A Sense of Duty

 

 

In my dreams, I work hard. As soon as I finish one task, something else urgently demands my attention. I do a lot for humanity, in my dreams. People have the frivolous habit of ignoring danger, of exposing themselves to all sorts of hazards, so as each night goes by I have even more to do. I’m not just referring to my mother, who lives in a house with no doors that’s buffeted by the wind and that I continually have to shore up with beams and posts, or to my little sister, who has the habit of walking perilously close to the brink of cliffs while wearing nothing but a transparent silk dress (it’s really strange, but at the age of five she stopped growing; time passes but has no effect on her - her appearance doesn’t change and we all think it’s perfectly normal that she still looks the same); in my dreams I also have to protect a lot of people I don’t even know but whose lives are in danger. Especially people at the beach. Confused by the sun, excited by being so close to the sea, distracted by innocent activities like playing with a ball, swimming, or running along the shore, they take no precautions whatsoever; in their mad relish they disregard the dangers all around them. Careless fathers sometimes set their children loose at the shore, women naively venture into the water, children search beneath the waves for stones. The sea is no mystery to me: behind its inoffensive facade, its gentle lapping against the rocks, lurks a despot. When I arrive at the beach, I immediately recognize signs of danger. I sense a huge wave - a lonely, unrestrainable killer - welling up out on the horizon, on that narrow grayish-violet line just below the sky.

It’s important to point out that what is overwhelming about my dreams is not the seriousness of my responsibilities but consciousness. I could do the same things - clear obstacles from the roads, shore up walls, mislead pursuers, evacuate burning homes - and do them with the same determination and sense of urgency; what is overwhelming is knowing that I am the only one who perceives these dangers, who is conscious of them and who sees them approaching, implacably. Like Cassandra who was cursed by a vengeful god and turned into a prophet heard by no one, in my dreams my mission is a solitary one. No one else has the same premonitions.

The unsuspecting bathers cheerfully venture down to the water’s edge. Meanwhile, out at sea, an enormous wave is building up. It gathers silently at the bottom of a place we’ve never been. How I feel it slowly welling up. Born of other people’s unawareness, it is in no hurry and takes its time. A tall column of water, a liquid mountain, it rises in solitude without spilling its contents and advances mercilessly. That’s when I try to draw the sea curtain. At the shore (which, now that everyone is in the water, is empty and resplendently white), the thick, coarse fabric that is the surface of the sea ripples, like the skin of a giant pachyderm. The ocean is a huge tarp, a tent over an unseen circus. You can tug at its ends, from a thick twisted rope. When you pull, the sea becomes calm, taut like a flat, pleatless stage curtain. But the rope is heavy and burns. Leaning back with the weight of my body, I first tug in toward the shore. From somewhere, my father encourages me, tries to cheer me on. It’s so exhausting (what with the bottom of the sea pulling with all its might) that I sometimes lose a little ground. Then the wave, as big as a monster, rises and opens its frothy mouth. But despite the burns on my hands and arms, I quickly try to recover the ground I’ve lost; I continue to concentrate on pulling. I have to pull the curtain until it reaches the pier and tie it to a bollard. When it’s too much for me, I turn my back to the sea and run the thick rope over my shoulders so I can pull even harder. But turning away from the sea makes me nervous because it keeps me from seeing the wave I’m supposed to be watching over.

I pull with all my might, which is insignificant compared with the weight of the gray fabric of the sea, and I’m afraid my strength will give out at any moment. Then the catastrophe would strike. A moment comes when I can’t go on pulling. I grow weak and tired and look on desperately as the rope I had held so tightly slips through my hands and the curtain gathers and rises, revealing an immense, hostile, vengeful sea.

It all happens with the speed of the worst catastrophes: with nothing to restrain the gigantic wave (it’s horrifying to remember that I didn’t have the strength to hold on to the rope), the liquid mountain advances, rushes toward the incautious swimmers who, surprised and frightened, sink to the infinite depths.