Still With Me

Jeremy’s trail had led nowhere. He’d naively hoped that the old man and his sad prayer had been recorded. But in the video that continued to play, he saw nothing more than a sleeping man. Up until then, he’d tried to glean clues from his past that would form a point of departure. A common thread for him to follow, leading to the true meaning of his nightmare. And he had found one. It was based more on intuition than logical facts, but it had monopolized his will. Nothing in what he’d just seen made him feel better about the idea.

He was about to eject the tape when, on screen, he saw his head roll slowly to one side. It might have been nothing but a twitch in his sleep. But then, a few seconds later, his head rolled to the other side. Then again. And again, more quickly. It became a regular movement. Eventually, Jeremy heard a whisper. He turned up the sound but could make out few muffled noises. On the screen, his head swayed, and a scowl spread across his face. A horrible scowl. It could mean only suffering. Terrible suffering. The whisper grew louder, but the words were still just as incomprehensible. There was nothing human left in his face. And then suddenly he howled: “No! My God, no!” A cry of excruciating pain in a voice he no longer recognized. Finally, his face relaxed.

Jeremy sat mesmerized by the scene. The cry was his own, and he had suffered. He didn’t have any precise memory, and yet the pain struck a chord in him. He hadn’t seen anything explicit. It could’ve been nothing more than the nightmare of a man brought low by disease.

Nevertheless, he was now confident that his intuition was correct.

The salesman poked his head into the room, looking anxious.

“Was it you screaming like that? There are other customers in the store, you know. Are you quite finished?”

Jeremy got up and left without saying a word, leaving the salesman perplexed.

He stopped for a moment on the sidewalk, his eyes caught by the hustle and bustle of late afternoon.

Where to go now? Where to start? He had to think, to rest and take his time. He headed back to the café.

The owner nodded, annoyed to see him again. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Peppermint water.”

The owner hesitated before walking away with a sigh. “Don’t do anything stupid. Or be an idiot.”

At the table to his right, a woman watched Jeremy sadly. She had golden hair, dark eyes behind drooping eyelids, and thick lips revealing cigarette-stained teeth. She held one in the tips of her trembling fingers, guiding it to the corner of her mouth and taking long, nervous puffs. Everything about her suggested abandonment, as if she’d given up on the fight against disillusionment and age.

Jeremy smiled at her.

“You waiting for someone?” she asked.

He didn’t know what to say.

“I saw you get your package earlier, reading your letter. Crying. I haven’t seen a lot of men cry. Me, I was the one who cried. Before. When they took any interest in me.”

The woman must have been about forty, but looked ten years older.

“It’s my wife. She doesn’t want to talk to me or see me anymore,” Jeremy heard himself say.

“What? What kind of woman is that? The kind who makes men cry? You love her that much?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “Yes, you love her. And she doesn’t love you back. What a fool. If she knew how lucky she was to be loved that much. Was she the one who sent you the package?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you hassle the cabdriver for the sender’s address. You didn’t do a very good job. You got him riled.” She looked at Jeremy for a moment, frowning, still smoking her cigarette. “You want that address?”

Jeremy looked at her hopefully. “How would you get it?”

“I have a little idea.”

“And…why would you…?”

“Why? I don’t know. Maybe so I can feel like I’m part of a love story, even if it’s not my own. Especially not my own. Or maybe just so you’ll by me a glass of champagne. I’m tired of getting drunk on bad wine.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Okay, but I’m not promising anything. Let me see your cell phone.”

Jeremy obeyed.

“The cab was parked in front of the bar, and I have a very good visual memory,” she said, dialing a number. “And anyway, cab numbers are easy to remember. What’s your wife’s name?”