Peter Billig
TWO DREAMS
A Saul Vogel Mystery
I was spending most of my free time with my friend, Albert Zweistein. The designation ‘friend’ is an exaggeration: Albert did not actually befriend me, he just accepted my company for walks and tolerated my presence in his study: I wasn’t disturbing him and sometimes I even paid my way as a live object on whose non-geometrical shape he could rest his sight and with whom he could share his thoughts – not that I understood anything of his infernally complex theories.
It does not mean, however, that I am particularly slow-witted: I do not believe that anybody comprehended them – except Albert himself, that is. Already his first book, written when he was seventeen, has been grasped only by a slim handful of initiated specialists, and the next one he was trying to bring out a year later has been turned down by the publisher: none of the reviewers were able to understand it.
It is characteristic, however, that they blamed this state of affairs not on the author, but on themselves: ‘Mr. Zweistein achieved heights none of the signatories can fly up to. Therefore, we are in agreement that publishing Mr. Zweistein’s opus at the present time would be a waste of paper and printing-ink; instead, we recommend that the manuscript be secured until the time when humanity attains a level of development, which would enable us to profit from it,’ was their joint opinion.
Albert accepted the negative-positive verdict of the experts with utter equanimity: for him, the book was past tense: already, he was working on something which would have been even less comprehensible or more incomprehensible. Therefore, he desisted from publicizing anything in print and restricted himself to sitting in his study and unraveling his theses.
It was purely intellectual work: he would make himself comfortable in his armchair, close the eyes and ruminate; once in a while he would dot something on a piece of paper. Before going to dinner, he would write down the date and put the paper on the heap of others. At 8:30 a.m. he would have his breakfast, and on the strike of nine he would begin his work, consulting first the sheet from the day before. Thus he could easily return to the interrupted train of thoughts: his ponderings formed an unbelievably long chain of ensuing conclusions; they were a logical expansion of an idea, which – as he once mentioned – he had had when fourteen.
He would work until five fifteen: that was the hour to sit down to his dinner. At eighteen hours I would appear and we would go together for a stroll of precisely one hour’s lenght. During the promenade I would keep him up to date as to the latest news, domestic and from abroad: he considered reading papers a waste of time. I would also entertain him telling jokes and anecdotes, spinning yarns or re-narrating films. Rarely, should he just happen to surmount a particularly crucial point in his inquiry, he would inform me briefly thereof. I would pretend that I understood – out of politeness.
Exactly at nine p.m. he was back at his desk, picking up his work. I would immerse myself in one of the books from his extensive library – he stopped using it a long time ago, since in his cogitations he had ventured into regions so lofty that knowledge gathered by others could be of no assistance – he was himself sailor, helm and ship for himself.
He thought with his eyes closed, though he opened them frequently in order to scribble hastily on the day’s leaf or to stare at one of the three objects facilitating his concentration: a crystal ball, an ugly figurine of Copenhagen mermaid or on my face. There would be absolute silence. Only exceptionally, if his deductions became unexpectedly intricate, he would read aloud from his slip. In my ears, it sounded like Chinese: he was operating on a level of abstraction so high that he was forced to forge terminology, vocabulary and nomenclature for himself.
At ten in the evening we would sup together, topping it off with a cigar. At eleven I would say my goodbyes and leave, and he would step over to the bathroom where he would first take a warm then a cold shower. He would have a glass of cognac on top of it and go to sleep.
Thus he did every single day – weekdays or Sundays, rain or shine – of all the twelve years of our acquaintance. He has filled exactly 3.183 sheets of paper, which were laying arranged in chronological order, and he emptied as many glasses of cognac. A substantial heritage from his parents assured his wealth and leisure; I have been taking care of his social life and entertainment; his other needs were taken care of by a serving girl.
Should I be asked what discipline of science Albert was engaged in, I would be in trouble. Just in case, I would say philosophy, but equally well it could have been mathematics, physics, theology or even, say, conchology. Matter of fact, the answer to the problem troubling him could be found in any of the mentioned or unmentioned domains; also in all of them or several together – or in one which has not yet been created by us humans. The only thing I can vouch for that I have understood from his rambling digressions is the subject of his research: the quest for the sense of the existence of the world; the very fact of the existence – both of the world and the sense – Albert has assumed a priori.
Exactly on the twelfth anniversary of our acquaintance, I came, as usual, at six p.m. and found him in a state of feverish excitement. I have never seen him like that and I was greatly worried. In spite of his young age (a few months ago he turned thirty) I could not exclude a serious illness, but he categorically refused to go to bed and let me fetch a doctor.
“I’m fine,” he said, but then quickly added in a despondent voice: “You know, today at noon I’ve arrived at my goal.”
I congratulated him, but he shrugged me off:
“It’s all very nice, but what am I to do with myself hence?”
I gave him a thousand and one advice how a well-off bachelor could boost his life, but none of the suggestions met with his approval. I left him in a state of sadness and disconsolation, I consoled myself, though, that he would be quick to make the best of the changed situation. I also promised myself solemnly to help him the best I could.
The day after I found him drunk: he was gazing with dull eyes at a half-emptied bottle of cognac and was shivering feverishly.
“I had a nightmare,” he explained seeing my worried expression.
I asked him to recount: there is no better medicine for that kind of affliction than to share it with another and see it once more – in daylight.
“I dreamt,” he began reluctantly, “that I was here in my study, having finished my labors of many years. Everything was exactly as yesterday at noon: the sun was shining, and through the open window and the chirping of birds was heard. Even the very same fly was buzzing, as it was circling the chandelier.
I was sitting and looking at the ultimate result on the last piece of paper when a white dove flew into the room: she flapped her wings and landed… here,” he pointed at the anglepoise lamp on the desk.
“I was looking at her and she was looking at me. She was not afraid at all, she even cooed a few times.
As I bent over her and stretched out my hand to stroke her, she pecked me – with unbelievable force – in the very middle of my forehead.
For a moment, there was utter darkness: I felt I was falling into a bottomless pit. Suddenly, it downed on me that I was flying up with uncanny speed. The white dove was flying before me, as if showing the way.
We stopped in front of a golden throne. A stern old man clad in majestic robes was sitting thereupon. The dove perched on his shoulder.
‘Ha!’ boomed the old-timer, stretching himself and clasping his hands on his neck. ‘Mr. Albert Zweistein in his own person! We are informed that you have found the meaning of the world’s existence, ehem?’
‘It’s true,” I replied. ‘I have.’
“Well?…’
‘How can it be!?’ I exploded not believing my own ears. ‘You – YOU – don’t know?!’
He spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness:
‘Shit happens.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I replied coldly, ‘but it’s my secret.’
I was hardly finished, as total darkness encompassed me again and I began to fall into the bottomless pit, and from somewhere above, from very, very far away, I heard the rumbling voice of the old man:
‘You shall regret this!’
And I woke up bathed in cold sweat – Albert finished his story and shuddered. – What a ghastly dream!
“It’s only a dream,” I said with a smile.
Albert looked at me and smiled too – at first somewhat grudgingly, then more frankly.
“Perhaps, you would like to share your secret with me?” I suggested giving him a skittish wink. “Please, look at me: I’m sitting on a chair, not a throne!”
He chuckled.
“Glad to oblige!” he replied, now positively cheerful, reached for his piece of paper and cleared his throat: “The meaning of the existence of the world is…”
There was flapping of wings and through the open window a white dove flew inside. She perched on the lamp.
Albert was petrified with the sheet in his hand; his eyes were becoming bigger and wider, and the smile was gradually disappearing from his lips.
The dove cooed and then, with an unimaginable force, she pecked him in the very middle of his forehead. For a while he was sitting stiffly in the armchair, then he leaned forward and fell noisily on the floor.
I took his wrist, but felt no pulse: he was dead.
To this day nobody has understood anything from his hapless papers.
Dream nr. 2
Vogel made Zweistein’s acquaintance (or rather that of his legacy) through me: it happened due to the good offices of an acquaintance of mine: Leonard, the orphaned “apprentice” of Zweistein’s.
I do not grace him with this title without the inverted commas mostly because he has learnt nothing: his “Master” stood – intellectually – two or three heads taller, so much that the “apprentice” has not been able to comprehend even the simplest of the sentences voiced by him. Besides, the bulk of his interaction with the “Master” looked pitiful: he dedicated all his leisure to him, he turned himself into his servant – and what has he got in return? The “privilege” to sup with his gruff idol and to look – with a dog’s devotion – into his eyes, while the other had the goodness to be thinking; anyway, this prize served Leonard right: they say that the worse you treat your dog, the more faithful it becomes.
He must lie on the bed he has made for himself! – I thought at first, but my heart does not consist of stone alone: the sight of the miserable Leonard, who after Zweistein’s demise went, if possible, even more to the dogs and hit the bottle, has woken my pity and compassion. I took care of him, I consoled him, but above all I provided a kind listener on whose shoulder he could weep out his grief.
At last, having poured the sack of all his sorrow and despondency on my poor head, he gave me a token of great trust by showing me – that’s how he titled this trash! – In Remembrance Of My Lamented Master: i.e. twenty-four full typed pages, covered with the most revolting literary puke I ever have encountered.
Everything there was muddled up and mixed together without any law or order: the serving girl’s assiduity was being lauded in the same breath as the Genius’ penetrating brainpower; the size of His shoes adjoined the deep mourning of his Bard, and the only teeny mention of the particular achievement of the Thinker – the discovery of the meaning to the World, no less – has been squeezed in, like a too large foot into a too tight shoe, between the description of the intensity of the greenness of his eyes and his praiseworthy custom of downing a sizable glass of cognac before hitting the hay.
Since I have some familiarity with biographical annotations about Great People (I have, concisely and, methinks, accurately, depicted my Master’s philosophical experiences), I recommended amendments and corrections, both factual, stylistic and orthographic. Those were so much to Leonard’s liking that he asked me to revise the whole thing. That, in turn, resulted in a piece – a mediocre one and much beneath my usual touchstone (all the more so as I strove to keep some of Leonard’s linguistic mannerisms), but having the advantage of filling only almost four typed pages.
Leonard was so pleased that he read it several times in a row and then gave me the token of his utmost trust: took me to a gloomy cubicle in a garret, which he proudly called his apartment, where an old-fashioned wrought-iron chest stood and, in its spacious innards, secreted the three thousand one hundred and eighty three slips of paper, covered with the priceless notes of Albert Zweistein: from the ones yet written in somewhat childish characters to the latest ones, mottled with glyphs so awful that my Master’s squiggles paled in comparison into a first prize in a calligraphy contest: the revered Mr. Albert Zweistein bequeathed all this waste paper to Leonard in his will, but the rest of his substantial estate he left to a distant and many times removed relative: a “lady” in dubious repute.
I mentioned Zweistein, Leonard and his precious chest to my Master exclusively as an oddity: he collects oddballs and eccentrics like others stamps or butterflies – and has amassed quite an assemblage. Unfortunately, he misunderstood: as if I were piquing him to decipher the secret of Zweistein’s papers, but perhaps I am exaggerating my influence: he could have been tempted simply by the perspective of a posthumous duel with another genius or by a chance of learning about the meaning to the world, which of course would be a treat for a philosopher.
Whatever his motives, he expressed a wish to pit himself against the contents of the chest. However, his wasn’t the first attempt: already a handful of scientists had not let the slips be covered with mildew: two gave up after a few days, one turned gray after three months, and the fourth, after half a year, has been secluded in an asylum: he was biting bystanders and wetting his pants.
Thus, besides the eventuality that Master would spend the rest of his days in a loony bin I was worried by the possibility that he would surrender halfway through the quest – which would make a dent in his self-esteem and, in turn, have adverse consequences for me, as I work for him and we live in the same house. The chance for this to happen was looming given that Zweistein presupposed the existence of the world and a meaning to it a priori, while Vogel’s system – gnoscoagnosticism (gnoskoagnosko among friends) – expresses a readiness to accept the existence of both exclusively a posteriori, in principle hoping genuinely that there is no meaning or world.
Beginning his campaign, he prevailed upon me to prompt Leonard into lending him the chest. After my diplomatic exertions, it landed finally in his study, but the lawful owner came every day to check.
Master began his work with a plan and a purpose. In order to approximate the conditions of the deciphering to those of the nascence, he changed his style of life to that preferred by Zweistein; I was cast in the role of Leonard. He worked from nine a.m. to five-fifteen p.m., at which time he dined: he went so far as to insist on Zweistein’s menu and I was obliged to play the servant girl as well. At six p.m. he would imitate Zweistein’s daily stroll and I would trot along. He made me relate him the news – domestic and from abroad – and he shamelessly insisted on my telling him jokes and anecdotes. Abusing his employer-status, he also bullied me into re-narrating films!
From seven to ten p.m. I would be sitting with him in the study and I was forbidden to breathe as much as a squeak. He was minding details to such a degree that he procured a crystal ball and a little mermaid of Copenhagen – these were to facilitate his concentration – but he did not focus on my face, as demanded by the scenario, since – quote – “your mug gets on my nerves” – unquote. Instead, he fixed a facsimile of Gorgon’s head on the wall over mine and lavished all his attention upon her.
He would sup with me and insist, when finished, that also I smoke a reeking cigar. As I was coughing, he would send me, with a malicious smile, to bed, while he would take first a hot then a cold shower – and I would listen with pleasure. When he was finished with his shouting and profanities, he would, covered with goose-flesh, run for his bedroom and down, instead of cognac, a glass of scotch – and go to bed.
Day was following day and week following week, until I began to fear that I was to suffer, like Leonard did, for a full twelve years (especially as my Master wasn’t showing any signs of becoming gray or even peeing himself) when exactly twelve weeks from the beginning of the experiment Vogel stood up from his armchair, impetuously threw the ball and the mermaid into the wastebasket and shouted:
“I’m finished!”
“Bravo!” I shouted. “What is the meaning to the world, then?”
“If you think that the sense or nonsense to the existence of the world is of any concern to me, then you are feebleminded!” he brushed me off.
“So why have you been poring over the dusty scraps?!”
“To join that old man sitting on the throne.”
"You think…?”
“I certainly do! I go to sleep at once and we shall see what the night brings. A white dove, I hope.”
Early the next morning, as I was snoring peacefully, I was awaken by tickling in the left ear:
“Rise and shine, you lazybones! I had a dream, a dream, a dream!”
I sat up in the bed, and he began:
“I dreamt that I am sleeping in my bed. Suddenly, a white dove appeared at my bedside and cooed. I woke up, i.e. I dreamt that I woke up, looked at her and felt that she was too much interested in my forehead for my liking.
‘There is no need,” I said.” I’ll go willingly.’
She nodded her little head and at once I flew up with extreme speed. The dove flew before me, as if showing the way. We stopped in front of a golden throne. A stern old man clad in majestic robes was sitting thereupon. The dove perched on his shoulder.
‘Ha!’ boomed the old-timer, stretching himself and clasping his hands on his neck. ‘Mr. Saul Vogel in his own person! So we meet again! You are so persistent as this Boušek from Libnia, portrayed so verily by Jaroslav Hašek: every time they would chuck him out of the pub, he would come back claiming that he had forgotten his pipe. But let it pass! We received intelligence that you have discovered the meaning to the world, yes?’
‘Yes, I have,’ I replied.
‘So…?’ he asked and added warningly. ‘You are cognizant of what happened to Mr. Zweistein when he refused to answer this very question?”
‘Yes, I am.’
Here Master stopped and complained about the cold in the room. I nodded consentingly and he went to the window and closed it. Then he sat back on the bed and began to beat his arms for warmth.
“For God’s sake, Master!” I protested. “What have you told him?”
“The truth: that Mr. Albert Zweistein made a mistake only once in his tireless reasoning, but as it happened already on the third they, all the rest of his work is totally worthless: because of Zweistein’s unswerving logic the one faulty link has caused the entire chain of thought, together with the final result, to be false.”
“Shit!” I exploded disenchanted. “So the meaning to the world has not been found!”
“You don’t say!” Master was genuinely hurt. “The fact that Albert Zweistein screwed up does not imply that Saul Vogel did the same!”
“So you did it!” I was enthusiastic. “And what? Have you told him?”
“Sure I did. It was the only way to make him steer us prudently and not, as hitherto, by trial and error. He promised to adapt himself, too.”
“I see,” I said after a while, nodding my head philosophically. “C. G. Jung was right, then: the Old Man gains consciousness of Himself through us, humans! But what about sharing also with the unassuming me? I’m your apprentice, after all.”
Master looked around and made a sign to lower my ear to his lips – and I obliged.
“Knock-knock” was heard from the window and we recoiled hastily, like conspirators taken red-handed. A white dove was outside the window and she was pecking the pane vigorously. Her eyes met Vogel’s – and she shook her little head reprovingly.
Master jumped to his feet, his ears blushing crimson, and he bowed – low and submissive. The dove gave him another look – an unmistakable “remember!”, beat her wings and was gone.
“Sorry, old chap,” said the Philosopher, “but you see for yourself: orders directly from the Boss!”
He has not breathed a word to this day.
