The Other Side (20 page)

And, to cap it all, now the proclamation appeared. It was posted at every street corner and delivered to every house. It could not but deepen the split that had opened up between the American’s party and those old Dreamers who still stood by Patera. It was a terrible time.

I

For some twelve years the civilised world had known nothing of the existence of the Dream Realm. Certainly there were cases of people suddenly and inexplicably disappearing. Many were seen in trains or on ships, but later enquiries produced no results. As long as they were people who in one way or another were at odds with contemporary civilisation and had good reason to go into hiding, no one bothered very much. The world’s interest in moral or economic bankrupts is very limited.

Society became much more concerned when it was members of the academic, artistic and financial elite who mysteriously fled the country. Usually the family would receive one last sign of life from their faithless kinsman two or three weeks after departure, at least a few scribbled lines. But what could they make of things like, ‘Do not try and follow me, I’m in good hands’ or, ‘Circumstances compel me to ask you to release me from our engagement’ or, ‘Forgive me, all of you, but I have no choice’?

A smile of disbelief would have been the only response to anyone who had suggested all these disappearances had a common cause. The police were baffled.

The biggest sensation was caused by the disappearance of Princess X. At that time ladies of rank running away was a not unusual occurrence, but it was mostly the younger age group that was involved. In this case it was an old lady whose home circumstances were perfectly comfortable and happy. She was traced as far as the Black Sea. Some Turkish porters remembered her because of her extreme stinginess in the matter of tips. That was what gave the clue to her identity. The only people seriously concerned about her disappearance were a few nephews and nieces who had hopes of an inheritance. Unfortunately the old lady took all her money with her. Princess X. was never heard of again.

Soon after that came the case of the American multimillionaire Bell which drew the attention of society to the Dream Realm and finally led to action. This king of the canned-meat trade had–how, I never discovered–come to hear of the strange country and taken it into his head to become a citizen. The immediate consequence was a rumour that he had gone out of his mind, which Bell countered by engaging a distinguished psychiatrist to observe him round the clock. The conclusion of the eminent physician was that the American was in complete possession of his faculties. For years this fanatic, accompanied by his doctor and two servants, voyaged round the world, scouring the continents in his search for the Dream Realm. Now he was seen in New Zealand, combing all the islands, now he popped up on the East Indian archipelago. His doctor left him in Hong Kong, declaring he couldn’t stand being with Hercules Bell any longer; he had had to revise his initially positive opinion of his mental health, having become convinced the American was obsessed with
idées fixes
. The doctor returned home while his wealthy patient pursued his illusions. The came the sensation: the American sent a messenger who appeared one day in the office of the English prime minister bearing a long letter and a copy of the proclamation.

His lordship was soon convinced of the existence of a realm that made a mockery of every accepted law, a realm where a despotic ruler, as mischievous as he was immeasurably rich, went about his nefarious business, a realm where many thousands of respectable Europeans were kept in unlawful confinement. The American wrote that he had turned to England as the declared enemy of the inhumanity of slavery and expected rapid and effective help from them.

Although both the letter and the proclamation were crude and demagogic in tone, it was impossible, given the disappearance of so many people, entirely to ignore the plea for swift aid. Was not Princess X. said to be languishing in captivity there? This also explained the strange acquisition of buildings which had so perplexed the European press and which was assumed to be the caprice of some petty Asiatic prince.

The result was a brisk exchange of despatches between the European powers. It seemed imperative that action be taken as quickly and as quietly as possible. Russia, as the neighbouring state, was given a mandate to intervene. The usual petty jealousies were forgotten and parliaments kept in ignorance for the time being.

Within a month a Russian division had been mobilised and placed under the capable command of General Rudinov. They made ‘For Christian morality and brotherly love’ their watchword and thought of the gold bars they would liberate. The czar hoped for a windfall in the shape of a rich province, since the country lay close to the Russian frontier.

In the utmost secrecy a whole host of journalists, photographers, speculators and merchants with expertise in particular fields were invited and taken to accompany the expedition.

The Chinese ambassadors protested to all powers against this violation of the borders of the Heavenly Empire, but by then it was too late and the gentlemen were forced to withdraw, pigtails and all.

The position of the Dream Realm was fairly precisely known from maps. As an extra precaution, however, the American’s messenger was to guide the troops. But one day the man was found dead in his hotel room. A dagger was stuck in his stomach and the three words etched on the blade caused some alarm:

Silence is golden.

Rudinov had to find the country himself.

I

A dull morning. Hercules Bell is still in bed, half sitting up, his arms folded, deep in thought. ‘I will prevail’, he murmurs, and his features–much too forceful to be called handsome–are suffused with a glow of pride. ‘
I will prevail!
‘ he repeats out loud and gets up.

‘I am healthy’, he thinks exultantly, and stands naked in front of the full-length mirror. With a challenging look in his eye he scrutinises his body, performing a few gymnastic exercises to show off his muscles. ‘Hard as iron.’ He thumps his hairy chest. He sees himself as a wrestler and shouts out in an upsurge of joy, ‘The champion: Hercules Bell!’

He thinks of the Dreamlanders and automatically he spits in the corner. He’ll sort out that herd of feeble sheep soon enough!

Suddenly he frowns. The Outer Settlement comes to mind. He has only been over there once to have a look at the inhabitants. ‘Humbug’ was the word which summed up his opinion of the old tribe and he never went back to the village, which ‘didn’t agree’ with him.

Once he had become aware of the cold detachment of the blue-eyed Asians he decided that the Settlement would not be very fertile ground for party politics. In spite of that he felt uneasy about these strange old people and still feared they might in some way act against him. They were completely untouched by the incipient upheaval, still living passively from day to day. To hell with them! Even the most depraved Dreamers were preferable to them!

He dresses and shaves himself meticulously, then massages his face with professional expertise, after which he brightens up again. His final, triumphant blow is still to come, and no one in the least suspects it. He thinks back to the night when he parted from his favourite servant. This man, who had been Bell’s personal factotum for twenty years and was devoted to him, had risked his life to leave the Dream Realm and bring news of the new state to other countries. Connor was outside the frontier walls. With his genius for practical and technical matters he had swiftly realised that the river offered the only possibility of escape. He had dived under at the point where it disappeared beneath the wall and had discovered a metal grille. Under cover of darkness he had managed to file through one bar, making an opening through which he could squeeze his slim, agile frame. That he did one night, and a rocket sent up from beyond the wall signalled to the American the success of his servant’s daring plan. The all-important letter he carried in a rubber bag tied to his chest; for a man of his iron constitution a nocturnal immersion in cold water was of no consequence. Now nothing could go wrong! Connor had demonstrated his stamina and intelligence in all kinds of exploits.

Help would be there within four to six weeks at the most.

‘In two months
I
will be the ruler of the Dream Realm’, Bell says, filling his cigar-case. ‘Soon I’ll have Patera on his knees.’ An evil glint appears in his eyes. Why can he not help secretly feeling a burning admiration for the Master, whom he so hates? In that question lies the whole tragedy of the man.

When, after repeated requests, he was allowed into the country and saw with his own eyes the effects of Patera’s immeasurable powers, his practical outlook viewed the ends to which they were employed as trivial and frivolous. With his enterprising genius he would have created something quite different! His first idea had been to set up a joint partnership with the ‘Master’. That was something he would have willingly sunk his millions in, they could have conquered the whole world! More than this loony bin, anyway!

He was a powerful man. He was so rich people in America and Europe willingly licked the soles of his feet. And here the Master treated him like some tiresome supplicant! His attempts to visit Patera had all met with a scornful rebuff. Not once had he been able to get through to the top man to present his valuable suggestions. Some unexpected obstacle had always cropped up. Was it surprising that a terrible hatred of Patera had filled his heart? He would show him! He wasn’t a beggar looking for crumbs from his table, he would see that he got the respect he deserved!

And so he threw himself into politics, with what success we have already observed. He would spent whole nights tossing and turning, racking his brains to think up ways of avenging himself on his invisible adversary. It was his money and his unceasing activity that had made his name feared throughout the Dream Realm. He felt his goal of humbling Patera was close.

‘But now’s the time for action, not thoughts.’ He looks at his watch. It has stopped! ‘Strange. How long have I been asleep?’ He rings for his servant. No one comes. He opens the door to the ante-room. There is John, fast asleep with his mouth wide open. Bell goes over to his sleeping servant and shakes him. Nothing happens. Finally John slowly opens his eyes and gives his master a vacant stare. Then he immediately goes back to sleep and cannot be reawakened.

Furiously, but ineffectively, the American presses all the bells before going down to the restaurant. The first thing he notices there is the hotel-owner, snoring behind the bar. Some guests are sitting with their heads on the tables, using their napkins as pillows, fast asleep, surrounded by half-empty glasses and plates with the remains of their dinner. The waiter is leaning against the coat-rack, sleeping with the
Dream Mirror
clenched between his knees. Bell gives him a shove and he sinks to the floor without the slightest change to the peaceful expression on his face.

The American charges back upstairs, almost tripping over the laundry-maid who is stretched out on the floor, cosily wrapped up. Struck by a terrible thought, he leans out of the window. At the street-corner opposite something red is fluttering in the breeze–scraps of paper–a badly stuck-up proclamation. He can see two men lying on the ground in the grubby angle between buildings; the skirt and legs of a woman are sticking out of a doorway. Otherwise it is deserted, not a creature to be seen apart from two animals with pointed muzzles padding along in the distance: foxes. Bell steps back from the window. He goes pale and an expression of unutterable contempt appears on his face. His head drops, three sharp, vertical creases furrow his brow, his nostrils quiver and, his body slumping lethargically, he croaks, ‘Bungler! You’ve lost your chance!’ His eyes start to close, but it doesn’t get that far. His body trembles as it fights against the tiredness. Bell drags himself over to the basin, plunges his head into cold water–now that’s refreshing!–takes a swig of brandy, massages his scalp with what’s left in the flask, and the moment of weakness is over. He fills his pipe, puts on his hat and goes out.

Hercules Bell does not surrender.

II

An irresistible sleeping sickness had Pearl in its grip. It broke out in the Archive and from there spread across the whole of the Realm. It was an epidemic and no one could resist. One minute a man would be boasting how wide awake he was, the next he had succumbed to the germ.

The infectious character of the disease was quickly recognised, but the doctors could find no cure. The American’s proclamations were ineffective because as soon as people started to read them they began to yawn. Anybody who could stayed at home, so as not to be struck down by the malady in the middle of the street. They just retired to a cosy nook and contentedly accepted this latest turn of events. After all, it didn’t hurt. The first sign was usually a feeling of profound lethargy, then patients were seized with a yawning fit, their eyes seemed to fill with sand, their eyelids grew heavy, their thoughts went fuzzy and they would sink wearily to the ground where they stood. Sufferers could be brought round now and then with strong smelling salts–sal ammoniac, for example–but they just mumbled a few words and relapsed into torpor. With individuals of a strong constitution a brisk rub-down with a towel would put back the onset by several hours, but then it was just the same. In many cases the outbreak of the illness was very rapid. One speaker was delivering a tirade on the political situation when he suddenly bent down over the table, lowered his head and started to snore rhythmically.

Anton in the coffee house, on the other hand, could scarcely keep his eyes open, and yet was still serving. But, heavens, the things we had to do to keep him moving! We literally had to bombard him with sugar lumps and coffee spoons. He was exceedingly forgetful and when he did finally bring the order, the impatient customer had often fallen asleep himself. We had to keep a sharp look-out to make sure the cigars of comatose patrons were properly extinguished.