goddamned shoes. If anything, I’d rather take the other one off, too.
The moment these words escape his mouth, Mr. Blank is heartened to realize that such an act falls within the realm of possibility, that in this one trifling instance he can take matters into his own hands. Without a moment’s hesitation, he therefore bends down and removes the sneaker from his left foot.
Ah, that’s better, he says, lifting his legs and wiggling his toes in the air. Much better. And I’m still dressed all in white, aren’t I?
Of course you are, Flood says. What’s so important about that?
Never mind, says Mr. Blank, waving off Flood’s question as of no account. Just sit down on the bed and tell me what you want, Mr. Flood.
The former inspector from Scotland Yard lowers himself onto the foot of the mattress, positioning his body in the left-hand quadrant in order to align his face with the face of the old man, who is sitting in the chair with his back to the desk, roughly six feet away. Flood clears his throat, as if searching for the appropriate words to start with, and then, in a low voice trembling with anxiety, he says: It’s about the dream, sir.
The dream? Mr. Blank asks, confounded by Flood’s statement. What dream?
My dream, Mr. Blank. The one you mentioned in your report on Fanshawe.
Who’s Fanshawe?
You don’t remember?
No, Mr. Blank declares in a loud, irritable voice. No, I don’t remember Fanshawe. I can hardly remember anything. They’re pumping me full of pills, and nearly everything is gone now. Most of the time, I don’t even know who I am. And if I can’t remember myself, how do you expect me to remember this … this …
Fanshawe.
Fanshawe … And who, pray tell, is he?
One of your operatives, sir.
You mean someone I sent out on a mission?
An extremely perilous mission.
Did he survive?
No one is sure. But the prevailing opinion is that he’s no longer with us.
Groaning softly to himself, Mr. Blank covers his face with his hands and whispers: Another one of the damned.
Excuse me, Flood interjects, I didn’t catch what you said.
Nothing, Mr. Blank replies in a louder voice. I said nothing.
At that point, the conversation stops for several moments. Silence reigns, and in that silence Mr. Blank imagines that he hears the sound of wind, a powerful wind blowing through a stand of trees somewhere near, quite near, but whether that wind is real or not he cannot say. All the while, Flood’s eyes remain fixed on the old man’s face. When the silence has become unbearable, he at last makes a timid venture to resume the dialogue. Well? he says.
Well what? Mr. Blank replies.
The dream. Can we talk about the dream now?
How can I talk about another man’s dream if I don’t know what it is?
That’s just the problem, Mr. Blank. I have no memory of it myself.
Then I can’t do anything for you, can I? If neither one of us knows what happened in your dream, there’s nothing to talk about.
It’s more complicated than that.
Hardly, Mr. Flood. It’s very simple.
That’s only because you don’t remember writing the report. If you concentrate now, I mean really focus your mind on it, maybe it will come back to you.
I doubt it.
Listen. In the report you wrote on Fanshawe, you mention that he was the author of several unpublished books. One of them was entitled Neverland . Unfortunately, except for concluding that certain events in the book were inspired by similar events in Fanshawe’s life, you say nothing about the subject, nothing about the plot, nothing about the book at all. Only one brief aside – written in parentheses, I might add – which reads as follows. I quote from memory: (Montag’s house in chapter seven; Flood’s dream in chapter thirty) . The point being, Mr. Blank, that you must have read Neverland yourself, and in that you’re one of the only people in the world to have done so, I would deeply appreciate it, appreciate it from the very bottom of my miserable heart,
The moment these words escape his mouth, Mr. Blank is heartened to realize that such an act falls within the realm of possibility, that in this one trifling instance he can take matters into his own hands. Without a moment’s hesitation, he therefore bends down and removes the sneaker from his left foot.
Ah, that’s better, he says, lifting his legs and wiggling his toes in the air. Much better. And I’m still dressed all in white, aren’t I?
Of course you are, Flood says. What’s so important about that?
Never mind, says Mr. Blank, waving off Flood’s question as of no account. Just sit down on the bed and tell me what you want, Mr. Flood.
The former inspector from Scotland Yard lowers himself onto the foot of the mattress, positioning his body in the left-hand quadrant in order to align his face with the face of the old man, who is sitting in the chair with his back to the desk, roughly six feet away. Flood clears his throat, as if searching for the appropriate words to start with, and then, in a low voice trembling with anxiety, he says: It’s about the dream, sir.
The dream? Mr. Blank asks, confounded by Flood’s statement. What dream?
My dream, Mr. Blank. The one you mentioned in your report on Fanshawe.
Who’s Fanshawe?
You don’t remember?
No, Mr. Blank declares in a loud, irritable voice. No, I don’t remember Fanshawe. I can hardly remember anything. They’re pumping me full of pills, and nearly everything is gone now. Most of the time, I don’t even know who I am. And if I can’t remember myself, how do you expect me to remember this … this …
Fanshawe.
Fanshawe … And who, pray tell, is he?
One of your operatives, sir.
You mean someone I sent out on a mission?
An extremely perilous mission.
Did he survive?
No one is sure. But the prevailing opinion is that he’s no longer with us.
Groaning softly to himself, Mr. Blank covers his face with his hands and whispers: Another one of the damned.
Excuse me, Flood interjects, I didn’t catch what you said.
Nothing, Mr. Blank replies in a louder voice. I said nothing.
At that point, the conversation stops for several moments. Silence reigns, and in that silence Mr. Blank imagines that he hears the sound of wind, a powerful wind blowing through a stand of trees somewhere near, quite near, but whether that wind is real or not he cannot say. All the while, Flood’s eyes remain fixed on the old man’s face. When the silence has become unbearable, he at last makes a timid venture to resume the dialogue. Well? he says.
Well what? Mr. Blank replies.
The dream. Can we talk about the dream now?
How can I talk about another man’s dream if I don’t know what it is?
That’s just the problem, Mr. Blank. I have no memory of it myself.
Then I can’t do anything for you, can I? If neither one of us knows what happened in your dream, there’s nothing to talk about.
It’s more complicated than that.
Hardly, Mr. Flood. It’s very simple.
That’s only because you don’t remember writing the report. If you concentrate now, I mean really focus your mind on it, maybe it will come back to you.
I doubt it.
Listen. In the report you wrote on Fanshawe, you mention that he was the author of several unpublished books. One of them was entitled Neverland . Unfortunately, except for concluding that certain events in the book were inspired by similar events in Fanshawe’s life, you say nothing about the subject, nothing about the plot, nothing about the book at all. Only one brief aside – written in parentheses, I might add – which reads as follows. I quote from memory: (Montag’s house in chapter seven; Flood’s dream in chapter thirty) . The point being, Mr. Blank, that you must have read Neverland yourself, and in that you’re one of the only people in the world to have done so, I would deeply appreciate it, appreciate it from the very bottom of my miserable heart,
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