There are two bedrooms in this dusty apartment, and a long windowed hallway that stretches out to provide an extended view of the beach. Three walls of the main living area are mostly comprised of windows.
An elongated balcony overlooks the inlet with a view of several fishing boats lying on their sides at low tide, one boat standing upright on stilts in the dehydrated bay. At the end of the hallway there is a sizeable washroom with a standing shower, which I soon discover produces more of a trickle than a shower.
My first dream in this new apartment is lucid and confused. I have been transformed into another person. I realize who I am, and I understand that I am dreaming, as happens in a lucid dream. There is the feeling, however, at least in my own mind, that I am someone else to those observing me. I have not been transformed into Kafka’s monstrous vermin—nothing like that—but instead, I am a man who is prideful in believing himself to have transcended his former life, and to be somehow more adept at dealing with pain than those around him. A man, whose shadowy figure does not allow me to discern his identity, asks if I believe that as a result of my travels, I have somehow moved past the anger and guilt I have over my daughter—as though she has died.
“Yes,” I reply definitively and too quickly, “I have.”
“Gauguin,” I continue a moment later, as though to further convince this stranger, who seems to doubt my words, “has done this, too. His pain was civilized society. Tahiti was his destination though, Paris his origin. Gauguin wanted a simpler life.”
“Is that what you want, the abstraction of ostensible simplicity?” the stranger asks.
When I do not reply, he continues. “Gauguin wanted to further his ambitions as a painter, but you are no painter.”
“Perhaps I could be.”
“No. You have forsaken your wife and daughter and your chosen profession. How dare you compare your artwork to Gauguin’s.”
“I wasn’t. You’re misunderstanding. I could never—”
“Why are you here?”
“To see my father one last time.”
“We both know that’s not true. How could you possibly care about a man you only saw a few times, decades ago and knew only perfunctorily? And why are you staying?”
“I wanted to escape an existence where all that was pleasurable for me was found in the world of dreams, where waking thoughts were abhorrent and fear and panic would have consumed me. I wanted to embrace waking life instead of despising it—”
“You are disgraceful, shameful, and egotistical; your phrases are vapid and recited far too often in your thoughts. Panic and guilt still consume you. You of all people should recognize this. You still focus too much on dreams, just as you do on booze, even though you profess a desire to escape from a need for them. You are a dreamer and a drinker. You lack morals. You have abandoned everything and everyone, not only your wife and daughter but everyone you have ever known and cared for. You have left them behind, and for what? All for this dusty old apartment and such taunting dreams as this? You must see yourself as you truly are by attempting to comprehend yourself as any other incompetent clinical psychologist might ... Indeed, you have disgraced art by your comparison, you have disgraced your profession by deeming yourself competent, and you have left your country, your family and friends, along with your former life that you claim to have transcended. You made the decision that killed your daughter....”
“She’s not dead.”
“Not yet.”
There is silence. The face behind the voice produces itself with the sudden appearance of daylight, but when I awaken to a knock on the door, its identity is immediately forgotten.
I am sweating beneath the thin sheet covering me. My eyes focus first on the fine mosquito netting around the bed. I jot down a few points, which I can later elucidate, in my dream journal. As my eyes adjust to the morning light, I look beyond the netting, out through the window and into the sea.
There is another knock on the door. Startled, I stumble through the flaps of the netting and find myself standing abruptly upright.
I walk to the door. The metal scrapes along the floor as I open it to reveal a young woman, slender and striking and wearing a worn flowered skirt and a faded brown top, her golden hair tied back to fully expose the chiseled features of her face. Her face, her fingers and her frame are gaunt, and she has a slight belly which protrudes from beneath her shirt. She has an attractive elegance about her, in spite of her somewhat tattered appearance. She is holding a large collection of paints and several brushes, along with my privacy sign.
“Hola,” she says in a melodic tone, adding in English: “I came to invite you to a party.”
She extends her hands toward me, offering me the paints and brushes, which I accept. “I found them on your doorstep.” Handing me the sign, she adds: “And I found this on your doorknob. Really, you needn’t bother with that. It’s often difficult to sleep around here, no matter what you do.”
“These painting supplies must be from the Señora,” I say, aware that I am smiling now.
“She does love to paint,” the woman says, also smiling. “So I’ve heard you’re Canadian. I’m from Winnipeg myself. And you’re from—”
“Toronto.”
“Oh. Are you a painter?” She looks behind me inquisitively, as if expecting to find a room full of sketches and paintings.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
She looks disappointed. “So, you’ve come here for your father’s funeral,” she says. “I was sorry to hear that he died. He was sick for a long time.…” She sighs, pauses for a breath, and then adds: “And you’re staying here for a while, from what I understand, and under quite mysterious circumstances. No one seems to know why. You have no job, no ...” She stops. “But that’s okay. We’ll get to the bottom of that at my party. I’m Karen, incidentally. I live directly above you. The party is at my apartment this Friday, if you’re interested.”
“I guess I won’t be able to sleep then,” I say, attempting to smile again, “so I’ll have no choice in the matter.”