The Experiment of Dreams

by Brandon Zenner

  “Here, Ben, take these.” He held something in his hand and offered a glass of water.

  “What’s this?”

  “Aspirin. You need to drink plenty of water and rest for a long time.”

  ***

  When Ben woke the next morning, the aura was gone. It was replaced by a dull headache emanating from different parts of his head like little balloons inflating between his skull and brain, ready to burst, and then quickly subsiding.

  He was surprised to see Dr. Wulfric waking up on the chair beside him.

  “You didn’t have to stay the night.”

  “Nonsense. Besides … I fell asleep by accident. How are you feeling?”

  Ben said he did not know, and the stress of trying to figure out how he felt added to the anguish in his mind. His hands and feet were out of rhythm with his body, and he was so incredibly weak that just standing to go to the bathroom was difficult. He was tired. So tired. Unbelievably tired.

  Dr. Wulfric gave him more aspirin and stayed next to his bed. He did not ask any more questions.

  Later that afternoon, Ben felt better. Dr. Wulfric went to get some soup and bread. The food made him feel both better and worse. His mind straightened out a bit, and some of his strength returned, but his stomach wrenched.

  He went back to sleep.

  When he awoke late in the night, a tingling sensation issued from deep within his forehead, behind his eyes, sending pleasurable sensations out from the frontal lobe of his brain like a tolling bell. It was the feeling of stress leaving his body. The numb pain and confusion was melting and washing away, replaced by an odd sense of pleasure. Ben thought he could feel the congested blood in his brain begin to ebb away. The migraine was passing.

  The next morning, the migraine had passed entirely. His strength returned and his mind was sharp. The previous day and a half was a complete blur—it did not seem to have happened at all. His dreams during that time were intense and deep. Tidbits came back to him while he stood in the shower under a steady stream of hot water:

  He was on a dark road, the headlights of his car passing up and down over hilly terrain, illuminating thickets of dark trees on either side. He was alone wherever he was, and it was late at night—pitch black, bitterly cold—and surrounded by pure wilderness. He had a sense of dread and isolation of the outside—the wilderness—but also a feeling of warmth and security being in a car that was driving fast. Warm air was blowing on his face from the vents, and pockets of fog glided over the windshield of the car in droves.

  The dream skipped, the timing of events irrelevant, and he was suddenly walking along a sidewalk in a town. The street was barren; the only sound came from something rattling in the wind that Ben could not see—a store sign, perhaps. The wind was damp and cold, and a fine mist fell over his face and over the black trench coat he was wearing. Droplets formed that ran down his cheeks, and over his coat. He hugged his arms to his sides, his hands tight in the jacket pockets. He could see the rim of a hat before his eyes, a men’s old-fashioned hat, the type he’d seen in gangster movies from the twenties. He also knew, although he could not see himself, that he was wearing a suit under his trench coat; the fabric felt light and silky on his legs and chest.

  He was aware of his surroundings, looking around the upturned collar of his coat at the shadows in the doorways, but nothing stirred. His adrenaline was pumping, and he felt excitement mixed with fear. He slipped into a doorway quick and quiet, like a dark object melding into shadow.

  Again, the dream skipped like a reel of video with whole scenes spliced out. There was a person in a room sitting before him. The room was dark and smelled thick with sleep. The man was naked down to his underwear, and he was looking up, his blurry face framed by his sleep-matted hair. Ben knew this man, at least in the dream he knew him. He felt a sense of relief, fear, anxiety, and adrenaline all at once. He was helping the man; somehow, in that late hour of night, he was helping him. A dark circle was forming around him as beads of water dripped off his trench coat to the carpet underfoot. His hand came out of his pocket with the tight feeling of a leather glove pulling against his skin. There was something in his hand; he was giving something to the man. The man held his hands out for it, on his knees, sitting upon the heels of his feet. The look on the man’s face was wonder and astonishment, and maybe something else. There was nothing sinister, nothing even strange about the transaction. A feeling of relief swept through him, as if he had done the naked man a great favor.

  The dream skipped again and he was walking outside. The air was just as cold and damp as before, but the rain had picked up. Droplets of water fell off the rim of his hat, falling before his eyes. Behind him came a gust of warm air, ripping through the cold of the night.

  That was all Ben could remember—a feverish dream. Very intense, and emphatically real, yet, it felt distant. Another world. It was like watching a movie and acting in it all at the same time; he may have been playing the part, but he had no control of his movements or emotions.

  That man kneeling on the ground, that face … he puzzled over it as he moved from the bed to the bathroom. He tried his hardest to recall details out of the darkness—the eyes and mouth—but as he stepped into the shower, the face continued to blur, and by the time he was brushing his teeth, it was blurred beyond recognition, like a greasy thumb rubbed over the wet ink of a photograph.

  Chapter 11

  Ben waited in the terminal at Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino airport.

  His work at The Sistine Chapel was complete: hours upon hours of focus and concentration, the most interesting and exhausting nine days of Ben’s life. The next morning he would leave Rome from this airport, seeing very little of the many sights and eating at none of the city’s great restaurants. This was the same airport where Ben currently stood waiting for flight 806 out of Paris, carrying on board Sophia Lorenz.

  He paced by the baggage claim, unable to stand still, the long metal belt just rumbling to life moments earlier. The crowd flowed by in a steady stream from various gates, and Ben scanned each face for Sophia’s soft features and long black hair.

  Five minutes felt like an eternity, and after ten minutes, he grew restless. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Perhaps she had not come; maybe something came up at work and she was still in Paris. Maybe he was in the wrong area in the airport, or maybe he scribbled down the wrong flight number. He checked the sign above the baggage claim.

  Flight 806

  Paris France CDG to Rome Italy FCO

  This must be the right place.

  Bags came sliding down the chute and swiftly got picked up from the metal conveyer belt. Ben looked up from the carousel and immediately recognized the facial features he was searching for. Sophia pushed through the crowd in the baggage claim. She did not spot him right away, her gaze sweeping from person to person as she wound her way toward the conveyor. His breath was momentarily lost in an influx. His blood warmed, and he feared he would stammer and stutter when they spoke. Words seemed impossible, lost and troublesome, and he wasn’t sure what he should say or do—was he supposed to give her a kiss when she walked up, or just a hug? Maybe it was best to follow her lead … or did women not like that? Maybe it was best for him to be aggressive and give her a kiss …

  Damn it Ben, be a man!

  She saw him and smiled, then walked up to him. They hugged.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” She was glowing. “How are you, Benjamin?”

  Ben found his voice, and it was strong. “I’m good. How was your flight?”

  “It was fine. I’ve never done anything like this before, I'm so excited!”

  “Neither have I. This is crazy! I’m so glad you could make it, even if we only have a day. Do you have any luggage?”

  “I’m leaving tonight. Just this carry-on.”

  Words loosened on Ben’s tongue, melting away like ice chips. “You look … you look beautiful. I’m so happy to see you.” He spoke with abandon, not pu
rposefully choosing his words; his heart spoke and formed the words into sentences. “I’m so, so, happy to see you.”

  Her smile was wide, and her cheeks blushed bright crimson, set alight on the pure white canvas of her skin. “Oh Ben, I’m so happy to see you, too. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”

  “Sophia,” he chuckled, “you have no idea.”

  They hugged again and kissed, holding each other longer. The crowd around the carousel grew heavier, and a middle-aged man fighting his way to the conveyor belt nudged Ben with his shoulder, looking back to give him a dirty look.

  He took her hand and led her toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The cab dropped them off in front of Ben’s hotel, where Sophia wanted to freshen up before going out. When she came out of the bathroom she said, “I look better now.”

  “I thought you looked beautiful before.”

  “You’re such a romantic.” It was fun watching her blush and look at her feet like a little girl.

  She took his hand and they left the hotel. He took her to the Vatican, and they walked in the large open area of Saint Peter’s Square, taking in the basilica and obelisk, Bernini’s matching fountains, and the massive colonnade circling the grounds. Over a hundred sculptures of saints, chiseled in dramatic gestures and dressed in flowing robes and shawls, crowned the colonnade. There was so much to see; even the cobbled ground was an extravagance of beauty.

  Sophia smiled. “I feel lightheaded, there’s so much to see. I could never leave Paris, but if I had to, I think I could live here.” She walked in a circle, absorbing the encompassing grandeur. “I was here once, when I was a child. It has been too long.”

  Ben wished he could tell her about the work he had done in the cathedral, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Perhaps one day. Where would he begin? He barely knew what he was doing himself. How could he explain it to someone without sounding like a complete lunatic?

  I, uh, get injected with this Nano-serum stuff that I don’t understand at all, then go stare at paintings all day, and then later, my mind gets read by a machine while I’m sleeping. Oh, and none of this is FDA or government approved.

  Moreover, he could not risk angering Mr. Kalispell by breaking the nondisclosure agreements that he had signed. The risk of losing such a well-paying job—one that brought him to Rome and Paris, where he met Sophia Lorenz—was not worth taking. If it were not for the job, at this very moment he would be back at home rolling on the ground in a drunken stupor, instead of walking hand in hand with the most beautiful woman in all of France—all the while strolling the cobbled streets in one of the most stunning cities in the entire world. Life was good. The feeling of change, of sobriety and hope, was like cool water washing over his head, seeping into his brain, and coursing through his veins. Calm and clean.

  Ben had spent an hour at the Internet bar at the hotel combing the web for the perfect restaurant to take Sophia for a romantic dinner. The numbers and choices were staggering. He read dozens of user reviews and scribbled down a few names before leaving for the airport. But now it didn’t matter, because after a few glasses of wine along their walk, they settled on a rather nondescript place that hadn’t come up at all on the Internet search.

  A few small tables with flimsy wooden chairs lined the front of the fading and cracked stucco building. They sat outside enjoying a bottle of wine as the sun descended in the colorful evening sky. A waiter lit a candle on the table, and the small flame played tricks with the shadows, bouncing light about on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. They both ordered pasta, and the food was presented on thick white plates. The pasta was fresh and doughy, slightly yellow from the semolina flour, tossed with olive oil, roasted garlic, and cracked black pepper. Shavings of salty Parmesan cheese and some rough-chopped parsley finished it off.

  It was the best pasta Ben had ever tasted.

  Sophia slowly twirled the pasta around her fork, using a spoon as a guide. “So,” she said, “you promised to tell me more about yourself if I came to Rome. And here I am.”

  Ben’s cheeks flushed. He had been waiting for this. It was not right stringing her along, but at the same time, he had to be very careful about what he told her.

  “It’s … hard to explain,” he said.

  “I gathered that much.”

  He took a deep breath. “Basically, I get paid to look at art. When it comes down to it, that’s what I do.”

  “What, for like school or something?”

  “Not exactly. I really can’t give any details without getting in trouble. What I can tell you is this: I’m testing something, an invention of sorts. The man who’s funding the project sent me to Paris, and now here, to Rome.”

  “Sounds interesting.” There was hesitancy in her voice. Anxiety? Fear? Ben thought he could read her mind: Sounds illegal, she was probably thinking; or, Sounds dangerous.

  “To tell you the truth …” he did not want to say this, and should not say this, but he did, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

  An emotion escaped. It was unplanned, and three seconds earlier, the feeling was not there at all. It was evident in the wavering tone of his voice; it was not just the topic of his recent work that made the anguish inside him bubble to the surface. Suddenly, the clarity of his recent life flashed before his eyes: the drunken nights, his life alone, his years of taking experimental medications for money, the depression he never allowed himself to admit, and Emily … his Emily.

  Being with Sophia, knowing that there was still hope in his life—someone he looked forward to seeing, and more importantly, having someone who looked forward to seeing him—was causing Ben to understand how melancholy his life had become. How near rock bottom he was.

  He suddenly felt very close to tears.

  “Ben.” Sophia reached across the table and touched his hand. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he choked.

  Come on Ben, this isn’t the time. Get yourself together. Stay in the moment. You’re with a beautiful girl in a beautiful city—don’t fall apart now.

  “I’m fine.” He looked up, smiling. Her face showed concern and her eyes were large. “Seriously, I’m fine. My life has had some … complications, but not anymore. Not since meeting you. I feel a surge of happiness when I’m around you that I haven’t felt in years. Things are getting better.”

  “Oh, Benjamin.” She was close to tears herself.

  End the topic, Ben. For Christ sakes, end the topic.

  “Look, I really can’t tell you much about what I’m working on. We can discuss the specific pieces of artwork that I was sent to study, but that’s about it. I’m under contract and not allowed to disclose anything about it. I promise to tell you more about my life, my past, everything—just not now. Look around; we’re in Rome, eating pasta. Let’s have some more wine, and save the sad stuff for another time. Okay?”

  Sophia nodded, but she looked upset. “Just tell me … you’re okay, right? You’re not in any danger, are you?”

  “No, Sophia I’m not in any danger. And, yes, I am okay. I’ve never been better in all of my life. I promise you that.”

  He squeezed her hand and she smiled.

  “All right,” she said. “No sad stuff during dinner.”

  They finished their plates, along with a bottle of wine, and Ben asked Sophia if she wanted dessert.

  “I do.” She smiled like an excited little girl, with her fingers to her lips, her brown eyes mischievous. “I saw a pâtisserie down the street.”

  Ben paid and they left. He let Sophia pick the desserts from the many trays of decadent little pastries—each bite-sized, and each just as much of a work of art as the city itself. The shop smelled deeply of chocolate, powdered sugar, and warm sweets right out of the oven.

  “Do you want to go to a park to eat them?”

  “No,” Sophia said. “Let’s go back to your room.”

  Along the walk, Ben told Sophia about Emily. He did not
elaborate on his years of sorrow after Emily’s death. He did not have to explain. She got it. She understood. When they got close to the hotel Sophia said, “Thank you for telling me about her.”

  She squeezed Ben’s hand.

  They stopped for a quick glass of wine to change the subject and brighten the mood, and walked into the hotel entrance.

  Ben felt slightly drunk as he shuffled down the hallway, and saw Iain Marcus standing wearily before the door to his room removing the electronic card-key from his wallet. He knew Iain had a long conference call with Mr. Kalispell that day, and his eyes looked deep in their sockets, and red.

  “Hello, Ben,” Iain said.

  “Iain, you remember Sophia, right? We met at the airport.”

  “Um, yes, I think I do. You were talking to someone, I remember.”

  “Hello, Iain,” Sophia said from under Ben’s arm.

  Iain opened his door and stood as if waiting for something in the silence. “Goodnight, Ben.” He closed the door behind him.

  Ben unlocked his door and hurried inside.

  “What a strange man,” Sophia said. “He’s rude.”

  “He’s all business, not the chatty type.”

  They were happy to be in the air-conditioning. The dry-heat outside was pleasant, but being in a cool environment for a change was nice. They had been in the room for only a few minutes, opening a bottle of wine and pouring it into water glasses, when they started kissing on the bed. The lights were low and the mood was calm, but still, the pangs of sorrow and guilt were popping in Ben’s heart like bubbles on water—some bubbles held pleasure, others held despair, and others held guilt. Yet he was overcome with desire, and his body moved despite his trepidation. His hands and legs were shaky, but if Sophia noticed, she didn’t say anything.

  After a few minutes of kissing, Ben’s hands realized they worked—and touching, kissing, smelling, absorbing this girl, Sophia, in every physical sense, was all he desired. His arms gripped her tight and pulled her close as if their bodies would become one, meld together, and he felt her eagerly reciprocate.