Dreamology(42)

“Why?” I demand, and I realize I sound like a fitful child. But I can’t help it. This isn’t just the last thing I want to do in the world, it’s the exact opposite of what I want to do. It’s torture.

Petermann removes his glasses and begins cleaning them with a pale blue pocket square. “Because what we need is material. Stuff to sift through. I want the memories and images fresh in your mind before you dream again.”

“Sure,” Max agrees. “Though our dreams are kind of weird. I don’t know if we can remember all the details . . .”

“I have it all written down,” I say. “But even if I didn’t, I’d still never forget them.” The last part comes out a little more defensive than I mean it to, but Max doesn’t seem to notice.

Petermann, however, turns in shock. “You keep a dream journal?”

I nod. “It’s a notebook.”

“Alice, this could have been incredibly fruitful information to have at the beginning of this process,” Petermann says. “Why was I not informed?”

“Because it’s personal,” I say, crossing my arms.

“The way you write about and describe these experiences could be a goldmine for this experiment, and for dream research in general,” Petermann says.

“The purpose of this experiment isn’t just about science,” I say. I’m not sure why, but suddenly I feel like I’m going to cry. He just doesn’t get it. “You don’t get to take my personal memories and distribute them to a group of research assistants. Max and I can use them as a script, but consider me the director.”

Max is looking at me sympathetically. “It’s okay, Alice,” he says. “Nobody is going to do that. Are they, Dr. Petermann?”

Petermann purses his lips, but nods in agreement. “Understood, but here are my terms. You will go to the location and act out the dream, and then you will come back and spend a full night sleeping in the laboratory. No more of this afternoon nap business.”

“The whole night?” Max and I ask at the same time. My voice comes out as small as a cartoon mouse, and his is the opposite: incredibly loud.

“The whole night,” Petermann says firmly. “If this is as important to you as you claim it is, you shouldn’t have a problem with that.”

Max clears his throat, taking a sidelong glance at me. “I guess the real question is, which dream will we choose?” he asks. “We can’t exactly hop a plane to Thailand right now.”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “We don’t need something as exotic as Thailand, but it has to be more interesting than the red umbrella. Something that is exceptional, yet accessible.”

Max stares out the window for a moment, thinking. Then he smiles. “I think I know just the place.”





19


Nocturne




THE SUMMER MY father and I lived in Rome, I was desperate for a trip to Venice. He was against this, even for a couple days, saying that like Pig Beach, it was a complete tourist trap at that time of year, and impossible to get around regardless. But I was fascinated by the place. It was a city unlike any other, where everything was old, and where the streets were made of water.

“Come on, we have to go before it sinks,” I said, and there was no way for him to argue with this statement, although he did mutter something about how there’d always be scuba tourism.

Tourists aside, it was even more magical than I’d expected. My favorite part was how easy it was to picture exactly what life would’ve been like hundreds of years earlier. Being in Venice was like being one step closer to the life and energy that the paintings in my beloved museums only hinted about. The water flooding over the steps of a church at high tide, the pigeons in Piazza San Marco, the boats tied up alongside the canals. It was all too easy to imagine Venetians throwing grand parties in their waterfront palazzos, while their guests approached by gondola.

The late Isabella Stewart Gardner, who traveled there in the late nineteenth century, when that very world was still in full swing, apparently loved Venice just as much, because when she returned home to Boston, she designed an entire mansion around it, and then she filled it top to bottom with art. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful in my life. Four stories of Venetian design surrounding a gigantic, plant-filled courtyard, topped with a glass roof.

“Over the course of her life, Isabella Stewart Gardner traveled the world and befriended artists, musicians, and writers, amassing a collection and creative network rivaling any other in the United States at that time,” Emmet Lewis says wistfully as he tours me and Max around the grounds. Emmet was a guest of Max’s parents the night I crashed their dinner, and I was immediately fond of him, his friendly smile, and immaculate tweed suit. He is also the director of the Gardner Museum. “But her favorite place by far was the Palazzo Barbaro in Venice, where she would stay. And you see its influence here today.” He waves a hand at the intricate architecture.

“Thank you for letting us visit after hours, Mr. Lewis,” I say. “This is a dream come true.”

“How could I resist?” Emmet exclaims. “I love young people taking interest in the arts. And when Max called and said you had a school project you needed to take care of right away, I was happy to help.” He gives Max a pat on the shoulder. “Now, I’ve given all of security a heads-up. If you need anything from me, I’ll be on the fourth floor handling some last-minute emails. I had them turn Isabella’s private spa into my office.” He bends over and whispers in my ear, “Sometimes I like to read in her clawfoot tub!” With that, Emmet winks and heads off up the staircase.