Mira Corpora (11 page)

Too late. Something catches my eye: It's my dream, reflected back to me in the mirror. I mean, it's a reproduction of the painting I ripped from one of Gert-Jan's magazines. The image of the lone orange tree is stuck to the wall above the bed with thumbtacks. A picture of terrible totemic power. You can get seriously lost in it. Reptile-brain tells me to leave it and not
chance waking up the body. That is, if the body can even be awakened. Reptile-brain assures me it isn't worth the risk. But I rip the image off the wall anyway and stuff it in my back pocket.

I tiptoe down the narrow hallway. Reptile-brain instructs me to be especially quiet. Soft snores issue from the darkened living room. A handful of revelers lie slumped across the ravaged couches. As I thread my way through the room, a man with a massive bushy beard stirs and squints at me. He begins to beckon with an outstretched hand but drifts back into unconsciousness before he can complete the gesture.

Gert-Jan is positioned by the front door, curled in a shapeless armchair. An occasional smile creeps across his sleeping lips. He's forbidden me to leave the apartment complex, but Reptile-brain insists on getting more distance from this place. I push open the door and stumble outside. A thick night fog shrouds the building's concrete breezeway. Reptile-brain tells me to make for the stairs. I take the steps two at a time, but it almost feels like I haven't left. It's as if the gloomy weather is just an extension of the apartment.

I reach the sidewalk but have no idea which way to turn. Reptile-brain says any direction is the right direction. I start walking alongside a desolate strip of freeway, listening for the rumble of distant traffic. I can't remember the last time I was outside. The mist shrouds the rows of rusting factories and rotting warehouses that hang back from the highway. The overhead constellations are little more than rumors. Further down the road, I make out the smeared neon lights of a bodega. Reptile-brain suggests some food.

The store inhabits the shell of an abandoned garage. Smudges of motor oil fresco the far corners of the walls. There are no other customers in the place. Under buzzing fluorescent lights, I roam the two skinny aisles. I pass packets of laundry soap, party balloons, multi-colored shoelaces. I finger bags of chocolate
marshmallows, dried noodles, jellied fruit. Suddenly I know what I need in the way of nourishment: smokes.

The cigarettes will be at the cash register. Wherever that is. I scan the aisles and spot the checkout tucked away at the rear of the store. A brown-skinned man behind the counter glares at me. I realize I probably don't have any cash and plunge an exploratory hand into the front pocket of my jeans. I come up with a massive wad of bills. Far more money than I expected. My heart leaps into my lungs, making it hard to breathe. Reptile-brain instructs me to peel off one bill and shove the rest back in my pocket. Fair enough.

I slap the bill on the counter and gesture at a pack of cigarettes emblazoned with a snarling pit bull. The clerk taps the hand-lettered sign affixed to the side of the cash register. It says the store doesn't accept large bills. For the first time, I notice the stratospheric denomination of my currency. I've never even seen the figurehead engraved on the front. The clerk shakes his head and shoves the bill back at me.

Reptile-brain tells me to leave, but I want those cigarettes. I lean across the counter and grab one of the packs. The clerk becomes apoplectic, punching the counter and pointing to the door. He shouts a stream of angry syllables. It's probably just as well the dialogue comes across as pure sound. I mean, words would be too heavy for me at this point.

I pocket the smokes and dash out of the store. Reptile-brain tells me not to look back. I run recklessly through the fog. The only thing I can make out are the fresh squares of concrete that keep appearing in front of my feet. The sidewalk seems to be moving like a conveyor belt. Every so often, the milk-blue glow of a streetlamp passes overhead. I try to tally them to determine how far I've traveled, but I soon lose track. Reptile-brain suggests a place up ahead to cross the freeway.

I sprint headlong across the four lanes. Once I reach the other side, I turn in the opposite direction, determined to leave a cold
trail for any pursuers. My head feels pumped full of helium. It's as if I'm high or maybe hung-over or maybe even experiencing some variation on normal. I walk deeper into the whiteness. The high-beams of passing trucks occasionally tunnel through the fog. In the distance, a five-story building slowly takes shape.

I find myself crossing two lanes of traffic and heading toward this structure. It's a beacon in the bleached terrain. As the night drains away, I stand on a grassy strip of median and inspect its brick architecture and darkened façade. A solitary window on the third floor is lit up. A silhouette flits in and out of the frame. It takes a moment to realize I'm back where I started. The fitfully pacing figure is Gert-Jan.

Reptile-brain insists that I flee the scene, but my feet remain moored on the median. I'm hypnotized by the painted lines of the highway. The pattern of dotted and unbroken lines, the yellow and white stripes, form a sort of code. The message is easily cracked: All pathways lead to the same point.

I sit down on the traffic island. This overgrown patch of grass seems as good a place as any to figure things out. The occasional delivery truck rattles past and I imbibe the rippling plumes of diesel exhaust. A glass bottle lies tangled in the weeds. Several yellowish swallows of dirty vodka remain in the bottom. They leave a sweet and burning aftertaste.

I try to form some thoughts about the money. Reptile-brain doesn't know where it came from, so I'm on my own. I stretch one of the bills between my fingers and examine the portrait of an unfamiliar man in a powdered wig. A microscopic amount of crosshatches form the details of the arched eyebrows, the haughty cast of the eyes, the fractionally upturned mouth that seems to prophesy a smirk. I'm pretty certain the money isn't the answer either. It's probably a trap set by Gert-Jan. Something planted in my pockets as a test.

An idea: I take my lighter and place the flame against the edge of the bill. Several moments pass, then the cash ignites
and crumples into a tail of ash. The black smoke gives off a faintly sweet whiff, a mixture of wet hay and something sugary. Cinnamon, maybe. The tiny bonfire is a gorgeous conflagration of blue flames that vanishes as quickly as a mirage. I can't say why, but I know this is the right thing to do.

I light another bill. More smoke, et cetera. Maybe it's just the combination of the vodka, the ambient hum of the roadway, and the smell of burning money, but things are starting to make sense in a way they haven't before. I light the rest of the bills. The figure in the building across the street leans out of the third-story window. He shouts something. The sense is lost in the squall of a speeding taxi.

Another idea: I carefully unfold the image of the painting from my back pocket. It fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. Looking at this picture is like being back in my dream. I sit there and watch myself watching the orange tree. This is somehow important. It's my dream but it isn't. It's like I'm dreaming the image. Or maybe it's dreaming me. There is a momentary distraction as an 18-wheel truck honks its horn. I spot Gert-Jan standing on the sidewalk across the highway. He calls out my name.

Reptile-brain pleads with me to run. To simply stand up and start moving my legs. I tune it out. This is more important. The painting of the orange tree holds an answer and it isn't going to elude me. As I stare deeper into the image, there is an odd sensation that I'm already in another dream. A real-life dream, say. It signifies something important, though I'm not sure what.

Soon I'm not alone on the traffic island. Gert-Jan's shadow drapes itself over my scrawny frame. He curses under his breath and removes his belt. But I'm not worried. For the first time in months, I can almost start to imagine what it might feel like to be awake.

I must be hatching plans behind my back. It's the only explanation for why I'm so calm. I lounge on the sofa in the new apartment and watch indifferently as Gert-Jan signs for another round of deliveries. We moved here after he decided we needed “a change of the scene.” Gert-Jan rented this sprawling loft and set about masterminding some renovations. The floor is littered with a mystifying mishmash of materials. Stacks of lumber, metal pipes, acetylene torches. Rolls of black velvet, pulleys, ropes. Gert-Jan provides emphatic instructions to the workmen about how some soundproofing material should be installed. “My hearing is so sensitive,” he tells one of them. I listen to this lie with unusual poise. Not even my pinky trembles.

My eyes scan the swarm of activity, but my expression remains neutral. It's difficult to say what I might be up to. These days I'm on a need-to-know basis with myself. My gaze circles back to the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. Most of the materials are being loaded down its corkscrew steps. I have no idea what's in the basement. I listen for clues but even the clanging footsteps of the workers are swallowed by the darkness.

When the last workman has vanished downstairs, Gert-Jan approaches wearing a philosophical smile. “This is a time of changes,” he says. “That body you left in the last place created a hassle, but it gave me exciting ideas.” He tousles my shaggy black locks. “You cause the problems and I make the even better solutions. We are not a bad team.”

He hands me a bright yellow pill. I palm it through an elegant slight of hand and pantomime a swallow. No idea where that move came from. I surreptitiously slip the capsule inside the front pocket of my jeans. It's the first time I haven't taken my daily dosage. This must have something to do with my plan.

The rest of the afternoon I pretend to be strung out, but clearly I'm searching for something. There's an unmistakable
intensity to my examination of the white plaster walls, the curved arc of the ceiling, the chandelier with its dangling rows of glass baubles. I also notice myself keeping close track of Gert-Jan's movements. He spends hours on the phone, talking in clipped and coded phrases, arranging more deliveries for the next morning. He fills his day planner with pager digits, account numbers, and a rough sketch of an unknown contraption. It's hard to tell if this bothers me. I watch myself for clues, but I'm not giving anything away.

At night I can't sleep. My body feels peculiar without chemicals circulating through its system. I'm still wide awake when Gert-Jan begins to thrash around in the covers. His chest is wracked with panting heaves, as if he's struggling against a current. His face is slick with sweat. He urgently mumbles a few words in German. Then he sits upright in bed and screams.

I remain perfectly motionless, not daring to reveal that I've witnessed this. Soon he lies down and falls fast asleep. I'm afraid to speculate about what could give him nightmares. I tell myself that it's not a sinister omen or haunting pang of bad conscience. It's merely a random circuit tripped and reset. But these thoughts fail to slow the escalating thrum of my heartbeat.

In the morning, I find myself reluctant to pry open my eyes. I try to ignore the droning chime of the doorbell, the muffled deliberations of delivery men, the ripping open of sealed cardboard boxes. Gert-Jan balances on the bed frame and hands me a yellow pill. Once again, I palm it and fake the swallow. Another deposit for my collection. “Welcome to a big day,” Gert-Jan tells me.

The living area is a hive of workmen. There's an array of rarified materials, including a round mirror in an ornate wooden frame. Plus plenty of shiny metal tools that I can't name. One of the contractors approaches me with a tape measure and tells me to spread out my arms. He avoids looking at me while collecting
my measurements. Later, I overhear him discussing me with a coworker. He uses the word “prototype.”

One by one, the boxes disappear into the basement. Gert-Jan inscribes a firm mark in his notebook to indicate the descent of each item. He's completely absorbed by this slow procession. The lines of his brow are bunched in a peculiar way, as if the tense geometry of his face is mimicking the plans that he's busy drafting. I don't look too closely. “You will stay up here,” he tells me.

I sit myself in the window alcove. It overlooks the street a few stories below. A bland view of an empty cul-de-sac. Concrete apartment buildings with oily curtains drawn. Overflowing metal trash cans bunched on the curb. I act oblivious to the reverberations of the workmen marching up and down the circular stairs, their shoes clanking against the metal steps in a relentless springy rhythm. I take a pack of gum from my jeans and unwrap a single foil stick. I chew without registering the flavor.

Eventually the noises of the workmen subside. From the back pocket of my jeans, I remove the image of the orange tree in the empty field. It's so worn that the colors are starting to rub away. I stare into this talisman for several moments. There I am, lost somewhere in its fathomless depths. Then I carefully refold the picture and hop down from the alcove. I don't betray the slightest hint of emotion, even to myself.