if you would make an effort to recall the content of that dream.
From the way you talk about it, Neverland must be a novel.
Yes, sir. A work of fiction.
And Fanshawe used you as a character?
Apparently so. There’s nothing strange about that. From what I understand, writers do it all the time.
Maybe they do, but I don’t see why you should get so worked up about it. The dream never really happened. It’s nothing but words on a page – pure invention. Forget about it, Mr. Flood. It’s not important.
It’s important to me, Mr. Blank. My whole life depends on it. Without that dream, I’m nothing, literally nothing.
The passion with which the normally reserved ex-policeman delivers this last remark – a passion provoked by the sting of a genuine, soul-rending despair – strikes Mr. Blank as nothing short of hilarious, and for the first time since the opening words of this account, he bursts out laughing. As one might expect, Flood takes offense, for no one enjoys having his feelings trampled upon in such a heartless manner, least of all someone as fragile as Flood is at this moment.
I resent that, Mr. Blank, he says. You have no right to laugh at me.
Maybe not, Mr. Blank says, once the spasm in his chest has subsided, but I couldn’t help it. You take yourself so damned seriously, Flood. It makes you look ridiculous.
I might be ridiculous, Flood says, with anger rising in his voice, but you, Mr. Blank … you’re cruel … cruel and indifferent to the pain of others. You play with people’s lives and take no responsibility for what you’ve done. I’m not going to sit here and bore you with my troubles, but I blame you for what’s happened to me. I most sincerely blame you, and I despise you for it.
Troubles? Mr. Blank says, suddenly softening his tone, doing his best to show some sympathy. What kind of troubles?
The headaches for one thing. Being forced into early retirement for another. Bankruptcy for yet another. And then there’s the business with my wife, or rather my ex-wife, not to speak of my children, who no longer want anything to do with me. My life is in ruins, Mr. Blank. I walk around the world like a ghost, and sometimes I question whether I even exist. Whether I’ve ever existed at all.
And you think learning about that dream is going to solve all this? It’s highly doubtful, you know.
The dream is my only chance. It’s like a missing part of me, and until I find it, I’ll never really be myself again.
I don’t remember Fanshawe. I don’t remember reading his novel. I don’t remember writing the report. I wish I could help you, Flood, but the treatment they’re giving me has turned my brain into a lump of rusty iron.
Try to remember. That’s all I ask of you. Try.
As Mr. Blank looks into the eyes of the shattered ex-policeman, he notices that tears have begun to roll down his cheeks. Poor devil, Mr. Blank says to himself. For a moment or two he considers whether to ask Flood to help him locate the closet, for he remembers now that Flood was the one who mentioned it on the phone earlier that morning, but in the end, after weighing the pros and cons of making such a request, he decides against it. Instead he says: Please forgive me, Mr. Flood. I’m sorry I laughed at you.
Now Flood is gone, and once again Mr. Blank is alone in the room. In the aftermath of their disturbing encounter, the old man feels grumpy and out of sorts, wounded by the unjust and belligerent accusations he was subjected to. Still, not wanting to squander any opportunity to increase his knowledge of his present circumstances, he swivels around in the chair until he is facing the desk, then reaches out for the pad and the ballpoint pen. He understands enough at this point to know that unless he writes it down at once, the name will soon fly out of his head, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of forgetting it. He therefore opens the pad to the first page, picks up the pen, and adds another entry to his
From the way you talk about it, Neverland must be a novel.
Yes, sir. A work of fiction.
And Fanshawe used you as a character?
Apparently so. There’s nothing strange about that. From what I understand, writers do it all the time.
Maybe they do, but I don’t see why you should get so worked up about it. The dream never really happened. It’s nothing but words on a page – pure invention. Forget about it, Mr. Flood. It’s not important.
It’s important to me, Mr. Blank. My whole life depends on it. Without that dream, I’m nothing, literally nothing.
The passion with which the normally reserved ex-policeman delivers this last remark – a passion provoked by the sting of a genuine, soul-rending despair – strikes Mr. Blank as nothing short of hilarious, and for the first time since the opening words of this account, he bursts out laughing. As one might expect, Flood takes offense, for no one enjoys having his feelings trampled upon in such a heartless manner, least of all someone as fragile as Flood is at this moment.
I resent that, Mr. Blank, he says. You have no right to laugh at me.
Maybe not, Mr. Blank says, once the spasm in his chest has subsided, but I couldn’t help it. You take yourself so damned seriously, Flood. It makes you look ridiculous.
I might be ridiculous, Flood says, with anger rising in his voice, but you, Mr. Blank … you’re cruel … cruel and indifferent to the pain of others. You play with people’s lives and take no responsibility for what you’ve done. I’m not going to sit here and bore you with my troubles, but I blame you for what’s happened to me. I most sincerely blame you, and I despise you for it.
Troubles? Mr. Blank says, suddenly softening his tone, doing his best to show some sympathy. What kind of troubles?
The headaches for one thing. Being forced into early retirement for another. Bankruptcy for yet another. And then there’s the business with my wife, or rather my ex-wife, not to speak of my children, who no longer want anything to do with me. My life is in ruins, Mr. Blank. I walk around the world like a ghost, and sometimes I question whether I even exist. Whether I’ve ever existed at all.
And you think learning about that dream is going to solve all this? It’s highly doubtful, you know.
The dream is my only chance. It’s like a missing part of me, and until I find it, I’ll never really be myself again.
I don’t remember Fanshawe. I don’t remember reading his novel. I don’t remember writing the report. I wish I could help you, Flood, but the treatment they’re giving me has turned my brain into a lump of rusty iron.
Try to remember. That’s all I ask of you. Try.
As Mr. Blank looks into the eyes of the shattered ex-policeman, he notices that tears have begun to roll down his cheeks. Poor devil, Mr. Blank says to himself. For a moment or two he considers whether to ask Flood to help him locate the closet, for he remembers now that Flood was the one who mentioned it on the phone earlier that morning, but in the end, after weighing the pros and cons of making such a request, he decides against it. Instead he says: Please forgive me, Mr. Flood. I’m sorry I laughed at you.
Now Flood is gone, and once again Mr. Blank is alone in the room. In the aftermath of their disturbing encounter, the old man feels grumpy and out of sorts, wounded by the unjust and belligerent accusations he was subjected to. Still, not wanting to squander any opportunity to increase his knowledge of his present circumstances, he swivels around in the chair until he is facing the desk, then reaches out for the pad and the ballpoint pen. He understands enough at this point to know that unless he writes it down at once, the name will soon fly out of his head, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of forgetting it. He therefore opens the pad to the first page, picks up the pen, and adds another entry to his
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