The Experiment of Dreams (7 page)

“Shit, I can probably take off next week. I just have to make a few calls, make sure the bar knows I’ll be out of town. This is incredible! I can’t believe we’re going to Paris.” He looked at the three men. Dr. Wulfric was smiling under his thick beard. Iain had the same professional smile he always displayed—yet there was something playful under his stern demeanor. He was happy, Ben could tell. Dr. Egan, however, just nodded his head.

“Are we … all going?” Ben asked.

“Well, unfortunately Dr. Egan has to stay behind to mind the lab,” Dr. Wulfric said.

They were silent for a moment, and then Dr. Egan spoke up, “Yeah, yeah. You guys have fun; bring me back some cheese.”

They nodded.

“Fuck you guys,” he added.

They all burst out laughing, even Iain.

“Okay, okay,” Ben said. “Now, I have to ask—not that going to Paris itself isn’t great—but what’s the pay?”

“Of course,” Iain said. “All of your travel and meals will be taken care of, naturally. Mr. Kalispell would like to offer you five thousand dollars for your time.”

Ben tried to stop his jaw from hitting the table. He cleared his throat, “Five thousand … cash?”

“Yes, sir. All cash.”

His head spun, “Well, I’m in. I’m game.” The knot in his stomach loosened with excitement.

“There’s a lot of work to do while we’re there,” Iain said.

Ben nodded, trying to focus through his excitement.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Wulfric patted Ben on the shoulder. “We’ll have time to sample some wine.”

The waitress came over and handed Iain the check. The men stood, shaking hands. Dr. Wulfric told Ben he would call him later that night, after Ben called the bar. Ben left, walking home, and the three men waited as the limo pulled up to the curb.

“Well, that went well,” Dr. Wulfric said, closing the door after they were all in. “We’re going to have to show him some of the recordings soon. He’s going to demand it eventually, you know.”

Iain nodded, “We’ll ask Mr. Kalispell after Paris.”

“We can’t show him everything,” Dr. Egan interrupted. “We don’t know the ramifications of showing a person the parts of their mind working independently from logic and control. It could change the results of our work, perhaps detrimentally. We’re not ready to test that aspect of Lucy yet. In a few months we can reconsider, but right now we’re making good progress—why risk ruining it so soon?”

“We would have to make significant changes to his dreams,” Dr. Wulfric added. “We can’t show him everything, that’s a given. There’s too much darkness inside him. We would have to remove that cabin he’s obsessed with. It’s come up in every test now.”

“The one that looks like the painting?” Dr. Egan asked.

“What painting?”

“In his apartment, by the door. He has a painting of that cabin hanging on the wall. I could have sworn we’ve already discussed this.”

Dr. Wulfric looked out the window, “I don’t think we have. I never noticed a painting.”

Iain interjected, “I agree with you—that cabin, with his wife … Ben shouldn’t see it.”

I
t was Ben’s first time flying business class, and the slight increase of personal space helped the eight-hour flight go by much faster than he’d anticipated. He even caught a bit of sleep—something he would have thought impossible, flying coach. Nevertheless, the three men were exhausted when they touched down in Paris.

Outside the gate, a man wearing a suit and cap held a sign that read ‘Kalispell.’ He took their luggage to a waiting car to drive them to their hotel. Ben was in awe. He stared out the car window, fixated, like a child, watching the lights of the city flash before his eyes. It had been so long since he traveled—too long. He and Emily had gone to the Caribbean on their honeymoon, and the year after their wedding, they’d flown out west to Las Vegas, and from Las Vegas to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Those were the only two items they had scratched off their list of places to visit in their lifetimes. Now Ben was scratching off another, only he was doing it alone.

The driver stopped the car before the hotel and spoke to Iain Marcus, who happened to speak fluent French, and got out to retrieve their luggage from the trunk. The sounds of the city flooded in: the mumble of words and laughter coming from the nearby bistros along the sidewalk; the cars speeding by on the
rond-point;
horns blaring; music emanating from somewhere, everywhere. It was indecipherable to Ben, a jumble of noise as thick as soup, and yet beautiful and poetic. He stepped out of the taxi and into the heart of Paris. The air was alive, electric, as smooth and delicious as the fluidity of the French language itself.

The hotel stood before him, a magnificent structure lit up like a Christmas tree, with floodlights mounted between each set of windows and all along the base—as bright and magnificent as any of the marvelous statues and fountains he had witnessed in a blur from the car window. The building sat on a corner where three busy roads intersected at a
rond-point
and was constructed so that the front angled 120 degrees at each corner. If Ben approached the hotel from any of the three roads, the building would appear to be facing him head-on.

Ben followed Iain past the doorman, who stood rigid in his starched uniform and white cotton gloves, holding open the immaculately polished massive brass handle of the front door. Ben could feel the heat emanating from the floodlights as he passed and wondered how the doorman wasn’t sweating—or bursting into flames.

The hotel was made to accommodate the wealthy—the aristocrats, the important people of the world—not some lab rat working for a rich American businessman. A group of men passed on his right wearing tailored suits and wheeling designer luggage. The hotel staff dressed as if they were in a military parade, with crisp jackets, gleaming brass buttons, and colorful ribbons and stripes on their arms indicating job position and rank. Ben felt self-conscious and exposed as he looked down at the wrinkled jeans and button-up shirt he was wearing. His skin felt clammy.

He shouldn’t be here, not alone, not without her.

He didn’t deserve the good things in life.

The handle on Ben’s luggage was becoming slippery, and he thought he could feel the eyes of the staff and guests all staring at him. They could tell he wasn’t wealthy—that he couldn’t afford to be in this opulent hotel among the rich and important people of the world. He should be a member of the staff, holding doors, carrying luggage, calling them Sir and Madam.

He saw Emily in his mind shaking her head.

Why do you do this to yourself, Ben?

Because I’m not with you,
he answered.

She continued,
We’ll be together again one day. You can’t live your life in regret, waiting to die
.

He didn’t answer.

She was right. Whatever voice in his head spoke for Emily was right—he should enjoy life when it was good.

Ben made his way to his room number and unlocked the door. His room was different from what he had imagined, judging by the building’s exterior. The furniture and décor were rather modern and minimalist. He had envisioned a room with plush, ornate chairs and intricate old carpets and wallpaper—dark reds, purples and creams. However, the room was calm and cool.

He opened the set of double glass-doors that led to a small balcony, just large enough to stand on, and he breathed in the air from the city at night. It was dark, but the roads and buildings were well illuminated. His view from the balcony was of the two main crossroads in the front, both leading down long, busy streets with marvelous buildings on either side. Small parks took up the spaces between the roads, each with many trees and round tiered fountains. Directly below Ben’s balcony was a small public square full of people going this way and that. A small kiosk, that Ben guessed sold souvenirs, along with magazines, newspapers, gum, and cigarettes, hugged the road. The kiosk was built to resemble the stunning architecture of the buildings all around.

So much goes into the tiniest of details
, Ben thought.

Picturing the packs of cigarettes in the kiosk made him instantly crave one, and his forehead throbbed with the brief, blissful euphoria of what that first drag would feel like. He debated leaving his room to get a pack—along with a bottle of wine—and spend his first night in Paris alone on his balcony, drunk and chain-smoking cigarettes. It wasn’t a bad idea.

There was a knock on the door. Ben turned from the balcony, and looked through the peephole at Dr. Wulfric. He opened the door.

“Ben, how’s your room? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, absolutely. The room is nice.”

“Good, good. I’m calling it quits for tonight; we have a busy day tomorrow. Feel free to go out and explore the city, but remember we have an early morning. The museum opens at nine, so let’s meet for breakfast at eight. It will only take a few minutes to get there. We can walk. Sound good?”

“Yes, Doctor. Sounds good.”

“Please, Ben. Call me Peter.”

“Right. Peter, good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ben closed the door and returned to the balcony. After a few minutes, he went back inside and locked the latch to the balcony doors. Twenty minutes later he was fast asleep.

Ben was stepping out of the shower when he heard a knock at the door.

“Just a minute!” he shouted, ripping a pair of pants from his luggage and hobbling to the door as he pulled them on. Dr. Wulfric was once again outside the peephole.

Ben opened the door. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“Good morning. May I come in?”

“Absolutely.” He pulled a shirt over his wet hair.

Dr. Wulfric entered the room carrying a shiny aluminum briefcase. He walked to the small table and placed it down. “This,” he said, “is a Halliburton briefcase.” He removed a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. “They’re nearly indestructible.” Ben recognized the briefcase from just about every spy film he’d ever seen. “Please sit down.” Dr. Wulfric motioned to the chair besides him.

He opened the metal briefcase and removed a syringe and a small glass container with the odd red liquid that Ben had become so familiar with. Rows of syringes and glass vials lined the inside of the briefcase, organized in allotted slots in the foam walls.

“This just arrived, right on schedule. Now Ben, during this trip you’re going to be exposed to a higher concentration of Nano than in previous experiments, and a slightly different formula. I’m going to check your vitals daily, and please tell me if you’re in any pain or discomfort. Anything at all—a stomach ache, headache, dizziness, anything. Got it?”

“Yes, Doctor. Got it.”

“That’s Peter.”

“What?”

“Call me Peter, please.” The doctor smiled. “We’re friends after all.”

“Right. Peter.”

“I’m sure at this point you won’t need any, but again I have an assortment of nootropics available if you find it hard to get into a lucid state of dreaming, or if you need a boost focusing at the museum. Just let me know.”

“Will do, thanks.”

Dr. Wulfric tightened the elastic tourniquet around Ben’s bicep and cleaned the crease of his elbow with an alcohol wipe. Ben didn’t get as lightheaded during injections as he did before, but the process still made his stomach flutter.

“Almost over … there.” He placed a cotton swab in the crook of Ben’s arm and told him to hold it there.

“See you downstairs.” Dr. Wulfric snapped the briefcase shut, and turned for the door.

Ben finished dressing, and met Iain and Dr. Wulfric in the hotel restaurant. After a heavy breakfast of warm crusty bread, thick croissants, amazingly rich butter, and fresh preserves, the three men made their way to the famous glass pyramid surrounded by the amazing Louvre Palace. They walked down the Champs-Elysées to the Allée Centrale—a straight path extending from the center of Paris to the Louvre, in the west. The path was lined extensively with statues and monuments, palaces, theaters, parks, and fountains. Ben remembered watching some TV show with Emily years ago, where an insanely rich middle-aged couple bought an apartment on the Champs-Elysées for an astonishingly high price. The host explained that this strip was the most expensive road in the world to buy real estate. Now that Ben saw the amazing architecture, monuments, and dazzling retail stores firsthand, he could understand why.

The Louvre itself was just as much a work of art as the collections it housed—an amazing structure built in a sort of ‘U’ shape, with the famous glass pyramid in the center of the courtyard.

Ben spun around, letting his eyes soak in the hundreds of stone and bronze statues of toga-clad and nude figures that adorned the building. The statues were everywhere. The grandeur was impossible to take in all at once. Like counting snowflakes, it was best to stand back and see the composition as a whole.

Iain Marcus led the way inside, acting as an interpreter, although every employee at the Louvre spoke fluent English. Ben was certain they were making their way to the
Mona Lisa
. So far, that small painting seemed to be at the heart of this entire experiment. Ben was surprised when they stopped, and it was not the
Mona Lisa
he was looking at.

“Okay,” Iain said, looking over a folded museum map. “Here we are.”

Ben looked past the thicket of people to the painting on the wall. It was another work by Leonardo da Vinci:
Saint John the Baptist.

The painting was that of an effeminate-looking man with long, curly hair pointing to the heavens with his right hand. His facial expression was reminiscent of the Mona Lisa’s, yet Saint John’s smile was more pronounced.

“Ben,” Dr. Wulfric said, “we’re going to do this just as we practiced in the lab.”

Ben stood beside Dr. Wulfric, shoulder to shoulder among the sea of tourists, until they inched their way as close to the front as possible. Dr. Wulfric unbuckled the leather satchel bag hanging from his shoulder and removed a sketchbook along with a folded cloth, which contained several pieces of charcoal, all whittled down in various sizes.

“We’ll be here for a while,” the doctor whispered. “It will look rather odd if we’re not doing something.”

“I didn’t know you’re an artist.”

“I don’t consider myself to be one; it’s just a little hobby. Let’s begin.”

Dr. Wulfric took Ben through the same process as before. Ben studied the picture closely from corner to corner, focusing on detail, scanning from left to right one section at a time. He took in the strokes of brown paint, circular and shadowed to form the strands of curly hair. He observed the peaches, whites, tans, and browns that made up the soft flesh of John the Baptist’s arm and hand pointing to the heavens. He then viewed the painting as a whole, both consciously and subconsciously.

He focused on the painting as his eyes wandered over it, and then again as his mind was elsewhere. Ben focused on the pleasant eyes, seeing the face and body together, the dark background, the animal skin he wore, and the cross in the background. The lines of white where the paint had been scratched and worn with age were clear and evident.

It was hard to stay focused under the conditions in the museum: the bustling crowds, hundreds of people nudging shoulder to shoulder, speaking various languages from every corner of the globe. Ben had to clear his mind and focus on his breathing more than ever. As they walked away from Saint John the Baptist, Ben found himself rubbing his temples. Nearly an hour had passed, and the sea of tourists around them had changed a dozen times over. Dr. Wulfric closed his sketchbook on a rather nice charcoal sketch.

“That’s good,” Ben nodded at the paper.

Dr. Wulfric smiled.

Iain Marcus was nearby with his back to them, talking on his cellphone.

“No, Michael, that’s not an excuse.” Ben heard him say.

Iain turned to see them. “I got to go. No. Okay, tomorrow. Bye.” He looked at Ben, still rubbing his temples. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. This is just a hard place to focus. It’s much louder than the lab.”

Dr. Wulfric narrowed his eyes, “Ben, are you sure you’re—”

“Yes, Doctor, yes. I mean, Peter. I’m fine.”

Dr. Wulfric took Ben’s blood pressure anyway and shined a penlight in his eyes to check the dilation of his pupils. Iain moved them to a quiet corner, avoiding the sea of tourists curiously gazing in their direction.

“All right,” Dr. Wulfric said. “If your headache gets any worse, you let me know right away.”

“I promise.”

They walked about, taking a break to let Ben relax and ease the pressure in his temples. They spent some time looking at various statues, some so iconic that Ben recognized them instantly, like
Cupid and Psyche
, and of course, the
Venus de Milo
. They spent a short time walking through the Egyptian section before Iain finally led them to their next assignment.

They stood before the painting. “Oh God.” Ben said.

Dr. Wulfric smiled. “Yes, this will be a bit more challenging.”

Ben recognized the painting, although he didn’t know the title or the artist’s name.

“This is the
Raft of the Medusa
, by Theodore Gericault,” Iain read from the brochure, before turning to leave.