My Father's Dreams. Evald Flisar
across the village meadows and through the nearby woods. In solitude and silence I tried to sweep away the images which multiplied in my head like a tumourous tissue, to make room for new ones, which were already hurling themselves against the membrane of my consciousness. But I could not sweep the old ones away fast enough. So they were pushed by the new ones across the border of wakefulness into dreams. Very soon my nights, too, were swarming with grotesque pictures and curious happenings.
Inevitably it was Mother who first noticed that something wasn’t quite right with me. She demanded of Father to give me a thorough examination. But Father was full of ready-made, neatly phrased excuses. He said that for a boy of my age it was normal to live as if dreams were a reality. Wallowing in illusions was no less my right than a chronic feeling of dissatisfaction with he world, which in any case was one of the basic human rights, and so on. Mother took a gamble and accused him straight to his face of a complete lack of interest in the fate of his son, and of selfishness which was a disgrace for a doctor who had any self-respect.
This appeared to have worked. The next day Father decided to subject me to a little professional scrutiny, as he put it. First he wanted to know which books I had borrowed from his library, and from the school library, and from the village library. I mentioned Zane Grey, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, De Sade, Kafka, Goethe, Cervantes, Nabokov and a few others. He seemed astounded by the mixture. He suggested that, for a while at least, I should read books which are read by other boys of my age. But before I could tell him that other boys of my age read hardly any books at all, he had already changed his mind He suggested that I should stop reading altogether, at least for six months. Then he came up with the final solution: I should go on reading whatever I wanted, but should record all my dreams and fantasies in a diary, which he would examine once a week to make sure that I wasn’t developing any kind of mental disorder.
Without knowing why, I liked the idea of recording my dreams, and of making them part of my personal history. I bought a yellow notebook and set about the new task without delay. By a strange coincidence, the first dream I recorded was more unusual than any I could remember having.
“In the beginning I found myself returning from school along the path I normally followed. It was early evening and the sky was unusually dark. I walked lost in thoughts, without paying much attention to my surroundings. So I barely noticed the silvery light that gradually spread over the meadows. I became aware of it only when a strange sound appeared in the air above me. It was metallic, yet soft and rustling at the same time. Next I became aware of the presence of an invisible being. At first I tried to ignore the feeling, but suddenly it swept over me with such force that I had to turn. There was nothing. I felt a lump in my throat and my hands went damp with cold sweat.
I began to walk faster. But the nagging feeling that I wasn’t alone would not leave me. Suddenly I felt a sharp, stabbing pain a little above my left ankle. Glancing at my feet, I noticed a grey hen whose long, sharp beak had just struck at my ankle for the second time. Then the hen flapped its wings and began to peck at me as if obsessed. I ran off across the meadows without any direction, just to get away from my unexpected attacker. But the hen wouldn’t let go of me; it spread ts wings and flapped after me, clawing at my feet, calves, knees, at every exposed part of my legs. I could feel I was bleeding from many wounds. The hen’s eyes were unusually bright, and every so often they began to burn with a piercing glow. Its wings were causing a pulsating, rustling murmur which followed me past the edge of the wood and into the valley.
Soon the grey hen was joined by two more, one black, the other white. Now I could also determine the origin of the rustling noise: flying toward me from all directions were multitudes of hens, cackling, screeching, gurgling and producing a variety of other sounds, all of them orchestrated into a metallic murmur that seemed to be sweeping toward me like an approaching flood. From one direction were coming only grey hens, from another white ones, from the third black ones. And not a single rooster among them! Far in the horizon I could see groups of hens rise into the air and sail toward me like dark thunderclouds. The smell of so much poultry soon overpowered me and I sank to the ground, fainting; the last thing I heard was the rush of wings directly above me.
On regaining consciousness I found myself surrounded by endless numbers of quietly crouching hens with their heads drawn back and sunk in their necks. The three different colours had mixed, so the hens now resembled a thick carpet spreading in all directions as far as the eye could see. I rose onto my knees and looked around. Woven into the feathery carpet were myriads of gleaming, freshly laid eggs. I heard a strange crackling sound; little chicks were already pecking their way out of the nearest shells.
Then, right behind me, I heard a noise which was closer to breaking and shattering than gentle crackling. As I turned I saw emerging from a huge egg, larger even than me, a grim-looking, uncommonly robust chick determined to leave its prison as soon as possible. Within moments it swelled right in front of my eyes into a giant hen which lowered its gaping beak toward me, picked me up and swallowed me. Pulsating muscular walls embraced me, pushing me deeper and deeper, until I slid into a moist cavern full of gurgling noises and a thick soup of acids, which burrowed into my body and began to turn it into something horribly different. I could feel my limbs shrinking, my neck extending, my belly swelling, my nose elongating, and then there was a thump, as if the cavern in which all this was happening had fallen and landed on very hard ground.
By this time I was really frightened. I began to press and knock and push against the walls of the cavern to escape its suffocating closeness. There was a crunching noise, something hard suddenly gave way under pressure and my eyes were flooded with silvery light. I was able to take a deep breath – only to find that the overpowering smell of so many hens no longer made me faint, but instead filled me with great excitement. I discovered that I was standing on a pile of pieces of a large eggshell. Without a single thought, instinctively, I bent down, picked them up one by one with my large beak and ate them with a noisy crunching sound. I was so horrified by this act that I opened my mouth to call for help, but the sound I emitted resembled anything but my usual voice. What came from my throat was the crowing of a rooster!
From as far away as I could see my call was answered by a shrill greeting of myriads of hens which were flapping their wings and awaiting my guidance. I shook my feathers, which appeared smooth and shiny, caused my crest to achieve full erection, flapped my awesome wings, took to the air and flew across the meadows. There was a stir among the hens, travelling in concentric waves all the way to the horizon. Beating my wings, I flew majestically in a straight line, followed by perfectly formed black, white and grey battalions of my devoted army of female admirers. This is the beginning of a new era, I thought. My era. I rose even higher, while the hordes of hens behind me converged into dark flying clouds. Raining down from these clouds like balls of hail were millions of eggs, which would cover the planet and enlarge my dominions to the ends of the galaxy. Just rising above the horizon in the east was the sun. My crest swelled even higher: the sun had the shape of an egg.”
Of course it had to be Mother who first read the account of my dream. Although I had pushed the dream diary deep under the mattress, she obviously knew where to look. When I came home from school I found her on the sofa with my yellow notebook in her lap, and with tears in her eyes.
“Adam,” she looked at me as if someone had just died. “What’s happening to you?”
“Nothing, Mother,” I shrugged and turned to go to my room.
“Wait! We have to talk before your father gets home.”
I paused and waited, staring at the floor. I ignored her request to sit down.
“Adam,” she began, making a long pause before finding the words to go on. “Adam, boys of your age are prone to doing something which is not good for their health. But they find it hard to resist. How successful are you in resisting it, Adam?”
I tried to fake a yawn. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have, Adam,” she said, “and a very good one, too, so don’t pretend. I’m talking about what boys of your age do with their right hand, and about spots they leave everywhere, especially on the sheets that have to be washed by their mothers.”
“Peter does it with his left hand,”