A Box of Dreams E-Book

David Madsen

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 333

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

A Jungian box of tricks where nothing is what it seems.   The young hero awakes to find himself on a train with Dr Freud from Vienna and the sadistic train attendant Malkowitz. He allows himself to be led off in a skirt on a visit to a nearby castle, where everyone is looking forward to his lecture the next day on yodelling. While researching yodelling, he encounters Adelma...

Leseprobe

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

A BOX OF DREAMS

David Madsen is the pseudonym of a theologian and philosopher. He is the author of Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf‚ Confessions of a Flesh-Eater and Orlando Crispe’s Flesh-Eater’s Cookbook. His work has been so far translated into eleven languages and has received worldwide acclaim.

The film rights of Confessions of a Flesh-Eater have been sold and filming will begin in 2004.

Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited,

24-26, St Judith's Lane, Sawtry, Cambs, PE28 5XE

Email: [email protected]

www.dedalusbooks.com

ISBN printed book   978 1 903517 22 2

ISBN e-book   978 1 907650 44 4

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Dedalus is distributed in Australia by Peribo Pty Ltd.

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Publishing History

First published by Dedalus in 2003

First e-book edition 2011

A Box of Dreams copyright c David Madsen 2003

The right of David Madsen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988

Printed in Finland by Bookwell

Typeset by Refine Catch Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A C.I.P. listing for this book is available on request.

“I could not tell whether I was the dreamer

or the one being dreamed. This caused me

considerable inner torment until the moment

I realized that it didn’t actually matter.”

Baron Klaus von Lügner

This book is dedicated to

PAT MALLEA

with whom I once shared a lot of wine in a Spanish restaurant

in the north of England

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

– 1 –

… when‚ suddenly‚ just as I was lifting a forkful of filet de bœuf poêlé villette to my mouth‚ the lights went out and I was unexpectedly plunged into a pitch-black nothingness. The train had jolted and shuddered to a halt. There was little point in trying to peer from the window‚ since the darkness outside was as impenetrable as that within. I was wrapped in a profound inky silence‚ as hermetically sealed in its depths as the train was by the frozen‚ snowbound wilderness all around it. I was startled – almost shocked – when I heard a voice speak close to my ear‚ because as far as I was able to recall‚ I had been the sole occupant of the dining-car.

“Do not worry‚” the voice said. “We shall be on our way eventually. Are you bound for B—‚ may I ask?”

“No‚” I said.

“Then for R—‚ perhaps?”

I was even more startled‚ quite definitely shocked now‚ when I realized that I couldn’t actually remember precisely where I was going. It was absurd. Was there not a ticket in the pocket of my jacket? But then‚ in such blackness‚ it would be quite impossible to read.

“No‚ not there‚ either‚” I managed to say.

“Ah. In that case‚ perhaps you will permit me to inquire –”

“No‚ please don’t ask me any further questions. They unsettle me.”

“Why?” the voice said‚ immediately ignoring my request.

“Because I do not seem to be able to answer them. The fact is‚ until you asked me‚ I thought I knew very well where I was going. Now‚ however …”

“You are unsure?”

“Worse. I simply can’t remember. Where does this train terminate?”

“Well‚ to be perfectly truthful –”

“No! I can’t bear it‚ I don’t want to know!”

“– but we shall surely be delayed for some time if the line ahead needs to be cleared of snow.”

“I thought it had stopped snowing several hours ago‚” I said.

“It never stops snowing in this part of the world. Not at this time of year.”

“What part of the world are we in‚ then? Where exactly are we?”

“You appear to have accepted your topographical amnesia with remarkable equanimity‚” the voice observed.

“I once spent twelve months in a Zen monastery‚” I replied. “Learning to accept things as they actually are.”

“The teachings had some success‚ then?”

“Even if they had been a total failure I should not have been aware of it since‚ being trained to accept things as they actually are‚ I would have been as indifferent to failure as to success.”

“Surely not‚” the voice said. “For if you had achieved the ability to accept either success or failure as they way things actually are – or tathata as one should properly say – the teachings must undoubtedly have succeeded. Indifference would necessarily preclude failure‚ but it would not obliterate your capacity to distinguish between failure and success.”

“I don’t follow your reasoning.”

“Doesn’t Zen insist that this is precisely what you should not do‚ follow the conventions of reason?”

“You seem to know an awful lot about it‚” said I‚ feeling a little irritated by this unwelcome display of superior learning.

“So I should. For three years I was the amanuensis of Master Hui Po.”

I gasped‚ despite myself.

“Isn’t this rather a coincidence?” I managed to say. “A Zen neophyte and an intimate of the great Master Hui Po‚ both trapped in total darkness in a dining-car snowbound in the middle of – where did you say we were?”

“We are presently at a complete standstill‚ my friend. It is tathata. The way things actually are.”

I sat enfolded in the silence for several moments‚ then I said:

“Perhaps … perhaps you could tell me something? Something I’ve always wanted to know …”

“If I can‚ I most certainly will.”

“What exactly is the sound of one hand clapping?”

At that moment I was struck with considerable force on the top of the head by something that felt like a rolled-up newspaper or possibly a cardboard tube – the kind one uses to send certificates or large photographs through the post. I cried out and covered my head with the palm of one hand.

“That hurt! How could you? Whatever possessed you?”

“I was merely answering your question‚ my friend. It is precisely the way Hui Po brought me‚ instantaneously‚ to enlightenment.”

I was furious.

“Once‚” the voice went on calmly‚ “he poured a pot of boiling tea over the exposed testicles of one of his handsome young disciples‚ asking this question as he did so: ‘What do you do when you are scalded?’ The disciple screamed in agony. ‘Exactly so‚’ remarked Hui Po‚ kicking the youth full in his bare‚ burning scrotum. And the disciple achieved satori.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself‚” I said‚ “striking a complete stranger like that. How on earth did you manage such an accurate aim in this dreadful blackness?”

“Hui Po once entrusted me with the task of translating Zen and the Art of Controlled Urination into Danish. I should imagine that something of the profundity of the work rubbed off.”

“What‚ in any case‚ was the disciple doing with his testicles exposed?”

“I would rather not say.”

“Is that how you treat everyone who happens to ask you a simple question?” I said‚ far from mollified to learn that I had received a considerably milder response from Hui Po’s amanuensis than I obviously would have done from the Master himself.

“The question you asked was not simple at all‚ as you must know‚ even after only a year in your monastery. But not always‚ no. Please allow me to apologize.”

Then‚ to my astonishment‚ I felt someone kiss me full on the mouth. It was a man‚ I was sure of that‚ for there was something lasciviously urgent in the intent of that kiss‚ a suggestion of controlled predatory hunger which one does not expect to find in a woman‚ and certainly not in a lady. Besides‚ I also detected the rough impress of unshaven stubble.

“How dare you!” I cried‚ pulling myself away and lashing out with a fist in the darkness.

“Tathata.”

Now a hand was inside my shirt and delicate fingertips began to caress my left nipple‚ flickering‚ tweaking‚ pinching.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Then there were two hands‚ the fingers moving like the legs of purposeful spiders.

“Stay where you are!” I shouted. Oblivious to my protests‚ the swine threw himself upon me‚ dragging me down onto my back across the seat. I thrashed and struggled but my assailant was obviously strong‚ and I was easily overpowered. I felt the weight of him crushing the breath out of me.

“Get off‚ get off‚ before I call the guard!”

He smothered my words with passionate kisses. His hands ripped open my shirt and his naked chest‚ which was very muscular and quite hairy‚ pressed hard against mine. I could feel the swift thump-thump of his heart.

“Help me!” I screamed‚ but the blackness swallowed up my cry.

He forced my legs apart.

“Oh no‚ please don’t do that –”

“But why?” a low‚ lewd voice whispered in my ear.

“Because I don’t like it …”

And at once‚ much to my surprise‚ the vile assault upon my person ceased.

“You should have said so before‚” the voice said. “I assumed you would be used to this kind of thing.”

“What?”

I pulled myself upright in my seat and began fastening my shirt buttons‚ straightening my collar.

“After all‚ an exceptionally good-looking fellow like yourself must constantly attract sexual advances‚ welcome or otherwise.”

“How dare you say such a thing!”

“That you are exceptionally good-looking?”

“No‚ I didn’t mean that. Besides‚ how do you know what I look like? Do you mean to tell me that you can see me‚ even in this wretched darkness?”

“Oh yes‚” the voice answered. “Quite clearly.”

At that moment the train shuddered‚ creaked‚ shuddered again and began to move. Then the lights came on. I rubbed my face briskly.

“Ah‚ so you are awake! You seemed to have dozed off over your filet de bœuf poêlé villette‚ but you could have been meditating for all I know. I was concerned that you might accidentally stab yourself in the eye with your fork. I had been thinking of trying to arouse you‚ but one doesn’t like to impose.”

I looked up at the person sitting opposite me. He was a small‚ extremely elderly man with an abundant white beard. Perched on his rather prominent nose was an old-fashioned pair of pince-nez. In fact‚ he seemed rather old-fashioned – other-worldly‚ even – altogether.

“You’re an absolute villain!” I cried‚ hardly managing to control my anger. “An animal! What do you mean by attacking me in that way?”

The old gentleman appeared to be genuinely confused. He blinked several times and shook his head.

“In what way?” he asked.

“You know perfectly well in what way.”

“My dear sir‚ I assure you –”

“In that – that sexual way.”

“Ach‚ nein!”

“You sexually assaulted me‚ you know you did. Do you intend to sit there‚ bold as brass‚ and deny it?”

“I am eighty-four years old‚” he replied. “Does it seem likely‚ even supposing I had the inclination‚ which I certainly do not‚ that I would succeed in carrying out a sexual assault on a man young enough to be my grandson?”

My mouth‚ fishlike‚ opened and shut. I was unable to think clearly. I was confused. Of course‚ I realized immediately that what the old gentleman had said must certainly be true – but then – damn it all! – someone had attacked me‚ that much was certain‚ and we were the only two occupants of the dining- car. Who else could it have been? On the other hand‚ I was quite sure that my assailant had been young and strong‚ possessing a muscular body‚ whereas the man opposite me was anciently wizened.

“Do you think it could have been the guard?” I asked‚ feeling that the question was absurd but unable for the moment to think of a suitable alternative.

“Surely I would have seen an attack such as you describe? Were you sodomized?”

“What?”

“Was full anal penetration achieved‚ or was it simply a matter of frottage and a little mutual masturbation? Did ejaculation take place?”

I was startled by the clinical frankness of his questions and he sensed it.

“There was nothing mutual about it‚ I assure you!”

“Please do not be alarmed‚ my young friend. It is perfectly in order for me to ask. I am a psychiatrist. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Dr Sigmund Freud of Vienna.”

I barely restrained a snigger.

“I don’t wish to appear rude‚” I said‚ “but aren’t you being ridiculous? Sigmund Freud died a good many years ago.”

Dr Freud‚ or whoever he was‚ tut-tutted impatiently and scratched his white beard.

“I am not that Sigmund Freud‚” he replied. “And to be frank with you I am heartily sick and tired of having to explain this fact to innumerable individuals who are apparently incapable of conceiving the probability – indeed‚ when one considers the vast number of inhabitants past and present of this rather insignificant planet‚ the certainty – that two human beings will share the same name.”

“I apologize‚” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please remember that I have recently been the victim of a savage and unprovoked erotic assault. I’m still not thinking very clearly. And in answer to your question – no‚ there was no anal penetration.”

“What‚ then?”

“Well – this is acutely embarrassing‚ as I’m sure you will appreciate – he jumped on top of me‚ kissed me with great ardour and tried to grab me‚ down there –”

“Where?”

“Down where he had no business to be.”

“But no sodomy?” Dr Freud asked with‚ I thought‚ a slightly rueful tone.

“What happened was bad enough.”

“If it happened at all‚ that is.”

“Of course it happened‚ I should know! In any case‚ how could you possibly have seen anything in that darkness?”

“What darkness?”

“What darkness?” I cried. “Why‚ the darkness into which we were so unexpectedly plunged when the lights went out! When the train stopped –”

“My dear young man‚ I assure you that the lights did not go out‚ not even for a second. Neither has the train stopped‚ or even slowed down for that matter‚ at any point since we left V—.”

“But this is nonsense. It’s absurd!”

“You accuse me‚ a psychiatrist‚ of talking absurd nonsense?” Dr Freud said‚ his wrinkled old face reddening in outrage.

“Well no‚ not exactly that – I mean – but the lights did go out‚ I tell you.”

“And I tell you that they did not.”

“Then‚ if this is the case‚ what’s happening to me? Am I going mad?”

“It is fortunate‚ is it not‚ that you are seated opposite someone whose profession by a strange quirk of fate renders him absolutely qualified to answer precisely that question? Imagine! I could have been a butcher or a bookbinder. Then where would you be?”

“Almost as strange a quirk of fate‚” I remarked‚ “as two men‚ both psychiatrists‚ both called Sigmund Freud. You were never the amanuensis of the Zen Master Hui Po‚ by any chance?”

“It’s really rather amazing that you should ask me that‚” Dr Freud replied.

“You mean to tell me that you were Hui Po’s amanuensis?”

“No. I mean that you have mentioned the one subject in all the world – I refer to Zen Buddhism – in which I have no interest whatsoever. Even my poor friend Dr T.D. Suzuki could not persuade me to examine its fundamental tenets. However‚ we often took tea together.”

“It is certainly odd‚” I said‚ “but it does not bring me any nearer to discovering the identity of my assailant.”

“Your sexual assailant‚” said Dr Freud. “Don’t forget that.”

“Is it important?”

“Sex is always important‚ my dear young friend. Particularly if‚ as I am about to suggest‚ it takes place within the context of a dream.”

“A dream? You think it was nothing but a dream?”

“Where dreams are concerned‚ it is never a case of ‘nothing but’ ‚” said Dr Freud with a trace of severity in his querulous old voice. “Quite the contrary‚ I assure you. And yes‚ that is precisely what I think.”

I leaned back in my seat‚ pushed the plate of cold filet de bœuf poêlé villette to one side and whistled slowly‚ softly.

“A dream‚ eh? Well‚ that might explain a great many things‚” I said. “And if it really was a dream‚ then I wouldn’t be going mad after all‚ would I?”

“I am afraid that is neither a valid nor even a logical deduction as far as psychiatry is concerned. But do not be dismayed. Let us concentrate on the assumption that you dreamt the train stopped‚ the lights went out‚ and someone subjected you to a thrilling sexual assault.”

“I never said it was thrilling!”

“Your unconscious clearly thought so‚ otherwise you would never have dreamt it. Naturally‚ your conscious mind rejects the notion. Let us attempt to unravel the imagery of the dream. We have some time before we reach N—.”

“N—? Is that where this train is going?”

“Dear me‚ no. It is only where I get off. It goes some considerable distance beyond there.”

“Where exactly is it going‚ then?”

“Do you know‚ I haven’t the faintest idea. Is N— your destination also?”

I took a deep breath.

“That’s part of the dream too‚” I whispered. “I can’t remember my destination.”

“But if you can’t remember – why! – you must still be dreaming. Surely if you were awake‚ you would know where you are going?”

“You mean‚” I cried‚ “you mean that you are a part of the dream too? That I’m dreaming this entire conversation?”

A look of consternation crossed Dr Freud’s face.

“I sincerely hope not‚” he said. “That would have implications of a somewhat disturbing nature for me.”

“Yes‚ of course. It would imply that you actually don’t exist.”

“And yet I feel myself to be real enough. I have a home‚ a family‚ a profession in which I can claim to have achieved some modest success. How can I not exist?”

“You exist only for as long as I continue to dream‚” I said‚ feeling rather important. “And I want to wake up. In fact‚ I think I will.”

Dr Freud suddenly screamed.

“No‚ no! I beg you‚ don’t!”

“But it’s a very unpleasant experience not to know where one is going.”

“If you wake up you will destroy me! Everything I am‚ all that I possess: my research‚ my books‚ my lovely home with the Bechstein piano and the small Vuillard watercolour of a naked woman eating pilchards –”

“Unless …”

“Unless what?” Dr Freud demanded in an agitated manner.

“Unless‚” I said‚ “it is you who are dreaming!”

“What?”

“Well‚ it’s perfectly possible‚ isn’t it? You could have fallen asleep soon after leaving V—. You could be dreaming that I fell asleep and dreamt about being sexually assaulted and‚ in fact‚ that I am dreaming still.”

“You suggest that I am dreaming that you had a dream?”

“That is exactly what I am suggesting Dr Freud.”

He pushed his small frame further back into his seat and hunched up his frail shoulders. He was wearing a black overcoat with a fur collar that seemed much too big for him.

“Young man‚” he said at last‚ “you have posed a sinister and complex conundrum. Whichever way you look at it‚ one of us is certain to cease existing the moment the other wakes up.

“The question to be asked‚ surely‚ is this: which of us is having the dream? Who is the dreamer and who the dream? As a psychiatrist you must be a connoisseur of dreams. Can’t you tell?”

“At this precise moment I regret to say that I cannot. The interpretation of a dream requires many hours of intense discussion‚ particularly about intimate sexual matters‚ with the dreamer. Indeed‚ it is the result of such discussion.”

“Couldn’t we discuss it now? It might help.”

Dr Freud shook his head.

“I do not imagine that you would be able to afford my fees‚” he murmured regretfully. “Besides‚ in my book The Interpretation of Dreams –”

“Didn’t Sigmund Freud write that?”

“I am Sigmund Freud!”

“But not that Sigmund Freud –”

“And my book is not that book.”

“This is all terribly confusing‚” I said.

“Not for me it isn’t.”

“Please continue.”

“As I was saying‚ in my book The Interpretation of Dreams I make it quite clear that even though the events of a dream are‚ compared to the waking state‚ absurd and impossible – such as flying through the air‚ the transmutation of form‚ a confusingly perverse chronology‚ and so on – within its absurdity the dream is characterized by a consistency of logic on its own terms‚ and within its impossibility it is unmistakably real. We must always remember that the events of a dream constitute a code‚ they mask the unacceptable and therefore their language is euphemistic. A euphemism is not unreal‚ it merely points to a reality other than itself. The bête noir of my younger days‚ Carl Jung‚ would not agree with me‚ of course.”

“I assume you do not refer to the original C.G. Jung of Küsnacht?”

“Why do you assume that?”

“Well –”

“As a matter of fact I do refer to that Carl Jung. Would it not be foolish to deduce‚ as you have clearly done‚ that because there are two psychiatrists called Sigmund Freud‚ there must also be two Carl Jungs‚ since he was a psychiatrist also?”

“I’m afraid you’re confusing me‚” I said.

“Jung himself thought it hilarious that there were two Sigmund Freuds. He once remarked to me over a plate of bouillabaisse provençale at Bollingen that it proved God has a sense of humour.”

Dr Freud clearly noticed my downcast look and added in an almost affectionately concerned manner:

“Forgive an old man his reminiscences. I have not forgotten our problem. It should not prove too difficult a task‚ I think‚ to find out which one of us is dreaming the other.”

Surrendering to the pessimism of my present mood I was about to contradict Dr Freud when the door of the dining-car suddenly opened and a guard came in. He was an immensely fat man with surly‚ swarthy features whose crumpled‚ stained uniform did not adequately accommodate his bulk. He looked as if he had just woken up from a prolonged‚ alcohol- induced slumber.

“Tickets gentlemen‚ if you please‚” he said.

“Can you tell me where this train terminates?” I asked.

“Never mind about where it terminates. It’s my job to find out whether or not you’ve got a right to be on it in the first place‚ before I start answering stupid questions.”

“It isn’t a stupid question‚” I said angrily. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

“I ask you‚” the guard replied‚ giving me a distinctly unpleasant smile‚ “is it reasonable for a man to be travelling on a train without knowing where it’s going?”

“Well‚ put like that‚ no.”

“What other way is there to put it? In any case‚ I haven’t got time to be standing here arguing with the likes of you. What are you‚ an anarchist?” Then‚ more darkly‚ he added: “Or a left-wing homosexual‚ maybe. Where’s your ticket?”

Then‚ to my amazement‚ he turned to my elderly companion‚ bowed low with a great show of subservience‚ and murmured:

“Good evening‚ Dr Freud. Nice to have you aboard again‚ sir. I trust Madame Freud is well?”

“Thank you for your concern‚ Malkowitz. I am afraid Madame Freud is not particularly well these days. Her bowels are a constant trial. She is presently obsessed by the idea that there is a large serpent lodged in a length of her lower intestine.”

“Good heavens‚ sir! I take it you’re attempting to rid her of such a fanciful notion?”

“No indeed I am not‚ Malkowitz. It was I who induced it in the first place. By way of an experiment‚ you understand.”

“Of course‚ Dr Freud‚ naturally.”

“However‚ I seem to have overestimated the ability of Madame Freud’s mind to distinguish between reality and delusion. I shall reverse the effects of the experiment in due course‚ but not just yet. Not until my observations have been properly concluded. At the moment she is consuming vast quantities of laxatives in a frantic attempt to flush out the creature –”

“Which doesn’t actually exist in the first place‚ eh?” wheezed Malkowitz. “Well‚ well‚ sir! There’s always a humorous side to every situation‚ that’s what I say.”

“You callous swine!” I cried‚ unable to restrain myself‚ moved by the plight of this poor woman‚ a hapless victim of Dr Freud’s cruel psychological experimentation. “How could you do such a thing to your own wife?”

Dr Freud’s sunken‚ wizened face visibly paled.

“My wife?” he murmured‚ his voice suddenly full of shock and pain. “Who said anything about my wife? My wife has been dead these fifteen years!”

“What?”

“Struck down by a rare tropical virus that ate her to death from within‚ by ghastly‚ inexorable degrees‚ rotting her organs and burrowing into her brain. Ah‚ it is utterly heartless of you to remind me of that terrible agony! Heartless!”

“Then who thinks she’s got a snake in her intestine?”

“My daughter‚ young man. Malkowitz was enquiring after the health of my daughter.”

“But I distinctly heard him say Madame Freud. Surely your daughter did not marry a man with the same surname as herself?”

“That is precisely what she did – a second cousin‚ as it happens. She was granted a costly dispensation by the pope.”

“You’re not Catholic‚ are you?”

“Of course not. We are‚ all of us‚ Jewish. However‚ it is always best to be on the safe side. In my professional opinion religion is simply the sublimation of the libido for the sake of social convention and‚ therefore‚ psychologically speaking‚ harmful in the extreme. Nevertheless‚ if one must live according to the dictates of an illusion‚ it is better to choose the illusion with the most convincing pedigree. Furthermore‚ as it happens‚ a distant relative of mine has been working for some time in the secret archives of the Vatican library. He is particularly interested in the Codex Bartensis and variations of Valentinian soteriology and often has occasion in the labyrinthine corridors of that august institution‚ to come across His Holiness browsing in the phenomenology section.”

“Look‚” said the guard called Malkowitz‚ interrupting Dr Freud‚ “I don’t know what your game is‚ but I’m not leaving until you’ve shown me your ticket. Where is it‚ eh? Failure to produce a valid ticket whilst travelling on the State railway carries a very heavy penalty‚ I’ll have you know.”

“A minimum of seven years imprisonment with hard labour‚” Dr Freud said‚ nodding his head slowly.

This struck me as somewhat excessive.

“But I must have a ticket!” I cried. “Wait a moment – here – it’s really got to be here somewhere –”

I thrust my hand inside my jacket and scrabbled around in the pocket. I admit that by now my stomach was churning violently‚ for not only was I in danger of being exposed as nothing more than a figment of someone’s imagination‚ I was also being threatened with seven years behind bars. My prospects looked bleak in either case‚ since if indeed I was but a figment I would cease to exist the moment the dreamer woke up‚ and if I wasn’t‚ the possibility of incarceration seemed ever more likely because …

“Can’t you find it?” asked Dr Freud.

… digging deep into my inside pocket‚ I was shocked to discover …

“Isn’t it there?”

… precisely that. It wasn’t there.

“No‚” I said. “It isn’t. I can’t think what might have happened to it. I know that I bought a ticket before boarding the train.”

“And where exactly did you board the train‚ may I ask?”

“I … I can’t remember exactly.”

“Can you remember approximately‚ then?” asked Dr Freud.

I was beginning to wish the old man would mind his own business. Everything he said just seemed to make things worse.

“Approximately isn’t good enough I’m afraid‚” Malkowitz said in a stern tone of voice. “You can’t board a train approximately. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Remember Malkowitz‚ you are not trained in psychology‚ as I am.”

“Look Dr Freud‚ I appreciate your desire to help this young man to find a way out of his predicament. Typical‚ if I may be allowed to say so‚ of a man as kindly by nature as yourself – but I have my job to do. If he hasn’t got a ticket‚ I’ll just have to arrest him. I have no choice.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I protested. “You’re an employee of the State railway‚ not a policeman. You can’t go around arresting people‚ you haven’t got the authority.”

Dr Freud said:

“I’m very much afraid you are wrong there. You see‚ Malkowitz has been granted special emergency powers by the Department of Internal Security.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention that‚ Dr Freud.”

“Come‚ come‚ my dear fellow! No need for false modesty.”

“Well‚ have you got a ticket or not?” the guard with special emergency powers demanded.

“No‚” I said. “I haven’t. I simply can’t understand it.”

“Perhaps‚” Dr Freud suggested‚ “it was stolen by your assailant?”

“What’s this?” said Malkowitz.

“Our friend here seems to think that he was sexually assaulted when the lights went out.”

“But the lights didn’t go out. I would have noticed if they had.”

“Exactly what I told him‚ but he wouldn’t have it. He insists that the lights went out‚ the train stopped‚ and in the resulting darkness he was the victim of a violent sexual attack. He assures me that no anal penetration occurred‚ but the charge remains serious nonetheless.”

“No anal penetration‚ eh?” Malkowitz said slowly‚ rubbing his stubbled chin.

“It seems to be that someone capable of such an assault would also be quite capable of petty theft.”

“You’ve got a point there‚ Dr Freud.”

“Our young friend at first accused me of perpetrating the deed –”

“What?”

“Oh yes‚ I assure you.”

To my surprise and intense irritation‚ Malkowitz suddenly leaned forward and struck me lightly across the face with the back of his hand. It did not cause pain‚ but it was insulting in the extreme.

“There‚” he said‚ like a crotchety nanny rebuking a fractious charge. “That’s for your sauce.”

Dr Freud continued:

“Then he seemed to think that it might have been you‚ Malkowitz.”

“I said no such thing!” I cried.

“Oh but you did‚ I distinctly remember it. When you had accepted that a respectable elderly gentleman like myself could not possibly have done what you accused him of‚ you then suggested that the guard might be the guilty party.”

“By God!” fumed Malkowitz‚ “I’ve a good mind to thrash him within an inch of his life for saying such a thing! What does he think I am‚ an animal? A deviant? I’ll have you know‚ you young ruffian‚ I’m a happily married man. I’d be a father‚ too‚ if it wasn’t for my wife’s defective tubes. Is that what you’re taunting me with? My poor wife’s tubes? I’m man enough to beat you senseless‚ you callous little bastard!”

Malkowitz raised his fists into the air in what he assumed was a threatening manner‚ but I could tell that it was all bravado. I wasn’t intimidated. He couldn’t thrash a fly‚ and we both knew it. Like all bullies‚ he was weak and soft and pitiful inside.

“Calm yourself Malkowitz‚” Dr Freud said soothingly. “This gentleman is merely trying to state his side of the case.”

“Will you please stop acting like a defence counsel!” I shouted at Dr Freud. “I am not on trial. I was the one who was assaulted‚ remember?”

“And you’re claiming it was me who did it‚ eh?” Malkowitz muttered.

“I am certainly not saying any such thing –”

Dr Freud interrupted:

“Of course‚ there is a way to prove Malkowitz’s innocence.”

“What might that be‚ Dr Freud?”

“Why‚ to re-enact the crime‚ naturally.”

“Re-enact it?” I said‚ beginning to feel slightly sick.

“Yes. It would be the perfect solution‚ don’t you see? Our friend here will surely be able to tell whether or not it was you who assaulted him‚ Malkowitz‚ once he is able to compare what it feels like with you on top of him‚ to what it felt like at the time of the alleged attack.”

“Don’t I have a say in this?” I protested.

“I must admit‚” Malkowitz mused‚ “it does sound a sensible idea. He’s a good-looking fellow right enough. A bit of man-to-man horseplay is certainly a tempting proposition. Life can be lonely on the long distance runs‚ I don’t mind admitting. When Hubert Dankers was on the night express to P— with me‚ we found ways to amuse ourselves during the long‚ dark hours. Now poor old Hubert’s got his haemorrhoids‚ of course –”

“You swine!” I yelled at him. “I shan’t permit it!”

“That’s settled then‚” Dr Freud said. “But remember Malkowitz: the original attack stopped short of anal penetration.”

“More’s the pity‚ eh‚ Doctor?”

“Off you go!” Dr Freud cried with enthusiasm and‚ as he did so‚ the lights went out again and the meaty arms of the guard with special emergency powers granted by the Department of Internal Security pinned me down across the seat. His disgustingly wet‚ blubbery lips planted kisses on my mouth and all over my neck‚ then his tongue wormed its way into my ear‚ leaving sticky deposits there as it traced a revolting curlicue around and down across my throat.

“Rip the shirt open!” I heard the shrill‚ quavering voice of Dr Freud shriek. Malkowitz did as he was ordered. His meaty fingers tweaked and squeezed my nipples and I screamed with the pain. The immense weight of the monster was crushing me‚ pressing the breath out of my lungs and the blood from my veins as oil is pressed out of ripe olives. I thought my eyes would surely pop out of their sockets. I could feel his hot‚ sour breath on my face.

“No penetration‚ mind …”

I felt the sweat pour down between his great‚ fatty breasts and run in rivulets across my chest. It smelt like rancid butter. His hairy belly heaved spasmodically on mine. His erection was pressing urgently against my groin.

“Enough!” I cried‚ as Malkowitz pushed my thighs open and reached for my private parts. “For God’s sake‚ enough!”

Then‚ exactly as before‚ the precipitate assault on my person ceased and the lights came on again. I dragged myself upright in my seat‚ dishevelled and shaken and outraged.

“Well?” Dr Freud demanded. “Can you now positively identify Malkowitz as your assailant?”

I was struggling for breath.

“No‚” I managed to gasp. “I can’t.”

“How can you be certain?”

“The man who sexually assaulted me in the first instance was much younger‚ much leaner –”

“Are you suggesting I’m fat?” demanded Malkowitz belligerently‚ buttoning up his trousers.

“Well‚ to be perfectly honest – oh God‚ give me time to catch my breath! – the fool very nearly suffocated me –”

“Continue‚ my friend‚ please.”

“Well‚ he was also rather more attractive. On the other hand‚ Malkowitz merely repulses me.”

Malkowitz began to cry.

“Do not distress yourself‚” Dr Freud said in a kindly manner. “Far better to be physically repulsive and innocent of a vile criminal act‚ than attractive and guilty.”

“I dare say you’re right‚” Malkowitz said‚ blowing his nose into a large‚ stained handkerchief. “And all this means we’re back to square one‚ doesn’t it?”

“Which is where‚ exactly?”

“I’ll tell you where! We’re back to the fact that this person who called me fat and repulsive doesn’t have a valid ticket for his journey. What’s your name?”

“I – that’s another thing – I don’t remember‚” I said‚ quietly desperate by now.

“Well I’m going to arrest you anyway.”

Dr Freud said softly:

“Despite your special emergency powers‚ I’m afraid you can’t actually do that‚ Malkowitz.”

“Why on earth not‚ doctor?”

“Because before your arrival on the scene‚ we had already ascertained that if neither you nor I perpetrated the sexual assault‚ it must have been a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Precisely. The problem is‚ we do not know which one of us is dreaming and which one is being dreamed. You see‚ if it proves to be our nameless young friend here‚ then I am doomed to extinction the moment he awakes – so are you‚ for that matter – and I don’t much care for this possibility. On the other hand‚ if I am the dreamer‚ then he is the one who will cease to exist‚ and I don’t suppose that would suit him any more than it suits me. You‚ Malkowitz‚ are in the unfortunate position of being condemned to non-existence whichever of us turns out to be the dreamer.”

“Oh … I’m not‚ am I?”

“I’m very much afraid so. And if you do not in fact exist‚ you can’t very well arrest anyone‚ can you?”

Malkowitz protested:

“But you know me‚ Dr Freud – why‚ you know me well! – which surely means that you’re the one doing the dreaming‚ that I must have some independent existence outside of the dream‚ right? You’d hardly be dreaming of someone you’ve never met‚ would you?”

“On the contrary‚” Dr Freud replied‚ “only last week I had the most delightful dream about Madame Fanny d’Artignani the opera diva‚ and yet I’ve never met her. Neither in any sense can I be said to know her.”

“Not even in the biblical sense‚ doctor?”

“No.”

“Oh God‚ what a fine pickle we’re in‚ and no mistake!”

“Be calm Malkowitz. I think there may be a solution.”

“What might that be?” I asked‚ anxious not to be left out of the conversation‚ in case I ceased to speak altogether and became the dream-figment I dreaded becoming.

Dr Freud settled himself back in his seat and stroked his white beard thoughtfully.

“Well‚” he began‚ “I had intended to alight at N—‚ where I am due to address an important conference of homeopaths on the subject of dysmorphic disorders –”

“Perverts‚” Malkowitz muttered in disgust‚ spitting.

“Not homosexuals Malkowitz‚ homeopaths.”

“Give ‘em whatever fancy name you like‚ doctor‚ they’re all a bunch of deviants.”

“However‚” Dr Freud continued‚ “if all three of us were to get out at the next scheduled stop‚ we would be able to search the nearest public records office for evidence of our existence. A name‚ an address – why – every inhabitant in the entire region will be there! It would take a very short time indeed to find what we are looking for. I’m certain of it.”

“You can’t be certain of anything in this life‚” I said rather sulkily.

Malkowitz glared at me and muttered:

“Are you certain of that?”

Then he continued in a disgustingly servile tone of voice:

“We bow to your superior knowledge doctor‚ but I don’t think I ought to abandon my post‚ do you?”

“Oh‚ it wouldn’t be for long. Besides‚ I can always square things with your immediate superior. His daughter is a patient of mine‚ did you know?”

Malkowitz nodded gravely and said in an awed whisper:

“Psychotic irregularities of the sexual –”

“Yes‚ but I have hopes of a complete recovery. Several of the more serious self-inflicted wounds are now almost healed.”

“You never did tell us where this train terminates‚” I said with an accusing stare.

He shifted the weight of his enormous bulk from one foot to the other‚ standing almost on tip-toe like a ballerina.

“That’s because I don’t know‚” he replied in a mixture of sullen resentment and embarrassed apology.

“What?” I cried sarcastically‚ “A guard invested with special emergency powers by the Department of Internal Security‚ who doesn’t even know the final destination of his own train?”

“It isn’t my train‚ it belongs to the State.”

“The question of ownership is irrelevant‚” Dr Freud put in.

“Begging your pardon doctor‚ but not to the State it isn’t.”

“And why‚ pray‚ can you not tell us the train’s final destination?”

“Because the schedule was changed after we left V—. Central Bureau telephoned to say they would call back with details of the revised schedule within the hour‚ but –”

“But what‚ Malkowitz?”

“But five minutes after the call‚ the wires came down in the blizzard. We’re completely cut off from Central Bureau – something that’s never happened before‚ and I don’t care for it one little bit‚ I can tell you. Well‚ since I don’t have details of the revised schedule‚ I don’t actually know where the train is going.”

“What about the driver?”

Malkowitz shrugged‚ as if to suggest that the driver was of no importance.

“Probably Ernst‚” he said. “But Ernst hasn’t spoken to me for weeks on account of that business with his wife’s underwear. Besides‚ I don’t suppose he’s got any idea either. He’ll just keep going until we get the signal to stop.”

“And the other passengers? Have they been informed of our common predicament?” Dr Freud demanded.

“To tell you the truth‚” Malkowitz said‚ “I couldn’t find any.”

“None at all?”

“Oh‚ there are other passengers on this train‚ I don’t doubt that for a moment. It’s just that I couldn’t find any.”

“What on earth do you mean‚ Malkowitz?”