The Stranger's Woes (73 page)

After I downed the Elixir, the good spirits that I hadn’t even dared hope would return came back in almost no time. I lit up a cigarette and sent a call to Sir Kofa.

I can’t sleep
.
Very unlike me
.
What’s up in the cemetery?

I guess you might say it’s fine
.
Our petrified friends try to budge from time to time, but to no avail
.
So you should try going back to sleep
.

I wish I could
.
I think I’m going to go back to the House by the Bridge
.
Beats staying at home
.

And I began to dress.

Everything was quiet at work. Melifaro was sitting on top of Juffin’s desk swinging his legs. Even that idyllic sight couldn’t put me at ease. I was on pins and needles.

“Remove the stick from your backside and let it air,” Melifaro taunted.

“Right, right,” I said absentmindedly. “I’m going to the cemetery to see how things are going over there.”

I didn’t even hear Melifaro’s answer. What had gotten into me? All my thoughts had evaporated except for a single idea that went around and around in my empty head. This was the idea of the holy water, which I could only obtain in my homeland, “the land of my ancestors.” Why am I suddenly so preoccupied with my homeland? I wondered. I usually can’t even stand thinking about it. But look at me now!

The Green Petta Cemetery was very quiet. The stone statues, their arms and legs bound, lay exactly where we had left them. Horrified, I wondered how those poor creatures must feel. Blessed are the poor in imagination! Now I simply
had
to conduct the experiment with the holy water, the sooner the better—if only to put them out of their misery. Slowly but surely, I was becoming obsessed.

I left the cemetery determined to go back home to my half-forgotten and none-too-cozy World. I could get a few gallons of holy water in the nearest church—that wouldn’t be a problem. Cliched plots should develop according their own strict laws, I thought. And I am the only person in the Unified Kingdom who knows these laws inside and out. That’s why I have to be the one to draw this protracted horror story to a close. While I’m at it, I’ll give the guys a treat. I’ve been meaning to show them a few good movies. The only thing that this otherwise perfect World is missing is great movies.

This time I was operating completely on autopilot. I didn’t send a call to the wise Lady Sotofa or to Maba Kalox. I don’t even think I would have asked Juffin’s advice if he had been around. I didn’t need advice. I was afraid someone would try to talk me out of this insane trip. Back then I was sure that the idea of this short visit home was all my own. It never occurred to me that this might not be the case.

“What’s wrong, Nightmare? Are things that bad at the cemetery?” Melifaro said in a worried tone.

I looked around and realized that I had somehow managed to return to the House by the Bridge without noticing it.

“Uh, no. No worse than they were in the morning,” I said. “But while I was there I had another idea. I think I know how to get rid of those poor dead fellows once and for all.”

“Sweet,” said Melifaro. “How?”

“It’s not too difficult, but we’ll need a special magic potion that you can’t buy in your average magic potion store. So I’m going to go get it. The sooner I leave the better.”

“And how far do you have to go to get it, may I ask?” Melifaro was getting suspicious.

“Pretty far. But I’ll be back soon. I should be back by morning. Maybe even sooner, though you never know beforehand with these things.”

“Are you sure it’s absolutely necessary? It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

“It is,” I said stubbornly. “We just got used to it, but in fact it is the end of the world. So, good day to you, pal.”

“Max, are you really coming back soon?” Melifaro was visibly worried.

“Come on, do you think you can get rid of me that easily? Dream on. You won’t even begin to miss me.”

And I hurried out of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order. I left my amobiler parked at the entrance. My little house on the Street of Old Coins was a stone’s throw away—no more than ten minutes, if you walked fast. And today I was rushing like a bunch of Mutinous Magicians was hot on my heels.

My first apartment didn’t look like it had been abandoned, even though I had only been there once, and only for half an hour, in the past year and a half. No stale air, no oppressive atmosphere, not even a layer of dust. That was a miracle in itself.

I ran upstairs to the small bedroom. If I had understood Juffin’s laconic explanation correctly, this bedroom was my personal entrance to that unfathomable place the boss referred to as the Corridor between Worlds. Through the Corridor I could get to any place I wished. For example, I could get to the World I had happened to be born in, the World from which I had fled not so very long ago, obediently following Juffin’s instructions. Back then, though, I had used a regular streetcar.

I had reason to hope that a year of wandering through the labyrinth of unknown Worlds, of which I could hardly remember anything, had not been in vain. I was certain I’d be able to find my way home—and, even more important, my way back to Echo again. That was why I walked into the trap voluntarily. I lay down in bed, closed my eyes, and finally relaxed. Sinning Magicians, what was I thinking?

And then, what happened, happened. I yawned and fell asleep, certain I was going to dream of the mysterious Corridor between Worlds, the place where there was nothing, not even me—although I would have to be there, of course, for where else could I be? And among the infinite Doors to endless Worlds, I thought I would find the Door to the World I was looking for, and then open it, and . . .

I woke up on my couch under a thin checkered blanket. I was cold, because it was the end of fall, and the heating wasn’t working. I pulled the blanket up over my head to keep warm and tried to remember my dream. I had been dreaming about something wonderful, something completely improbable and mind-boggling, something . . . I couldn’t quite remember what.

Now, looking back, I realize that my sudden awakening under my old checkered blanket might have been a worthy finale to my suicidal plan. Somehow I managed to forget absolutely everything that had happened to me. I thought I had just fallen asleep on that couch a few hours before, in the morning, as usual, and so hadn’t gotten enough sleep. My dream, though, had been extraordinary, absolutely incomparable.

Fortunately, I never allow myself to forget my dreams. That part of my life has always been more important to me than the waking part. Since childhood I’ve had a clever method of retrieving my dreams before they slip away. I relax all the muscles in my body, close my eyes, and allow myself to doze off—not to fall completely asleep but just to doze off so that I find myself on the fragile, intangible threshold between dreaming and waking. A tried-and-true method.

It worked like a charm. Boy, did it work! All the memories of my life in Echo poured down on me. All of them at once. It was like swimming in a waterfall: it wasn’t a question of whether you’d get wet but of making sure you didn’t drown. There were too many details for my feeble mind to cope with, and the details were so real, so sweet . . .

Being the nitwit that I am, when I remembered the details of my life in Echo I thought it was just a dream. A long, fantastic dream that had, nevertheless, ended. I had never walked the mosaic sidewalks of Echo, never sat in the
Glutton Bunba
with Juffin Hully. Because Juffin Hully didn’t exist. The others had never existed, either. All that existed was my endless loneliness and the boundless tenderness I felt toward my madeup characters. That’s right,
characters.
That’s why Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli, the Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Lives, the Mad Fishmonger, my imperturbable comrade in the most incredible and dangerous adventures, so resembled the famous Charlie Watts. And that’s why Sir Kofa Yox looked like Commissioner Maigret. In what old Hollywood movie about a boxer had I seen Melifaro’s handsome face? Even Lady Melamori—my unfulfilled, breathless romance—looked a little like a young Diana Rigg. It all made sense now. I had no idea I was such a cinephile. And Tekki . . . Well, if you think about it, she resembled me. I don’t know from what associative cellar I had salvaged her black eyes and silver curls, but her manner of speaking was exactly like my own. There were no two ways about it. And the others? Where the hell did they come from? Who cares? The imagination of a delirious mind works in mysterious ways. However crazy our dreams may be, we wake up sooner or later.