The Experiment of Dreams (9 page)

“We’re all set,” Iain said, sliding several papers into his briefcase. “Ready, Ben?”

“Yeah. What? I’m fine.” He turned away, blinking rapidly. The afterimage of the flower stuck to his vision.

“Are you all right? You look pale.” Dr. Wulfric stared at him as they moved away from the front desk.

“I was just zoning out. That flower is pretty. What’s it called?”

Iain and Dr. Wulfric looked over their shoulders to the desk.

“An orchid,” they said in unison.

The image of the petals was still clouding his eyes, as if he’d been staring into a bright light. A shudder went down his body. He was on the verge of having an aura migraine. He could feel it at the base of his head, in his chest, his nerves sparking and twitching.

Breathe, Ben. Breathe.

Panic was setting in—and he couldn’t let that happen. The only thing he could do was try to calm and focus his mind. He took several deep breaths …
.

In through the nose, out through the mouth
.

He counted each breath, feeling the air as it entered and exited his nostrils and expanded his lungs, pressing down to his stomach. He imagined the oxygen spreading to every corner of his body as he inhaled and flushing away the toxins as he exhaled. He saw his body as a galaxy of its own—the air, the breath, the wind that flows, making the planets spin, making the blood flow, delivering the nutrients and oxygen to the far reaches of space, his body, his cells.

There was a mantra he had memorized for occasions like this:
Breathing in, I know I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.
He repeated this mantra several times, matching his breaths with the words. The panic stayed in his heart, but began to subside.

When he breathed in deeply, he changed the mantra:
Breathing in a long breath, I know I am breathing in a long breath. Breathing out a long breath, I know I am breathing out a long breath.
When his breath was short, he changed it accordingly. It was an old meditation he’d learned while doing tests with Dr. Wright, to prepare his mind to stay sharp and focused, and his body relaxed.

Ben’s mouth began to open. He was going to tell Dr. Wulfric he was on the verge of having an aura migraine and needed a Sumatripan, but he didn’t speak. He felt the blood in his head drain out like a stopper being pulled from a bathroom tub. The release of pressure felt amazing. The bright images consuming his vision began to subside, instead of growing and crystallizing into zigzag patterns.

It was passing.

The fresh air outside felt good. He could smell everything: the leaves on the ground, perfume from a woman who passed had moments earlier, the grime on the streets rank with that sweet-rotten smell. His senses were sharp. He dodged the bullet, but it wasn’t over. He would have to close his eyes on the ride back to the airport.

As the cab pulled up to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Ben felt better—fine even. He was lucky—so lucky—that it had passed.

He stepped out of the cab and said goodbye to Paris. There was so much of the city he wanted to see, still so much he wanted to do. The first few nights he’d walked around a bit, sometimes with Dr. Wulfric. They took in the sights, the fountains and churches, but all the while that guilty feeling was present—
he shouldn’t be there
—if he couldn’t be in Paris with Emily, then he shouldn’t be in Paris at all.

Dr. Wulfric had led him to Notre Dame, and he stared up at the horned and birdlike gargoyles through binoculars while Dr. Wulfric snapped countless pictures and pointed out the nuances of Gothic architecture. The guilt, along with a dull headache from hours of intense focus at the Louvre, overshadowed the fun he should have been having. A voice inside his head told him he should go back to the hotel and be alone, get a bottle of whiskey, and let the warmth of the liquid hold him tight. The voice told him he should feel guilty, that he should feel inadequate, that he didn’t deserve to see such beautiful things; he wasn’t good enough, smart enough—he didn’t belong there.

Go home and have a drink. Stare at the painting of the cabin in the woods and lose your mind.

The rest of the trip he was just a man doing a job. He conceded to the voice in his head and looked forward to his little apartment, his small couch, and tiny kitchen. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to open a bottle of whiskey, light up a cigarette, and stare at that painting.
Ahh, the cabin in the woods …
His mouth watered and he licked his lips. A night of anguish and pain was long overdue—a night of drunken torment, recollection and loss, rolling on the floor wet with tears, consumed by emotions, the chemicals in his brain swirling, releasing a constant flow of dopamine and serotonin to mix with the alcohol, creating seesaw-like patterns of pleasure and pain.

These thoughts and feelings swirled in his mind as he sat reading a book in the airport terminal. The flight from Paris to Philadelphia was boarding in less than thirty minutes. He read and reread each line, each page. His mind was elsewhere.

“Is it any good?”

Ben jumped. The voice came from his side. He snapped back to reality, and looked to the voice, not sure who or why anyone was talking to him. He locked eyes with a black-haired girl sitting in the chair beside him. His own voice was momentarily lost in an inward flutter of air.

“I … I’m sorry, what’s that?” How had he not noticed her? She was sitting right beside him. She was beautiful. His heart began racing.

“I’m sorry, did I scare you? The book, is it any good?” Her words came out in a light French accent. Her lips curled at the corner of her pale, flawless skin as she waited for a reply with one of her pencil-thin eyebrows raised. Ben looked at the book; he couldn’t remember the last ten pages.

“Umm,” he cleared his throat, “yeah … yes, it’s good.” God, his face was reddening. His cheeks were so warm—hot even.

Am I sweating?

She smiled, showing him the cover of the book she was reading, holding it awkwardly so her thumb kept the place. They were reading the same book.

“I see you have good taste,” she said, then chuckled.

“I see you do, too.”

“It’s so rare to see people reading books these days—real paper books. Everything is electronic. You know, those e-readers?”

“Sure, I, uh, thought about getting one, but I have so many books at home I still haven't read.” Currently Ben was reading three books: the book he had with him at the airport, Nietzsche’s
Beyond Good and Evil
at home—for the mornings and late afternoons—and a book by Thich Nhat Hahn about mediating in the moment—also for the mornings and late afternoons.

Books were everywhere in Ben’s apartment: in the boxes in his dining room, hidden in drawers, stacked on his coffee table, and on his dresser and bedside table. He tried to keep his books in neat piles and not scattered about. He did not want to be mistaken as a hoarder. However, the reason he didn’t get an e-reader wasn’t because of all the books he still had at home or because he simply liked paperbound books, it was because he couldn’t get himself to buy something he really didn’t need.

Maybe if Emily had wanted one, he would have bought one for himself as well. Maybe he would have liked it. Maybe not. He would never know. It was hard enough talking himself into buying a new pair of jeans. In Ben’s world, extra things weren’t necessary, not when he spent the majority of his time alone staring at an old painting on the wall.

“I’m Sophia.” She held out a hand.

He hesitated a moment, then took it. “I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.” He hoped his hand wasn’t clammy.

“You going to Philadelphia?”

“Yes, but I live in Baltimore. I’m going home. You?”

Her eyes widened, “I’m going to Baltimore, too! That’s so strange! My sister moved to the U.S. a few years ago with her husband. They just had a baby. What brought you to Paris, business or pleasure?”

“Congratulations on being an aunt. I, um, guess you could say I was here on business. Only sort of … it’s hard to explain.” She was about to say something, but Ben quickly interjected. “Where in Baltimore does your sister live?”

“Oh, ah,” she put the book down, looking through her bag, “I don’t know the area; it’s my first time going to see her since she moved from Annapolis.”

“Annapolis is a nice town; I know it well. You don’t have to get the address if you can’t find it; it’s all right.”

She looked up at him. Her big soft eyes took Ben’s breath away: her dark pupils floating in large pools of clear white pierced through him. She was stunning, her hair so straight and black, her features so delicate and small, yet perfectly proportionate. Her teeth were even whiter than her skin, if that was possible, and he tried to think of the whitest thing he had ever seen to compare them with, but he couldn’t.

“Why, you don’t want to talk to me anymore?”

“No, I …” Ben felt words disintegrate on his tongue, and the air grew incredibly hot on his skin.

“Oh, I’m making you blush!” She laughed. “I’m only joking with you. It’s no problem. Here, I have it.” She reached out and put a hand on his knee—briefly, a touch. Ben’s blood boiled.

He looked at the piece of paper.

“Oh sure, I work at a bar a few blocks away. That’s close to the harbor.”

Sitting across from Ben, Iain put down his cell phone and nudged Dr. Wulfric awake from a light snooze.

“Why, what—what’s the matter?” He fumbled for his glasses, which were already on his face.

“Take a look.”

Dr. Wulfric rubbed his eyes. A lovely girl was talking to Ben, leaning over the armrest. She was smiling and laughing, touching his arm.

“Well look at that,” Dr. Wulfric said.

The loudspeaker rang out:

“
Now seating business class only on Flight 815, Paris to Philadelphia.
”

It repeated itself in French, and then English again.

“That’s me,” Ben said, putting his book in his carry-on, and standing.

“Business class, my-my. You must be a very important bartender.”

“Trust me, it’s nothing like that. I assure you.”

Sophia stood as well.

“Good thing I decided to upgrade. Where are you sitting?”

Ben looked at his ticket, and Sophia looked at hers. They were on opposite sides of the plane.

“That’s a pity; I wanted to hear how you liked Paris. Do you have a pen?”

“I think so, in my bag.” Ben fumbled inside his carry-on until he found one.

“Here,” she took the pen from Ben’s hand and scribbled something on the back cover of her book. “Trade you.”

She took the book out of Ben’s hand and gave him hers.

“Hope you remember what page you’re on.”

“I’ll find it.” Ben smiled. He’d stopped using bookmarks years ago. He enjoyed using his memory to remember the page number. It was much easier than people thought when he told them. All he had to do was look at the page number and tell himself:
I will remember
. That was it. Simple. He wondered why no one else did it, or at least tried. Ben believed the human brain could remember
anything
, down to the smallest of detail, if focused correctly.

“I’ll be in Baltimore until Wednesday,” Sophia said, putting Ben’s book in her bag. “Give me a call; show me the city. I love my sister, but I’d like to get out of her house for a bit. Maybe see the harbor.”

“I, umm …” Ben couldn’t speak. His heart felt like it was going to explode.

“It’s okay,” Sophia said, putting her hand on his shoulder, smiling. “If you don’t have time, that’s fine. I won’t be upset.”

“No, no, of course not.” Ben looked into her eyes. They reeled him in like a tractor-beam. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to lean forward and kiss her, right then and there. So badly. Her lips were so soft, her skin … God … he hadn’t felt an urge like this in years. He couldn’t control himself. “I’ll call you, definitely. I’ll call.”

She put out a hand to shake, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Ben …”

“Oh, Walker. Ben Walker.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Benjamin Walker. I’m Sophia Lorenz.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Sophia Lorenz.” He cocked his head, “That sounds so … I don’t know … familiar.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “Yes, there’s a famous actress named Sophia Loren. And yes, I look kind of like her when she was young. Not really, but that’s what everybody says—been hearing it my whole life. My parents thought it would be cute to name me after her.”

“I don’t even know what she looks like. I’m sorry; I won’t bring it up again.” He remembered Emily liking Sophia Loren movies, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen one.

“It’s all right.” She smiled, “My name is Lorenz, with a ‘z,’ not Loren.”

Dr. Wulfric and Iain stood behind Ben as they filed up the ramp and into the plane one by one. Ben stepped aside to let Sophia stand in front of him. He could feel Iain’s and the doctor’s eyes on the back of his head and thought he could hear them snickering like schoolboys.

“She’s pretty,” Dr. Wulfric whispered.

Ben half-turned. “Shut up.”

Sophia smiled and stared ahead, giggling to herself.

There was a man sitting in the terminal far from Ben and his company, yet within eyesight. He had a Nikon camera with a telescopic lens resting on his thigh, connected to a laptop. He focused the camera using the screen on his computer, not wanting to draw any attention to himself.

Just another tourist,
he knew people would think seeing him.

He snapped away until Ben and Sophia stood to get on line. After a moment he closed the monitor, put the lens cap on the camera, and packed his gear. He took out his phone and sent a text:
Boarding. See you on ground.

The man adjusted the rim of his hat, grabbed his gear, and stepped up to the back of the line.

B
en stared at the phone number scrawled on the inside page of the book,
her
book, remembering the feeling as Sophia spoke to him, touched his arm, and had that look in her eyes. Her smile burned in his mind, and he lost himself in a daydream thinking about her light-fragrant scent. Jasmine and vanilla. He found himself wanting to bury his face in her dark, black hair. He wanted to breathe in her intoxicating aroma. He wanted to squeeze her hair in his palms and feel the softness rebound between his fingers.

The flight from Paris to Philadelphia turned out to be an incredible eight hours. The seat beside Ben on the plane was empty. He waited for his neighbor to appear, stealing glances over his shoulder trying to see Sophia, but the backs of the seats were too high.

Then she appeared and sat beside him.

“I’ll get up if someone comes.”

No one came, and Sophia and Ben talked for the next eight hours. Ben told her about his trip to the Louvre, and the paintings he had seen, and the ones that he liked. They discussed the
Raft of the Medusa
, and Sophia could not believe how much detail Ben knew about the painting.

“It’s one of my favorites,” She told him. “Théodore Géricault was an amazing artist. His real passion was painting and drawing horses, which is ironic, because he died from injuries after falling off a horse. He was only in his thirties.”

“Wow, that’s young. I didn’t know that.”

Sophia, as it turned out, was taking night classes majoring in Art History. She taught English during the day to get by, but her real passion was art.

They discussed the life of Théodore Géricault for a while longer, and then began on Leonardo da Vince, when the movie came on. They quieted down to watch it together.
Forrest Gump
.

“Air France isn’t very up-to-date,” Ben said, and they laughed, and whispered over the movie.

The eight hours breezed by. Ben never thought he would want to spend more time in an airplane, but during the descent, he felt a pang of sadness that they would soon be parting ways. They said goodbye at the airport. Ben promised to call, then they both went their separate ways. Ben watched Sophia run to her waiting sister, and the two girls hugged as if they were still children.

He thought about this back in his apartment, alone.

Pangs of guilt overtook him at times, as if liking these thoughts were in direct violation of his now-nonexistent marriage. It was so long since a woman had paid any attention to him. He never tried to pursue any girls at the bar. He did not rebound the way many people did after losing a boyfriend or girlfriend or a spouse, by sleeping with anybody who could give them some comfort. It was wrong to replace the person he loved, still loved, with a substitute—even for just a night. It was not fair to anyone, especially the other person. The thought of sleeping with anyone other than Emily rarely crossed his mind, and when it did, he immediately suppressed it with intense feelings of guilt, as if he were cheating on her, and disrespecting her memory. All the regulars at the bar heard his story, felt his pain, and left him alone.

He liked it that way.

Now, just a full day after returning from Paris, Ben was staring at his phone. Dialing the numbers scrawled on the back page of his book would be the hardest thing he would ever do. He stared at each number, the numbers she’d written in the book—
her
book—with her own delicate fingers. The handwriting looked exotic, something mystical. He put the pages up to his nose, breathing them in. He thought he could smell faint wisps of jasmine mixed with the starchiness of the paper. He followed the gentle curves and crests of each number with his eyes, lost in a trance, as if deciphering some ancient and divine secret.

Old feelings crept up on him: panic, fear, … hope.

The previous day was lost in a fog.

Did I really talk to her on the plane?

His tongue did not seem capable of such things. Having a conversation was one thing, but asking her out on a date? What would he say when she picked up the phone?

He poured a drink, touched the rim of the glass to his lips, and drained it entirely.

Then he picked up the receiver and dialed the numbers. His hands moved unaware of themselves. It rang three times and someone picked up.

The phone was shaking in his hand.

It felt like a dream, as if he was watching himself do it. His stomach fluttered and warmed with the booze.

“Hello?”

It was Sophia. His throat became dry and his voice squeaky.

She spoke again.

“Um,
hello
?”

He had to speak.

“Uhh.” Words were large and sticky, unable to pass his constricted throat. He swallowed. “Hi, Sophia?”

“Yes?”

“Hi, it’s Ben.”

“Yes, of course.” Her voice was bright and cheerful. He knew she was smiling on the other end, her exquisite lips curled ever so slightly, forming small dimples in her cheeks.
My god
, he thought,
she’s beautiful.

Words escaped his mouth faster than he could process them. Was he really doing this? His heart beat against his ribs, louder than his voice, and each word turned into a blur as soon as it passed his lips.

She laughed when he said, “Well, I was just wondering, you know, if you want to grab dinner sometime? While you’re in town?” His voice was so loud, too loud, squawking and piercing his ears. He felt lightheaded, and stupid. He must have been mistaken; a girl like Sophia would never go out on a date with him.

“
Maybe
while I’m in town?” She laughed. “When else would we grab dinner, when I'm back in Paris?” Her accent made every word crisp and clean, carefully contrived and constructed.

Ben laughed. Something about her voice and her laughter calmed his nerves.

He asked, “How’s tomorrow?”

“How’s tonight?” she answered.

So there it was. A date. They set up a time and place. Unfathomable. He was not ready for this, he never would be ready—but it was happening. Events were set in motion that could not be undone.

He waited for Sophia in front of a bar near her sister’s house. He paced, wondering if he had really called her at all. Maybe it was just a dream.

Women don’t like you, Ben. You had one once and now she’s gone, and you’re supposed to be alone for the rest of your—

Then he saw her far up the street, walking toward him. She wore a simple dress that showed her body exactly as it should. Not too much and not too little. Just a bit of cleavage, a little thigh, and the gentle curves of her hips.

When she got closer, he walked to meet her.

Should I shake her hand, give her a hug, a kiss on the cheek
?

She reached out and hugged him, her palms like little doves on his back, and kissed his cheek with the corner of her mouth. His stomach turned on a spit, and a tingling sensation jolted from his brain and spread throughout his body.

“Sophia, you look great—I mean, beautiful. I love your dress.”

“Oh, you’re sweet.”

He opened the door to The Metro, holding it open for her. The lights were low and the music was not so loud that they could not talk. The décor was swank and hip, with couches and polished concrete floors. The staff all looked like models and athletes, wearing form-fitting black outfits that looked tailored to their bodies.

They took a seat at the bar.

Ben ordered a Manhattan for himself and a glass of Shiraz for Sophia.

She touched the glass to her lips, “It’s good.”

“Oh god,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. Why did I order you wine? You live in Paris, the wine capitol of the world. That was so stupid!”

“No really, it’s good. Try it.”

Ben looked at the light, red lipstick mark on the rim of the paper-thin glass. He wanted to break it off in his mouth and chew it. He took a sip.

“See?”

“Yeah, it’s not bad.”

Halfway through their drinks, Ben started to relax. By the time they were nearly done, he felt great, confident even.

“Our dinner reservations are in twenty minutes, want to get going?”

Sophia smiled. “I’m going to use the ladies room, I’ll meet you outside.”

Ben asked the bartender for the check and handed him some cash. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you.” The bartender stroked his neatly groomed hair off his forehead. “You don’t want to finish your drinks?” He nodded toward the glasses. They were both nearly empty. Ben took a sip from the Manhattan. The bartender was closing the check at the register and looking at him in the mirror behind the bar, smirking.

Ben got up from the stool and waited for Sophia by the door.

What an asshole
, Ben thought.

Ben worked with plenty of bartenders who would move in on a girl the moment her boyfriend went to the bathroom, or out for a smoke. Girls on a first date were particularly vulnerable with liquor in their system.

Sophia came out and they left.

They had dinner at Steaks & Capital, a fairly upscale restaurant. The lights were low and the table settings were polished and precise. The tablecloth hung over the table in a perfectly straight line without a single crease. Ironed most likely. The silverware and glasses twinkled like stars in the sky, and there were different utensils for each course, to the left, right, and above the plates.

Ben knew that a server polished each piece of silverware and glassware before placing them down on the table, probably holding each piece up to steam and scrubbing them so the slightest imperfection vanished. Everything was exactly in the right place, set perfectly—perhaps a bit obsessive compulsive and pretentious, he thought.

What a pain in the ass for the staff
, he thought. Even so, it was nice.

The waiter was immaculately dressed and freshly shaved, except for a well-groomed mustache. He carried himself with a demeanor that Ben found infuriating. He made eye contact with Ben alone, not even acknowledging Sophia. Jealous, like the bartender at The Metro, that a regular guy like Ben was on a date with such a beautiful woman. And most likely, the server was exasperated with all of the demanding customers he had to put up with on a regular basis. Ben wanted to tell the guy, “Relax, I’m in the business. I feel your pain.”

When the waiter saw the menus folded on the table, he hustled over.

“We’ll start with the crab cakes.” Ben ordered.

The man nodded, scribbling on a dup-pad with a short pencil. Ben waited until he finished.

“She would like the Miso Salmon, and I’ll have the fillet. Medium rare please.”

“Of course, sir.” He picked up the menus. “And how are we doing on drinks?”

Their glasses were full.

“Fine, we’re fine.”

“And the lady?” He was looking down at Sophia, perhaps at her breasts, Ben couldn’t tell.

“She’s fine.”

“Very well.” He turned and left.

“You know,” Sophia said, “when I first saw you at the airport, do you know why I talked to you?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“It’s because when you sat down next to me, we made eye contact, just for a moment, but then you looked the other way. It was not because you were intimidated, or nervous. You were indifferent. You didn’t stare at me.”

“So you talked to me because I was indifferent toward you?”

She laughed, “Kind of. Men are fools; they try so hard to get my attention. They make conversation when it’s not needed. They have to prove that they’re big shots, that they’re big and strong and important. They think that talking about themselves—inflating their egos—is a turn-on for women, when all they have to do is
not
talk about themselves as much, and
listen
.

“Men, especially in bars, make me uncomfortable. They stare at my body, like they’re molesting my soul. I feel eyes on me everywhere I go. You work at a bar; you must see it all the time: the guys who talk to every woman, trying to take anyone home. It’s so desperate.

“Of course, the girls are usually no better. They may not be willing to go home with just any man, but they are more than happy to take every free drink that comes their way. In fact, some of my girlfriends go out drinking all night and don’t spend a dime. They expect it. I’m not that type of girl.”

“That’s admirable, really, it is.”

“Not only did I talk to you because you were indifferent to me, but I saw a deepness in your eyes during the brief period we made eye contact. You’re intriguing. Not to mention handsome.” She smiled.

Ben felt his cheeks turn red. “I think you’re intriguing yourself, but I don’t know about any deepness in my eyes.”

“There is. I can tell.”

They took a sip of their drinks.

“So,” Sophia said, “what were you
really
doing in Paris? I know you went to the Louvre—but you said you were there on business?”

“Well … It’s kind of difficult to explain …”

I can’t explain. I signed those papers.

Just then, the waiter appeared carrying the appetizer on a small bone-white rectangular plate, thin and fragile. Ben let out a sigh of relief. The waiter placed it down with such grace that the plate seemed to float to the table. Two small crab cakes the size of half dollars sat off center atop paper-thin slices of cucumber in a circular arrangement. Ben could smell the smokiness and heat from the chipotle in the red cream sauce that was drizzled in lines crossways on the plate. His mouth watered.

The crab cakes were just as good as or better than any found in all of Maryland, and the sliced cucumber was slightly pickled and tasted of ginger and sesame. They finished the plate faster than what might be appropriate for a fine dining establishment, along with their drinks, and ordered a second round before the entree arrived.

“Have you been here before?” Sophia asked.

“No, I haven't. I’ve passed by a million times, and everyone at the bar raves about it. I don’t know why I’ve never come.”

“Probably because you didn’t have me to bring with you.” She smiled. An openly flirtatious smile, her eyelids fluttering, and they both laughed.

“I think you’re right.” He knew she was right. Not only had he never had Sophia to bring with him, he never had anyone.