The Stranger - Max Frei [180]
“Well, Sir Maba, if I can get hold of just one regular cigarette, I’ll be forever in your debt!”
“That’s just fine. Your funny habit is the best guarantee that you’ll practice hard. Practice is what you need now.”
“Uh—will I dream you again?” I asked eagerly. “Maybe there’s something else I can learn from you.”
“Of course there is. Even without my help. I can’t promise I’ll visit you often. You’re young, and I’m so old. It’s not much fun for me to teach you. Let Juffin run around after you! All the more since you want to dream other things now. And it’s completely within your power.”
“What do you mean?”
But it was too late. Sir Maba Kalox had already disappeared. In his place, Melamori appeared at the window. I was glad, but somehow not surprised.
“Good dream, my lady!” I called out gaily. “How glad I am to see you!”
“Is this really a dream?” asked Melamori. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. And it’s my dream, not yours. I’m dreaming you.”
Melamori smiled and started melting away. Her fragile silhouette became completely transparent. I wanted to stop her, but suddenly I realized I couldn’t budge. I weighed a ton—no, who was I kidding? I weighed far more . . .
“Yes, I’m already almost home,” Melamori squeaked in surprise, and disappeared completely.
I woke up. It was early morning. Armstrong and Ella were breathing contentedly somewhere down by my heels. The kitties! They could accidentally nudge the pillow—the plug, that is—and other Worlds would come gushing into my poor bedroom! I fretted, only half awake.
I rushed over to the small cupboard at the far side of the room to find a needle and some thread. My stashing habits are sometimes truly remarkable. I got into bed again and sewed the corners of the pillow firmly to the thick sleeping-rug. I took a deep breath. Now everything was all right. I could sleep some more.
My head dropped onto the rug, next to the tightly secured pillow, and I blanked out. This time, no dreams came to me; none that I was aware of, anyway.
I finally woke up again around noon. The sun, enchantingly impertinent as happens only in early spring, peeped from behind the curtain. I stared at the firmly attached pillow in wonder—what kind of nonsense was this? Then I remembered.
Guess what I did next. I stuck my hand into the alleged Chink between Worlds and waited expectantly. I didn’t experience anything out of the ordinary. It must have looked absurd—a person on all fours, naked, one hand under the pillow, while on his face a look of tense anticipation of something miraculous. Thank goodness the windows were covered with shutters!
In about fifteen minutes, I began to think that Sir Maba Kalox had played a trick on me. A tiny trick, to be sure, but it was a fine way of taking revenge on me for recently blowing his cover. He had warned me it would be a lengthy process, however. So hope was still keeping itself warm in one of the dark corners of my heart—presumably the left ventricle.
Another ten minutes or so passed. My legs grew numb, my poor elbow screamed for mercy. Hope entered its final stages: the death throes. Then I realized that my right hand was no longer lying on the soft nap of the rug under the warm pillow. It was—horrors, it wasn’t anywhere at all! All the same, I was able to wiggle my fingers. To do this, though, I needed to make an effort of the will, rather than a physical effort of the muscles.
I was so afraid that I forgot about everything else in the world. My benumbed legs, my convulsively cramped shoulders—who cared?
Where was my poor paw, was what I wanted to know. Forget the blasted cigarettes! I’d smoke the stinking pipe tobacco. Just give me back my beloved hand!
Though I could do with a cigarette at a moment like this . . .
Suddenly I lurched backwards, so unexpectedly that I lost my balance and fell over on my side. Luckily, I didn’t have far to fall when I was already on all fours. I burst out in nervous laughter. My hand was with me again. More than that, between my