Wulfric narrowed his eyes, “Ben, are you sure you’re—”
“Yes, Doctor, yes. I mean, Peter. I’m fine.”
Dr. Wulfric took Ben’s blood pressure anyway and shined a penlight in his eyes to check the dilation of his pupils. Iain moved them to a quiet corner, avoiding the sea of tourists curiously gazing in their direction.
“All right,” Dr. Wulfric said. “If your headache gets any worse, you let me know right away.”
“I promise.”
They walked about, taking a break to let Ben relax and ease the pressure in his temples. They spent some time looking at various statues, some so iconic that Ben recognized them instantly, like Cupid and Psyche, and of course, the Venus de Milo. They spent a short time walking through the Egyptian section before Iain finally led them to their next assignment.
They stood before the painting. “Oh God.” Ben said.
Dr. Wulfric smiled. “Yes, this will be a bit more challenging.”
Ben recognized the painting, although he didn’t know the title or the artist’s name.
“This is the Raft of the Medusa, by Theodore Gericault,” Iain read from the brochure, before turning to leave.
Dr. Wulfric and Ben inched as close as possible.
The painting was a depiction of about a dozen people, twisting and straining in various elaborate positions as they struggled to board a makeshift raft on a turbulent sea. Whatever ship the men had been on must have recently sunk. Ben studied the various men in the composition, either dead or hanging on for dear life, clambering aboard the crumbling planks that made up the raft. Only one man in the group—with a naked corpse strewn over his knee—looked calm and resolute to the disaster that engulfed them. The rest of the survivors grabbed at each other in horror and dread of their impending doom.
“Oh man,” Ben said, “this is going to take forever, isn’t it?”
“Well, it may be more complex than Saint John the Baptist or the Mona Lisa, but we’re going to study it in just the same way. We won’t be here forever,” he laughed, “just a long time.”
“At least you picked an interesting piece.”
Dr. Wulfric agreed. “Yes, Theodore Gericault was an amazing artist. To tell you the truth, the Mona Lisa is not one of my favorites.”
“You don’t say? I would have thought you were a big fan.”
“I don’t choose any of the paintings.” Dr. Wulfric shook his head. “Mr. Kalispell makes the selections. However, I agree with you; this is a marvelous piece of art—just extraordinary. Now,” he removed his sketchpad, flipping it to a clean page, “let’s begin.”
***
Dr. Wulfric returned to Ben’s room later that night carrying a different, larger aluminum briefcase. This one had wheels and a retractable handle, the size of a carry-on bag. He turned the dial on a small built-in lock, removed a key from his pocket, and inserted it into a keyhole. The clasps snapped open.
“Benjamin, let me show you the newest development in our line of Frequency Responding Lucid Transmitters. This is Lucy III.” He opened the case and removed a small, blue-gray, almost silver, device from a carefully molded foam inlay. It fit into the palms of his hands and appeared to be made of plastic rather than the metal-like contraption Ben had used in the lab. It was less than two feet in length and had a curve in the middle, similar to the larger machine—Lucy II. It still resembled a boomerang, only in reverse—as if the boomerang was flattened straight and then bent in the middle, so that the sleek side was now wide, and the wide side now sleek.
“It looks like a boomerang,” Ben said.
“Ah, my boy, it does. Here, feel it.” He leaned forward, offering to place it in Ben’s palms. “Take it, take it. Don’t worry. It’s quite durable.”
“It’s light.” Ben felt the slick curved plastic. The name LUCY III was etched on the side. “Looks like it belongs to a video game system. Or like some strange antenna.”
“Ha! That would be quite a video game. Perhaps one day.” The doctor smiled. “Here, let me show you how it works.” He took the device from Ben’s hands and walked to the bedside table, placing it so the curved side faced the pillows. He pushed on a small, hinged door on the back, nearly hidden, and it popped open. The open hatch exposed a USB port along with a small on-off switch and a round socket. Ben examined the smooth sides of the machine and saw two additional small doors: a long-thin opening on the top, and a round one on the side.
Dr. Wulfric went back to the aluminum box and removed a laptop and a length of bundled cable. “The device has rechargeable batteries capable of running about twenty hours, but we’ll leave it plugged in. Just to be safe.”
He connected a power cord to the round socket, and connected the laptop to the USB port. He opened the monitor and the screen came to life. “Good, good,” Dr. Wulfric said, typing. “Everything’s running fine. Nothing was damaged during shipment.” He moved back to the Halliburton case, removed a pouch containing a vial of fluid and a syringe, and sat back down, placing both the vial and the needle on the bedside table.
Ben looked closely at the vial. The color was different from the
reddish stuff he had been injected with so far. This liquid was black as ink and shimmered in the light. He looked at the needle. It was larger than the other hypodermics, much larger. This needle was thick and cruel, the width of a dull pencil tip. Ben felt a shudder go down his spine.
“Hey, Doc, I don’t think I can do that.”
Dr. Wulfric looked up from the monitor. Ben’s focused intently on the large needle, his face went pale, his eyes wide.
“Oh, Ben, I’m sorry. No, no, no, this isn’t for you. Don’t worry. Here, I’ll show you.” Dr. Wulfric stood and flicked open the round, hinged door on the device, about the size of a nickel. Ben leaned in close to see what looked like a porthole of some kind. The material around it resembled a tight-fitting rubber washer, and the hole in the center looked airtight.
“What’s interesting about this device is that it uses a compound similar to the Nano, only this serum works in reverse.” He took the protective sheath off the syringe and punctured the membrane on the top of the glass vial, sucking out all the black fluid. He nudged the needle into the rubber grommet on Lucy and very slowly pressed down on the plunger.
“The fluid will course through the device, not unlike blood. Each tiny nanoparticle is just as important as any other. The nanoparticles communicate with each other to form a singular entity—the same as with the serum you are taking. This compound brings the device to life, instantly communicating with all its various mechanical parts, along with the Nano in your body.”
Dr. Wulfric removed the empty syringe and closed the cap to the porthole. He flipped the switch next to the USB port and a tiny green LED light came to life. He sat down before the computer and watched as various numbers in different sequences and colors appeared on the screen. “That’s it,” he said. “She’s fully operational. We were afraid to add the liquid before shipment; the pressure from flight could have caused damage, but she’s working perfectly. All you have to do is sleep. Lucy can stay right here on the nightstand.”
Ben stared at the silent machine. “I’m impressed.”
Dr. Wulfric unplugged the computer from Lucy, shutting the laptop down. “You want to see something really impressive?”
“Umm, yes?”
“Check this out.” He removed something small from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a small plastic case that fit in the palm of his hand. He unsnapped the corner and took out a chip, displaying it to Ben.
“Looks like a memory card.”
The doctor nodded. “Precisely. It is a memory card; it would fit in any digital camera. Only this memory card was specifically made. It has more gigabytes than you would find in any camera store.” Dr. Wulfric flipped open the long, skinny, hinged door on the top of the device and placed the chip in the thin opening underneath, pressing it until it slid into place, and flicked the door shut. It fit perfectly. “There you have it. Lucy is up and running. Now, there’s one last thing we have to do tonight.”
Dr. Wulfric picked up a small leather satchel bag beside the aluminum case that Ben hadn’t notice him bring in. It was a medical bag. Dr. Wulfric undid the clasp and removed a stethoscope and a blood-pressure cuff, placing them on the bed. He unwrapped the cords from the cuff and pulled apart the Velcro closure.
“Let’s check your vitals.” He continued removing medical devices until he came to the bottom of the bag. “And afterward, maybe you can help me sample this. One small glass won’t hurt.” The doctor removed a bottle from the bottom of the bag, handing it to Ben. Ben looked at the label: Château du … followed by words Ben couldn’t pronounce. There was a picture of a huge estate surrounded by vineyards.
“Is it any good?” Ben asked.
Dr. Wulfric shrugged. “I don’t know. I choose wine the way my wife taught me: find the prettiest looking bottle with the oldest year and the lowest price tag.”
Ben laughed. “Funny, Emily did the same thing. I remember my grandmother doing that too, but she normally drank boxed wine. Think it’s a girl thing.”
Dr. Wulfric smiled. “It must be.”
Ben looked around the room, to the counter above the mini-bar where two water glasses sat on a tray, still wearing the little paper lids the hotel used to keep them sanitary.
“Hope you have a bottle opener in that bag.”
***
Their last night in Paris, Iain Marcus led Ben and Dr. Wulfric to a popular restaurant a few blocks from the hotel along the bustling Champs-Elysées. They sat outside under the bright red awning that extended over the small dining area hugging the front of the building. Ben could see the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, lit up so that barely a shadow was present. They ate and drank to their last night in Paris, offering cheers to a job well done. Both Iain and Dr. Wulfric seemed elated. The work was over and early the next day, the three of them would be flying home. Before they ordered their meals, they’d polished off a glass of wine each, and had happily poured a second. Iain undid the top button of his shirt, loosening his tie.
“Ben, have you ever tried escargot?”
“Yeah, once.” He shook his head. “I didn’t like it.”
“I bet you never tried it in Paris. You’ll love it.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but if it makes you happy, I’ll give it another try.”
“Believe me, it’s not like anything you’ve had in the States. Here, Ben.” Iain reached across the table to refill Ben’s glass.
They toasted.
“So, where did you practice law?” Ben asked.
A group of maybe twenty tourists passed, speaking a Slavic language akin to Russian. Iain cupped his hand over his ear. “What’s that?”
Ben spoke louder. “Where did you practice law?”
“Practice law?”
“Right, like, what school did you go to?”
“No, Ben, I’m not a lawyer.” The wine sparkled in Iain’s eyes. “I handle many of Mr. Kalispell’s interests, but I’ve never practiced law.”
“Oh. I assumed … I mean, I thought … what are—”
“What am I? I’m Mr. Kalispell’s eyes and ears. I make sure his interests are safe and secure and his wishes met. I’m a little bit of everything.”
A waiter approached wearing a white button-up shirt, a black vest with bow tie, and a long apron down to his ankles. His face was set in a sour and aloof demeanor, as if nothing anyone could say, do, or order for dinner would surprise or interest him in the least.
“Bonjour Monsieur,” Iain began, then whispered to Ben, “I’m ordering escargot.”
***
By the time they left the restaurant, Ben’s head was throbbing. The pressure headache he’d developed earlier that week from staring at the various paintings wouldn’t let up no matter how many aspirin he took. The first glass of wine numbed his mind, made him feel good. The last made his head pulse, and pain soon followed.
Within minutes of returning to his room, Ben was asleep. The boomerang like device sat on the bedside table, silently working.
Ben fell into deep sleep, but he woke from time to time with a dry and scalding headache. The fragments of his dreams he remembered were strange, involving wine at nearly every turn. The color red permeated his memory of the dreams, soaked in his brain like a sponge. He saw himself drinking glass after glass, chugging the stuff like water—practically swimming in it.
The scene cut, and Ben saw his grandmother looming before him like a ten-foot statue. She stood in the center of the kitchen in her old house, her boxed wine nearby on the counter. The spout was wide open, and the red fluid was splashing to the ground like water from a hose. She was shaking her head in disdain, “That ain’t a real job. You need to get yourself a real job.”
“Grandma, the wine!”
“I done all I can do to see you get by.”
Ben could only stare at the wine, flowing, pouring out, almost an inch on the ground already. The drab-grey nightgown his grandmother always wore was getting wet around her ankles. The air filled with the pungent, ripe sme
ll of fermented grapes.
“Working in some hospital, doing crazy tests. Me, I worked in restaurants all my days. It would do you good getting your hands dirty, doing real work.”
“Grandma, the wine is spilling! Grandpa! Do something!”
“Grandpa? He’s dead. So am I … so are you!”
Ben woke up with a start.
His raw eyes blinked at the ceiling. The thought of wine made him sick. It had been so long since he’d had a dream about his family that when he tried to picture his mother and father’s faces, it was difficult. His grandmother, though—he could picture her without a problem.
Such a strange dream, he thought. Did I say ‘Grandpa’?
He’d never met the man. There were never any pictures of him, and when Ben asked his Grandma about him, she would say, “He was just some boy.” Ben imagined that the man must have done well, or left her some money, because as far as he knew, his grandmother never worked a day after giving birth to his mother.
Whatever.
There was no point wasting time thinking about her.
The sun was coming up and Ben doubted he would fall back asleep, but he didn’t want to move. His brain felt dehydrated, like a sponge left out in the sun. He needed a glass of water—definitely not a glass of wine.
***
They checked out early in the morning. Iain talked to the smiling receptionist at the front desk, signed a few papers, and paid for their stay.
“How are you feeling?” Ben asked Dr. Wulfric, noticing the redness of the doctors eyes.
“I’ll be fine; just need some coffee. How about you?”
“I’m fine.”
Ben’s headache felt better, but it was still there. He didn’t feel hung-over, but his head was in the clouds.
On the counter of the front desk sat a tall flowering plant. The stem rose high from the planter then dipped back down like the neck of a swan. It had large broad-leafed flowers blooming along the way. The petals on each flower were a rich creamy white, as soft as pillows, with a slight hint of purple toward the center that turned to a vivid purple deep inside.
The Experiment of Dreams Page 8
