Death, Heydrich, and the Violin

I have, over the last couple of days, been making up for my insomniac jag with a truly impressive display of sloth. I've been more comatose than asleep: ordinarily, I squirm about a fair amount during the night, but just lately, I've been waking up in exactly the same position I was in when I nodded off. I've scarcely even dreamed, or if I did, only snippets survived the transition to the waking world:

I didn't even realize I was sleeping, at first. I was in my living room as per usual, propped up on the couch with the telly going. Jerry Springer had come on, but I was so close to dozing off I didn't want to bollocks things by getting up to change the channel. I thought about olive groves in San Gimigniano, and uncompromising blue skies over Capri. My mind began to wander. I felt the familiar befuddling of sleep. One moment more, one stop till dreamland, and a noise disturbed me. I cracked an eyelid, and saw Godfather Death in the kitchen.

"Morning," I croaked. My throat closed up, and I coughed a couple of times. Death came over to sit beside me, kneeling on the carpet. His kneebones popped as he knelt.

"We're all getting older," he said, with a smile in his voice.

"Don't I know it."

"I'll take you swimming soon," he told me, tucking my hair behind my ears. "At Snow Lake."

"Oh, good," I sighed. "I've been looking forward to it."

"We can stay as long as you like."

"Oh." I got a little sad. "You mean--?"

"Yes. Soon."

"I can't, yet. I'm not finished here."

"How much longer do you need?"

"Sixty more years."

Death laughed. "You're hopeful."

"Well?"

"We'll see."

I blinked, and realized I was dreaming. Death vanished, but Jerry Springer didn't. That much was real, more's the pity.

I was standing in front of a mirror, practicing punches and kicks. I had on a pristine white gi, which snapped crisply as I moved. Someone I couldn't quite see was watching me practice from an alcove nearby, calling out techniques, which I would then execute. This seemed to go on for a very long time, but I didn't get bored. Then, all at once, the instructions stopped making sense to me. I understood the words, but I couldn't remember what they signified. I hesitated and stumbled. The person in the alcove made a snorting sound.

"What are you doing?" he snapped.

"I don't know. I just got lost, there. I forgot--"

"This is what happens when you use your charms for evil," he said, interrupting my excuses.

"Evil? I didn't--"

"Look at yourself, Heydrich" he roared. I looked down, and saw that I was covered from head to toe in gore--blood, brains, organ parts, the whole bit.

"I don't know how this got--wait a minute. Who's Heydrich?"

The man in the alcove started to come out of the shadows, but I already knew who it was going to be. I shouted "No, no, get out!" and woke up before I could see him. (Hitler, that is. It was going to be bloody Hitler again. I could feel it getting ready to be Hitler.)

I was outside the Perse School for Boys in Cambridge, waiting for the bus. I had this sneaking suspicion I'd missed it, which was bad, because I had to go all the way to Arbury. I had my violin with me, too. The Cambridge Youth Orchestra used to rehearse at the Perse School. That must've been what I was doing there, since I'm not a boy, and never knew anyone who went there.

Time passed. Clouds gathered, and a forlorn drizzle began to fall. I realized that my violin case was made of rice-paper, and that my father was going to kill me if his violin, a priceless Amati, was ruined. I tried to cover it with my body, but the shower turned into a pelting deluge, soaking everything in sight.

The first snippet was nice. Death was friendly enough, and, although he threatened to kill me, he did it in a most polite and considerate fashion. Quite gallant, really. The second one was horrible--not only did Hitler almost appear, but I was a Nazi, too. The only thing worse than dreaming about being murdered by Nazis is dreaming about being a Nazi. The third snippet was pretty standard, as my dreams go--scenes from the past, all fouled up. (SFTPAFU--ha, ha! Hasn't quite the ring of SNAFU, has it?) I did once get caught in the rain with a violin case, although it wasn't in Cambridge, and I wasn't waiting for a bus at the time.

The Nazi dream must've sprung from something that happened when I was much younger, maybe six or seven. One of my mother's friends was over with her sons, and we were all playing soldiers in the back yard. The elder boy, Erik, had drawn little swastikas on pieces of paper, and we were wearing them pinned to our sleeves. I don't think any of us knew what they signified.

Later that afternoon, our mothers decided they wanted to go shopping, so we were all packed into the car and driven to the local mall. Nobody had noticed the swastikas on our arms, though, so we still had them on there. We followed our mothers through shop after shop, making a lot of noise so that everyone was looking at us. People kept curling their lips and raising their eyebrows, but I thought they were just annoyed about the ruckus. Then, this old lady with her eyebrows in a V came over and started shouting at our mothers, pointing at us and yelling. Our mothers got these horrified looks on their faces, and bundled us all into our coats so the swastikas weren't showing.

"What were you thinking?" hissed my mother, showing her teeth. (She always shows her teeth when she's angry, pulling her lips back till you're looking at yards of enamel.)

I didn't say anything. I'd figured out, by this time, that something was up besides the disturbance we'd been causing, but I was buggered if I knew what it was.

"Oh, when I get you home!" said Erik's mother, reaching up his coat sleeve and tearing out the swastika. "Who do you think you are, Hitler and Heydrich?" She tried to reach up my sleeve, too, but I got away.

Everyone assumed we knew swastikas had to do with Nazis. We were punished accordingly, with long lectures on the horrors of the second World War, and--oh, I don't know--a week of early bedtimes, perhaps. I can't remember the details, only that it was all terribly embarrassing. I'm sure I had no idea. I mean, I'd never...would I? Did I? I don't think so. My whole skin was burning with shame when I understood what I'd done. I didn't want anyone in the mall to see me any more. It seemed as though I'd been wandering round there for hours with that thing on my arm.

Man, I hadn't thought about that incident for ages. Bizarre how it popped into a dream like that, just out of the blue.

At any rate, aside from those wee snippets, I can't remember what, if anything, I dreamed of. Although I've been dozing more or less constantly for the last couple of days, I'm still tired. If I were to lie down now, I'd fall asleep quickly. Perhaps I will, at that. I've earned a little rest, I think. I've been working awfully hard lately. I wouldn't mind trying for at least one dream of quiet forests and still waters before trying to climb back on the horse.

That's probably the reason for all these unquiet dreams, lately: I'm happiest when my life is peaceful and calm, when it flows quietly, without too much in the way of excitement. Just recently, it's been all excitement, all flusterment and bother. I've been worrying about money all the time, and having to find a new flat, and all the associated palaver. Once I get my waking life in order, my dream life should follow.