The collector
It was ten o’ clock in the morning and I was sitting in my local, at the bar, a bottle of beer in front of me. Next to me sat a man who was drinking coffee and cognac. I had just finished another night’s work and was not in the mood for conversation. So, when my neighbour offered me a beer I was half-tempted to say no, to avoid any kind of small talk.
My bottle was almost empty though, so against my better judgement I said I could indeed do with another beer. To my surprise the man didn’t use the arrival of our new drinks as an excuse to start a conversation. Instead, we drank in a suddenly companionable silence.
When my neighbour’s glass of cognac was finished I offered him another one. The bottle of Hennessey was empty though and the barman had to go to the cellar, to try and find a new one. In the meantime, in a slightly more sociable mood, I asked the man what kind of work he did that made it possible for him to be here in the pub at this early hour.
I had him down as some kind of salesman. He had the suit, the vaguely optimistic mien and the obvious chink in the armour: cognac at ten in the morning.
“I collect dreams.” the man said.
“Ah.”
The barman had finally located and brought up a new bottle of Hennessey and now poured my neighbour a new drink. I waited till the man had taken a few, obviously most welcome sips and then asked:
“So, you collect dreams?”
“Another beer?” my neighbour asked in turn.
I held my bottle to the light: about two or three sips left.
“Yes, please.”
The man also ordered one of those pathetic, small cigars. I nodded. Definitely a salesman. When my neighbour had lit his dubious cigar, he said:
“Yes, I collect dreams.”
“You’re some kind of therapist?”
The man shook his head and smiled.
“It’s more of a life’s work.” he said; “A calling, if you like.”
A salesman with a Freud fixation?
“So, you write them down and then try to explain them?”
The man laughed.
“Me, explain dreams? No. Dreams don’t explain much anyway, don’t you think?”
My neighbour put his cigar in the ash-tray, took another sip of his cognac, closed his eyes appreciatively and then said:
“People tell me their dreams and I listen. I don’t write them down; I take them in.”
That reminded me of an old Irish legend.
“Like a sin-eater.” I said and took another sip of my beer.
The man smiled and picked up his cigar again.
“A cousin of mine.” he said.
I grinned back at him. For all I knew the guy sold cheap plastic key rings for a living but he was quite pleasantly weird. I raised my bottle to him and drank the last of my beer.
“Another one?” the man asked.
“My shout.”
He ignored me and ordered another round of drinks. When those were placed before us I said:
“That’s the deal? You buy me beer and I tell you my dreams?”
My neighbour gave a polite, little chuckle.
“Most people volunteer,” he said. “but if you want to be paid in beer: why not?”
I shrugged and took another sip.
“I don’t dream all that often.”
The man smiled.
“Okay,” I continued, a bit defensively, “I know everyone’s supposed to dream, every night. It’s just that I don’t remember much of it.”
“I want that one special dream. ” the man said, ignoring my protests. “Everybody has one – one that is uniquely theirs.”
A special dream, me…? I shook my head and then took another sip of my beer. I was about to tell my neighbour that I couldn’t help him, that I really had no dream to share, special or mundane, when out of nowhere something, some memory rose to the surface: a dream I’d had when I was a child.
That whole dream came back to me, just like that, complete and in full colours, like a video-clip with the sound almost turned down completely
.
“So you do remember.” my neighbour said.
“Yes, that is – I remember this one dream…”
“Tell me.”
I took a deep breath and heard the sound of a cheap, plastic football, hitting the fence behind the house, under my bedroom window. I was eight years’ old and I was lying in bed. The boy next door was still up and about and he kept kicking the ball at the fence, again and again and again. I was almost asleep though and the whole world now slowly disappeared on me.
Light from a lamp post fell through a gap in the curtains. I tried to think (Not closed, not closed!) but the words moved too slowly for the panic I felt.
I knew the witch was outside, waiting for her chance. I wanted to get up and close the curtains properly (one gap is enough, one gap, one gap is enough) but I couldn’t move. There was no hand but I saw the hand: a claw with sharp, long nails. The gap became a door. The curtains wrinkled like water and opened wide enough to show the hungry face of the witch.
I finished my beer.
“It was the face of my mother.” I said.
“Thank you.” my neighbour said.
I stood up, reeled, walked to the toilet. I stared into the mirror. I looked like shit. Time to go home. I splashed my face with water from the tiny basin, dried myself with a paper towel and walked back to the bar.
“Where’s your friend?” the barman asked.
“Sorry?”
“The coffee and cognac guy. He left without paying. I had to go to the cellar for a moment…”
I shrugged, too tired to think straight.
“Sorry.” I said, “I was in the toilet.”
The barman muttered something very unfriendly about salesmen. I tried to follow what he was saying but the day had suddenly turned to shreds. I felt wrung out. I was also more than a bit drunk. Time to go home. Time to sleep.
My friend? Coffee and cognac? For the life of me, I had no idea what the barman was going on about. So, I asked for the bill and paid up.
Outside, the sun was shining. I felt like a shadow, robbed of substance. I closed my eyes for a moment, not able to cope with the light. Then I shook my head slowly, unlocked my bike and rode home.