“A week ago I would have agreed with you, Jesse, but today I’m not so sure.”
“But you can’t trust these dreams!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s Death talking. Death’s the enemy, Wyatt. Why should He make deals, give you a peek into the cosmic consciousness, when He holds all the cards? You can’t trust Him.”
“I agree, but maybe I can find enough so that I only have to trust myself, and that’ll be plenty.”
There are times, maybe once a month, when my mind goes absolutely blank. For several seconds I truly do not know who I am, where I am—anything. When I was younger, these forced visits to the outer limits scared me, because I thought I was going mad. But over the years I’ve learned almost to enjoy them. Before, when the spells came, I would become petrified and think as hard as I could: Who am I? What’s happening? Find the thread, damn it, find the thread! Now that I’m older I know my mind is only taking its foot off the gas and coasting. It’ll start again in a minute, so I don’t worry.
The first time I saw Emmy Marhoun in Vienna, I had just emerged from one of these lapses and my head was readjusting to the world. Jesse and I had left the cemetery after arguing some more about what to do with the powers my dreams gave me. I had no idea what else I was capable of now, but we both stuck to our beliefs, and the discussion degenerated into his anger and my stubbornness. We drove back to the city, with him doing most of the muttering. Back at the hotel, I didn’t want to see Sophie yet and have to explain where we’d been, so I waited till Jesse pulled away and then I went for a walk.
There was a small pastry shop across the street from the Opera House and the aroma drifting out of it was so delicious that I went right in. The place was jammed but luckily one small table in a corner was free. I ordered my cake and coffee and sat down, feeling happy for the first time that day. No desire to think about anything. I wanted only to be in that hot little shop full of ambrosial smells, surrounded by chattering old women, and eat an echt piece of Viennese torte. Afterward I’d… I know someone who signs all his letters After Words. That’s exactly how it would be now. I was past words and wanted to let my tongue and senses have rein for a little while.
As if in agreement, my mind went into a full-fledged zone-out and I was suddenly nowhere in particular. It lasted long enough for the waitress to bring my order. Coming back to earth, I blinked a few times at the black cake on the table. Then while my head continued to clear, I looked at the people standing at the counter. Up there waiting for an order was Emmy Marhoun.
But that was impossible. Emmy Marhoun had been dead for at least three years. I knew her when she worked as an editor at a New York publishing house. My television show was at the height of its popularity then, and we met when she wrote to ask if I’d be interested in doing a book for her company. We had dinner a few times and I liked her. She was smart, witty, and the kind of aggressive, enterprising woman who usually gets what she wants. It didn’t hurt that she was also quite beautiful. If I were straight, I’d probably have fallen in love with her. As it was, I did fall in love to a certain harmless degree, and that was why we continued seeing each other after I said no to the project.
One day someone told me she had died. Fallen off a horse and been kicked in the head. There are many strange ways to die. As we grow older we become accustomed to bizarre accounts of how So-and-So went. Still, there are times when you hear something like Emmy’s story and your only reaction is “What do you mean, kicked by a horse?” I didn’t mourn because we hadn’t been close, and it was a long time since we’d seen each other. But I had loved her a little, and it was surprising how much I thought about her after hearing the news.
Today she stood ten feet away and even touched her hair in that showy pat-pat way I remembered. I got up and went over, but she didn’t see me until the last moment. Then she turned away from the counter, and we were face to face.
“Emmy?”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, then widened. “Oh, my God, Wyatt Leonard! What are you doing here?” She brought her hands together in front of her face and clapped them quickly like a delighted little kid. I had to touch her to see if she was real. I did. She was.
“Do you have some time?”
“Of course! It’s so good to see you! Where have you been? It’s been so many years!”
While we were sitting down at the table, my shock left, and one word came to mind that explained everything: Strayhorn. Last night’s dream. Knowing the names in the graveyard had been Part One of whatever was going on. This was Part Two. Everything was happening at once. Dinner in a dream with a dead man; breakfast in real life with a dead woman.
I was astonished, but I knew since last night’s dream that my life had shifted into high gear, at which any speed or event was possible. Now it was up to me to handle it. So instead of running away or going mad because I was sitting down to coffee with a dead friend, I spoke as normally as I could and did okay. Now and then I caught myself hyperventilating or wetting my lips for the hundredth time, but generally I was all right.
The greatest horror was that she didn’t know. The woman did not know she was dead. We talked like old pals catching up. About mutual friends, evenings shared, what we’d been doing since we last met. She filled me in on everything but what was most important.
How then did I know for certain that she was dead? Because I had read accounts in different newspapers of her accident. Because I’d actually heard the funeral described by two people who were there and saw her body in the open casket. What other proof was there? The most important of alclass="underline" she glowed, exactly like Philip Strayhorn. Was I the only one who saw or noticed it? I don’t know. Certainly no one in the café seemed to take any special notice, except for one young man who couldn’t take his eyes off her and was clearly smitten. I wanted to go over to him and ask, “Do you see it coming off her skin? That faint blue? The slight shimmer like a road mirage in summer?” But he wouldn’t have seen it. These things were only mine today because of the Strayhorn dream and because I was dying.
While working for the publisher in New York, Emmy had met a man and fallen deeply in love. He was the most extraordinary person she had ever known and she was convinced he was the one for her. She lived on the top floor of joy for a few exquisite months. Then this special man told her she bored him and he was leaving. I admired her for admitting that; it would have been easy to say only that they broke up, and left it at that, but she didn’t. “He said I bored him and told me exactly why. You know what the most painful part was? He was right. I was a bore.”
What followed was a wretched series of exaggerated, supercharged affairs with men she initially welcomed but quickly grew to despise. She slept with them to try to find some kind of replacement for the one she could never replace. She was destroyed and knew it, but because she was beautiful there were always men around who were eager to try, and she let them. She let too many of them try, and their touching enthusiasm and desire only made things worse. She felt that she was suffocating inside her own life; as if it were one of those plastic bags dry cleaners put over clothes. When she breathed, she inhaled herself and her failure. There was no more air.
“It was becoming all bad, Wyatt, so I decided to cut everything loose and travel a while. That’s when I came to Europe.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I’m embarrassed to say. Almost three years ago.”
I needed a moment to let my heart slow before I asked the next question. “Emmy, what was the last thing you remember doing in America before coming over here? The very last thing.”