Dream Of Dentist
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
I dream that I am in a dentist’s waiting room. It is not so much the waiting as the fact that, while I sit here, there are other people coming and going, all dressed up for business, but they don’t have to wait—they get called through at once by someone who looks like the office manager or an assistant or something:
“You’re next,” he says, with just a hint of sarcasm, and then he turns away before anyone can respond or object. The only thing worse would be if it turned out that this was my appointment, after all, when I finally got to the examining table and the dental technician put his hand on me and said, “This isn’t where you belong.”
That’s when I’d really know I was dreaming. But this is no dream; this is real life… though some might say this is what dreams are made of, and I suppose, from the dentist’s perspective, that might be true.
For now, I’ll let these people go through, although I keep getting distracted every time the phone rings or one of them comes back and starts talking to one of my neighbors in their own language—a strange mixture of English, Arabic, and German or French.
They seem friendly enough, and they talk very rapidly, too quickly for me to follow anything they’re saying, but even so, they make me uncomfortable somehow. Their smiles never reach their eyes. I wish they wouldn’t stare at me.
They are always leaving the room. There is another person in the waiting room—someone sitting right behind me who is watching me with the same intensity. Sometimes she makes sounds like a baby crying, sometimes like a bird—but it could easily be something else, like a dog. I try to ignore her.
It’s a hot day outside—the air seems sticky, heavy as oil. A breeze off the lake stirs the palm trees. I think about calling up the Weather Channel app on my cell phone, but I realize I’m afraid to find out what the forecast is.
This is when I usually start making noises, trying to attract attention, but I’ve been holding my tongue since I came here. The last thing I want is for someone to take me seriously. I wonder if it would help if I took a look at my reflection in the window opposite.
Not the real mirror, of course, but the screen of a tablet computer that someone left lying on top of the magazine rack. I lean closer to check out my teeth: the upper incisors are crooked, the canine tooth juts out, and my lips are puffy. I’m sure my hair is sticking straight up, too—maybe that’s why those other people looked at me so strangely. What kind of haircut is that?
“Hey! Wait for me!”
The voice belongs to a kid, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, who’s rushing out of the building. His clothes are all stained with sweat. He runs past me into the parking lot. Someone shouts after him, but he ignores them. When I step out, I see two more people following him into the car park.
One of them has a black eye, which explains why everyone keeps giving them odd looks. They’re all in such a hurry that I’m afraid they won’t stop for me. But they do stop. Two of them get in behind me, and one gets in beside me, where I thought I was going to have plenty of room for myself.
I’m still staring at the boy as we pull away because there’s something familiar about him: his long face, his narrow nose, and mouth, the way his shoulders are hunched forward, looking small and vulnerable in a bulky suit jacket. His dark eyes, wide open, show how frightened he must be.
My heart begins beating faster. “Who is that?” I ask no one in particular. “What happened to him? Where’s he running from?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls down the partition between us and stares directly ahead without blinking. I look over at him again, hoping to catch him looking at me. But he’s concentrating on his driving, and it seems as if I can feel the vibration of the engine through my seat.
Suddenly, the image jumps into focus, and he sees me. It makes him smile a little. “Sorry about that,” he says, “but we weren’t expecting any of you to come along.” I turn back to the window and try to imagine what he means, but all I manage is a vague feeling of déjà vu.
A few minutes later, the boy’s face appears on the dashboard screen. I lean closer to see what he’s doing, but it’s just a video feed from somewhere outside, probably one of those new-fangled drones that people can buy from Amazon or whoever nowadays.
“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to bring all of you out here,” he says. “This is an important moment in your life. Some of you will grow up to become doctors or engineers, but I think most of you are going to end up dead before you reach adulthood.”
“You’re joking,” one of the others says, leaning toward the screen. That’s not a good idea, because the boy’s head jerks sharply in response. His mouth twists into a sneer as he looks around at his audience. “We are not children—we are future leaders!” he shouts. “Don’t forget that. Now please pay attention to me! We’re about to cross a border—”
I glance around at the others and notice that none of them have bothered to look at the camera. They were so intent on whatever had drawn their attention out there. I suppose I should have done the same.
I was too busy staring at the kid. But it wasn’t just him that made me sit up straighter and pay attention. There was something else—some reason that I’d been pulled out of bed to see this place, to hear these words spoken aloud. “Wait a minute,” I say quietly, “what’s your name?”
For some reason, my voice comes out lower than usual.
“My name is John Carter,” the boy says, with a slight bow.
***
John Carter: a soldier of Mars. Who was he? Why does it matter?
As soon as I hear the sound of his voice, a thousand things come together in my mind. The boy’s hair, his dark eyes, the way his hands rest casually on his lap, the faint smell of sweat in the air. A moment later, I remember his name. “You used to live in South Africa. Right? You were the last person on Earth to see him alive.”
“You know who I am? And you still think I’m telling you the truth?” He nods, and there’s a brief silence while I try to process it. “I was fourteen when it happened,” John Carter says. “But it’s funny because he never seemed old to me.”
“How did he die?” I ask, thinking that I already have enough to write a book about. “Was it an accident?”
“It wasn’t a bomb,” he says. “That’s what everyone thinks, but no, it was an accident. An industrial accident.”
“An explosion?” I ask. “A mine?”
“No, not exactly,” he says, looking straight at me now. “Not exactly a mine.”
I nod slowly, trying to take it all in. “And you saw him right after he died?”
“Yes.” He hesitates for a second and then looks down at his lap again. “It’s hard to explain, even now. When I found him lying there, I thought he was sleeping peacefully, but it turned out it was only the shock—he wasn’t breathing anymore.
And I couldn’t help but wonder how many other boys like him were out there, maybe asleep in the streets of Cairo or Kabul or Nairobi, and I wondered if they were having the same kind of dreams if they felt as alone as I did.”
“The boy I saw today looked so happy,” I tell him. “I don’t think he ever really knew what loneliness meant. How could he, after what you said?”
He smiles at that. “I suppose that’s the problem with being young. You always want more, whether you get it or not.”
Something clicks inside me, some piece of a puzzle that has lain hidden until just now when it finally fits into place. “There was another boy with us back then. He was younger than you were, and he was white.”
John Carter’s smile fades. “What happened?”
“We didn’t find any clues. Not a single fingerprint, not a hair—nothing. Just one more dead kid.” I take a breath and go on, telling him what I know: about our search for the truth and the lies we were sent away to school to learn.
I tell him that the story got bigger and stranger until we ended up in that small town called Hope and stumbled across the boy who’d been killed in South Africa. He listens attentively, saying nothing. “Now I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you, and we’ll do it over lunch,” I say. “In fact, I’d prefer it if he came here. Can you meet him at his hotel tomorrow evening?”
I can see him weighing up the options in his mind. If the boy was lying before, why not lie some more? “All right,” he says. “Where will you be?”
“Right next door,” I answer. “At the bar where you met me yesterday.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and I leave the room feeling strangely satisfied. At least one thing is clear. Whatever happens tomorrow night, I won’t be leaving empty handed.
***
A few minutes later, the phone rings, and I answer without hesitation. It’s David, the writer from New York. “Hello,” he says after the usual pleasantries. “You’re a journalist, aren’t you?”
“I work for a newspaper,” I say.
“Oh, that explains it then,” he says. “I had a friend once who worked as a journalist.” His voice goes a little softer; I can almost feel him smiling behind the line. “He made a mistake and ended up getting sent to prison for two years. Do you think you might be able to do something about it?”
***
David was the third person to call me since I returned to the hotel after meeting John Carter. The first was a man named Paul, a lawyer from Los Angeles who wanted me to prove his client innocent of drug trafficking charges.
Paul told me his client was being tried for smuggling cocaine between the US and Canada and asked me to come up with evidence to show that his client had been framed by crooked cops. There was no mention of money.
Paul sounded nervous, even apologetic; I sensed immediately that the conversation wouldn’t get anywhere unless I agreed to help this poor guy out of a jam. “Why don’t you let me talk to my editor,” I said, and the call ended with no further questions.
Paul’s colleague, the one who hired me for the job in New York, left a message. “Call me when you wake up,” she said.
“When I woke up,” I answered because that’s when the call came through on the room phone.
“It’s me,” she said. “Can we meet somewhere tonight? Or better yet, tomorrow night. I don’t have much time, and we need to make some decisions.”
“I’m busy,” I said, “but I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
She sighed at that and hung up. A few minutes later, I get another call. This time it’s a woman who says she’s from the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. She wants to hire me for a different kind of job.
One that involves going undercover—as one of the tribunal’s investigators, to be exact. “You sound young,” she tells me in clipped tones. “Don’t worry, I don’t care how old you are, as long as you’re discreet and you have a good reputation.”
My stomach clenches, but there’s no use arguing: I already accepted the assignment, so whatever happens now is all her fault. “I understand,” I reply. “How did you know I was in South Africa?”
“Someone tipped off the press, obviously,” she replies. “The tribunal will pay you twenty-five thousand euros for your first week on the ground. If you like working with us, there may be more work after that. How does that sound?”
“Very good,” I say. I tell her I want to talk it over with my boss, and she agrees to call me back when I’m free. That was an hour ago and she hasn’t called yet, which means the whole thing is still up in the air. For the moment, I tell myself, all I have to do is keep quiet and wait.
***
“There you are,” John says, appearing suddenly at my side. He looks exactly as I remember him from last night. Tall and thin with a wiry body and narrow shoulders and narrow eyes. The way he stands, his hands behind his back, gives him such a menacing presence that I half expect him to grab me by the collar and start shaking me violently any second.
But he doesn’t look angry. Only interested, perhaps a little disappointed. Like he knows something I don’t, but I’ve missed the point somehow.
He walks past me without a word, heading for the bar.
“Wait!” I shout, running to catch him. “John, please, you’ve got to hear me out—”
“Come inside,” he interrupts. “Let’s talk there.”
We step into the hotel dining room together, just behind the restaurant, and take seats in the booth nearest the window. The curtains are drawn, and the lights dimmed. It’s late; the place is nearly deserted except for three or four couples sitting at tables, drinking wine, and enjoying each other’s company.
No one pays us any attention, and I begin to relax a little. “What do you want to tell me?” John asks. He gestures toward the menus. “Do you have a problem with the food? I could order you a steak tartare if you’d prefer.”
“No, thank you.” My mind goes blank, and I can barely form words around the knot of anxiety inside my chest. “Actually, I thought you said we were having dinner tonight. You promised…”
“I said I would see you tonight,” he says simply, leaning forward. “That doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to eat.” He glances across the table and smiles briefly before turning to face me again. “I’ve had a lot of meetings today with the people who run this hotel, so they’re probably wondering why I’m here now.”
He pauses, waiting to see whether I’ll respond. When none comes, he adds, “And besides, I didn’t really want to stay away too long from you. I wanted to make sure everything was safe with you.”
“But I told you, I’m okay,” I protest. “You said yourself—”
“Oh, don’t play games with me, Jillian.” His voice sharpens slightly, but still, he seems to have softened. “You’re very upset right now. I know you’re trying to hide it, but you can’t fool me.”
I look down at my lap. “I wasn’t playing games.”
His hand clamps on my wrist. “Jillian,” he breathes in exasperation. “Look at me!”
Slowly, reluctantly, I lift my head until our eyes meet again. “Why did you call me Jillian?” I ask him softly. “Last night it was Jill…and when you came in here earlier tonight—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protests. “Who was I supposed to be?”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t remember either.”
“I told you it wasn’t me,” he snaps, pulling his hand away. “It couldn’t possibly have been. I’ve never been anywhere near this hotel.” He leans back against the seat and folds his arms. “And since we’re finally having a proper conversation, let’s stop playing these stupid games and talk sense for once.
You’re upset because someone tried to kill me today. And you think it might have been because of the tribunal.”
“I don’t care,” I tell him flatly, shaking my head. “All I know is that you saved my life. So don’t pretend I’m not grateful. Or that you weren’t trying to protect me when you called me Jillian.”
Something flashes across his features: pain or fear or guilt? He doesn’t bother replying. Instead, he gets to his feet and pushes past me through the curtain wall. Outside, there’s a sudden flare of sunlight on his back as he turns and faces me once more.
“Listen,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry if you feel betrayed by all this, but I didn’t lie to you. All day long, when I was walking to your hotel from the train station and later while we were waiting for the tribunal to start, I was convinced that it was going to happen sooner rather than later—that something terrible would go wrong and I’d end up dead before lunch.
So I knew there was no reason for us to wait for it. If someone wants to try and murder me, then I want them to do it today.”
My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can hardly hear him over it. “I don’t understand,” I say at last. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t know exactly,” he replies. “But I was sure enough that I decided to come straight here instead of returning to my hotel first.” He pauses for a moment, looking at me with grave concern. Then he takes my hand again, squeezing it lightly. “If anyone comes after you in the future, then it may be a different situation entirely. But I won’t risk leaving you unprotected.”
I nod numbly, unable to speak. “I wish you hadn’t gone alone,” I whisper at last. “I’m glad you’re safe, but…I don’t know if I could forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
He shakes his head, and I can see that he understands perfectly well how I’m feeling. His fingers are warm as they wrap around mine; I can already feel the warmth spreading out from where we touch. “You should rest,” he tells me gently. “The tribunal isn’t due to end until tomorrow. We can worry about things like this afterward.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “I just need to know…” I take a deep breath and force myself to keep speaking, even though my throat is dry and tight. “You said you had some business with me last night, but I don’t remember you saying what that was. Did I ask you something before the tribunal started?” I can only pray it was something simple because I haven’t the faintest memory of it.
His expression grows distant again. “There wasn’t any question.” The words are slow to emerge. “Not about the tribunal or anything else. That’s why I came in here.”
I blink at him, bewildered. “Then what was it?”
“What do you think it was?” His tone is light as if he’s teasing me. He steps closer and leans down to kiss me, but before he does I stop him, stepping forward and cupping my hand against his cheek. “Did I forget to give you my real name? Do you need me to repeat it?”
His eyes widen in surprise as I press my lips against his. He pulls me into his embrace, and for an instant, his mouth is on mine. It tastes faintly sweet as if he’s eaten fruit just that morning. “No,” I whisper against his skin, pulling away a little to look up at him. His face is impassive now, the tension in his body slowly melting back into calmness. “I mean…what else could it have been?”
He shrugs slightly, still watching me with those bright blue eyes. Then he moves to pull me close once more. “I thought about it all night. There was nothing more important, nothing urgent, that I wanted to talk about with you.”
The End