The Crossing

Proza fantastica de Balog Stefan

The whole story began a week ago, during the communication session, which had as a theme the philosophical anti dogmatic theories of Giordano Bruno. The meeting had a positive effect among my fellow students. Ray, my roommate, proved to be the most hardworking of us all. In only a few days, practically working non-stop, he devoured an impressive amount of books.

After a short while, his attitude began to change. One morning, he told me precipitately about his dream. Nothing could foresee what was about to happen.
“I was strolling in the streets of a city having the feeling of a traveller just recently returned home. I was looking around, feeling quite moved, looking for the eventual changes in the old, winding streets.” I listened to him unresponsively. Two days later, he got up distressed. He could hardly conceal the trembling of his hands. He answered to my questions by telling me two words about a bad dream. We didn’t discuss this further on, but I began to pay attention to my friend’s behaviour.

He had become quiet and grumpy. He, the king of all jokes, the master of good humour, was suddenly and brutally refusing any sort of communication. I guessed that these were the consequences of the extenuation after the study period. I wasn’t quite right. I suspected then that his troubles were linked to his troubled sleep. I almost got to the core of the matter.

Once, walking home, I caught up with him. He was walking, distracted, by the edge of the road, and for a moment, he didn’t even notice my presence. Although I hadn’t had that in mind in the first place, I asked him if he was feeling OK. He looked at me and it seemed that it was hard for him to talk about it.
“My dreams… aren’t what you’d call common ones. That city was just the beginning. It all seemed so real. And the dreams are repeating, you know? REPEATING! I mean, not repeating, but continuing one another.

He stopped speaking abruptly. I tried to go on with the discussion, but he plunged into a stone-like silence. He awoke me brusquely that night. I could hear strange noises coming from Ray’s bed. I turned on the lamp. Ray was tossing and turning in his bed, all sweating, trying to hang on to something that was invisible to me. His lips were moving in a mute murmur. The same story repeated itself the following night. I tried to wake him up, but in vain. In vain did I yell at him or try to shake him, he seemed to be in some sort of trance.

I told him everything the following morning, and it looked like my story wasn’t without effect. He walked out the door grumbling. I was thinking about asking a psychologist for advice, but I didn’t have the courage to tell that to Ray. At that point, it wouldn’t have been too late.

Ray’s skipping classes occurred as an inevitable effect. He wouldn’t even get out of the house. He seemed to be deeply shocked and his sleeping period increased tremendously. He could sometimes sleep 15-20 hours non-stop, apparently serene and without nightmares. But one afternoon, I found him turning in bed, in a sweat. He was sleeping, apparently, repeating a few words in his sleep. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. By listening to him attentively, I discovered that he was speaking in Latin: “Quid est enim pejor… mors anima quanm libertas errosis?” – What’s worse, the death of the soul or the freedom of the errance? The text made me ponder a little and for the first time, I suspected a connection to Giordano Bruno’s story.
Ray’s forehead was all wet. I caught his hand, it was cold as ice. He suddenly opened his eyes and looked at me, almost imploring. That was the last time when our eyes met.

The next day, I left home in a hurry, noticing only when I got back that Ray was still sleeping. I thought it was weird, but I couldn’t wake him up. So I decided to call a doctor. The doctor, a funny old man, was hopping around the bed in a useless way, admitting after two hours that the situation was overestimating his competence. He suspected an acute alcoholic coma at first, but he soon realised that it was out of the question. The alleged alcoholic patient was just sleeping and couldn’t be waken up. So he suggested me to call for a more competent person.

The “competent person” took his time to study the case, listening patiently to my story and descriptions. What drew his attention was my conclusion that the whole thing had something to do with the theme of the session we had participated to and where Ray had presented a dissertation about Giordano Bruno. Dr Lee had spent years studying the fascinating problem of dreams, of their dysfunction and effects. The days passed and Ray’s situation never seemed to change. Periods of calmness alternated with those of agitation, but he never waked up. I told my fellows from college the whole story asking for the permission to stay beside my friend to analyse him.

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