“THE STRANGER’S ‘ENIGMA”
Dr. Daniel Brandon, a successful neurologist, falls victim of marital discord and job stress compounded by an unfair and torturous malpractice suit. The situation threatens his mental sanity, and nightly dreams become his only escape. He discovers the protagonist of his dreams resembles him physically but is always young and happy and, unlike the dreamer, enjoys sexual freedom and adventures. Convinced that this character holds the secret of eternal youth and happiness, Daniel Brandon decides to study him and unveil the mystery. The doctor envisions what he believes to be cryptic messages embedded in the dreams that seem to steer him through a maze of trails and should lead to the resolution of his quest. In a dream, Daniel meets his true love, Julie, who catapults his research to an unprecedented height. He hopes that unveiling the secret will provide him the key to reaching eternal bliss with Julie.
Set in a real waking world under the whimsical rule of the dream world, this thought-provoking novel engages readers in a romantic adventure full of fantasies.
CHAPTER ONE
The Secret
For the past few months, I’ve observed a man who hides inside me, comes alive in my dreams, and does whatever he wishes without asking my permission. He seems like some sort of next-door neighbor, someone whom one sees all the time but hardly knows. He has a certain resemblance to me when I was young, but he looks more attractive: tall, broad shoulders, a full head of dark hair, deep brown eyes under long eyelashes, and the early dark stubble of a Latin lover. I named him Sonie because he never mentioned his name. The term bears no relationship with the word “son” but derives from sueño, which means sleep or dream in Spanish. A distinctive feature about him caught my attention: he lives in everlasting joy and youth. Why is he always young, handsome, and full of spirit? What could explain his persistent exhilaration? Doesn’t he ever get tired of having fun and merriment? I plan to learn from him the secret of this eternal bliss. This revelation should help me recover the lost happiness and stop my aging.
My midlife crisis wreaks havoc on my mood. I am a doctor and own everything I’ve ever wanted. But years of high-level success have taken a toll on me and worn me out. Fifty is a tough age. The number matches the current year, 2005, but it gives me the weird sensation that a solid five zero will rush into a whopping six zero in no time. My life is no longer the same. I used to enjoy my leisure time, making love to my wife Marlene, or biting my nails while watching the Cubs lose. The Cubs still keep losing, but sexual intercourse occurs only once in a blue moon as we’ve grown tired of the perfunctory act. There aren’t too many variations you can put into the same hanky-panky over and over, or maybe there are some we don’t care to know. Even if I learn them, any trifle can chill my wife’s occasional romantic inclination and send me to the sidelines for an even longer time. If I forget a birthday gift, don’t take the garbage out, or don’t help with grocery bags, I pay a heavy price. Lengthy conversations with my patients tire me out. I become so quiet at home that my wife resents my concise manner. Her endless whining ticks me off: “put the coffee cup away,” “put down the toilet lid,” “wash your dishes.” She sometimes feels guilty and doesn’t let me lift a finger. I am more confused than a Mexican busboy in a Chinese restaurant.
Marlene still boasts long and wavy blond hair and slender legs, but over the past few years, her physical attractiveness has declined. Time left a few imprints on her face: tiny wrinkles along her cheeks, subtle bags around her eyelids, and incipient crow’s feet. She dresses like salesclerks in the perfume department at upscale stores and speaks with a French accent, which lends her a sexy demeanor. I’ve also undergone some metamorphosis: new hair growth in my ears and nose, small bags under my eyes, saggy muscles. Yet the color of my salt-and-pepper hair contrasts with my thick gray mustache, which along with my tall and thin figure and receding hairline still make me look distinguished.
Marlene and I married in 1983 and have three grown children in college: Ana, 21; Emmanuelle, 20; and Steve, 19. Ana has my obsessive personality, the pale white skin of an Irish woman without freckles, and the necessary love of bikinis and sandy beaches to become a marine biologist. Emmanuelle has blond hair, blue eyes, and a hippy attitude that seems at odds with her plans to study accounting. Steve takes after his mother, could be a poster hunk on any women’s magazine, and has no idea what he wants to do with his life.
My mother knows of the difficulties I’ve been undergoing. A few weeks ago, she invited me to lunch, and in the course of our conversation, she called my attention to the cloud of unhappiness that had crept into my life. When I made the comment that some of my idiosyncrasies resembled my father’s, her remark piqued my curiosity.
“You could have been somebody else.”
“What do you mean? Who might I have been? Did you have an affair?”
“What I’ve done with my life is none of your business. But, anyway, I never had an affair.”
“Should I conclude I could have been better off or worse off?”
“Stop it! Daniel. You are a neurologist. You should know what I am talking about.”
“Mother, why do you always talk in riddles?”
“Jesus! Are you blind? You are a mature man. If only you would observe those who live close to you and learn more about them… particularly the closest one.”
“My wife?”
“No, not your wife.”
“Mother!”
“No. That’s for you to find out.”
I followed her advice. I looked around and paid attention to my colleagues, friends, and relatives, but nothing came of it. Their lives were different, but not better or worse than mine. It then dawned upon me that my mother was a dilettante psychologist, and she had referred to the main character in my dreams, the stranger who lives inside me, Sonie.
To unveil his secret of eternal bliss, I’ll study each of my dreams in depth, observing his behavior and any other clue about his gift it might contain. This project presents a great deal of challenges even for someone like me who is familiar with the workings of the human brain. Dreams are difficult to remember. Their contents sink into oblivion in the blink of an eye and often skip consciousness. For example, a few days ago, my wife heard me saying,
“Move your feet… move your feet.”
Yet, none of the dream scenes I captured had anything to do with this instruction. I trained myself to retain details of images that appear as vivid as if I had witnessed these scenes while awake. This task is accomplished through the deep-seated conviction I must record the entire event. I issue this request to my alert brain. Then, I rouse after each dream and attempt to remember the details of the scenes as much as possible. I go to the bathroom, jot down a few sentences that will remind me of the entire description, and the next morning, write it out in my diary. Before I began this project, my dreams seemed few and far between. Now I remember them two to three times a night, sometimes even five or six times. My wife has no clue about my study and probably thinks I suffer from a prostate problem. Tonight, I have a dream:
It shows Sonie with a svelte and tall young woman who boasts long blond hair and hazel-blue eyes that inspire every corner of her boyfriend’s heart. The couple strolls by a plaza full of palm trees and flowers when he looks at her and says,
“Lola, I love you. You have an angel’s face.”
She stops, places a soft kiss on his mouth, and then presses against his passionate lips. Her friend Rose joins them. Thin and petite, she has brown hair, a tiny nose, milky splendorous skin, and a waist smaller than a bee’s.
“Let’s go to the market,” Sonie shouts. “I need to buy some sardines!”
Lola sits on her red motorcycle. I hear her pushing down the pedal, and she beckons her friend to sit between her and her boyfriend. Lola drives fast on a narrow road as Sonie puts his hands around Rose’s waist and notices her sensuous scent. Her body heat radiates against the young man as his hands drift inside her bra and find her nipples erected and rugged like unripe raspberries. As soon as they arrive at the market, Rose glares at him, but he knows she is putting on a show. Lola smiles. Feeling irresistible, Sonie bursts into laughter, rolls on the ground, and screams out,
“I am not overwhelmed by love anymore!”
The dream is over because my wife Marlene calls my name,
“Daniel! Daniel! Wake up, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
“Oh, Marlene, why do you make such a fuss? Let me sleep. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
Last night, when I saw the weird way Sonie behaved, I realized I was dreaming. I never rode a motorcycle in my life, let alone touched a woman’s breast while riding one. Nor have I ever thrown myself on the floor laughing my head off. As a single man, I made a conscious effort to address attractive women, mustering enough pluck to approach them. My mother warned me to stay away from girls until I finished medical school because in her own words, “women demand too much time and effort, and worst of all, they get pregnant.” I was so young when she proclaimed this maxim that the word “pregnant” sounded as ominous as gangrene.
Dreams resemble a movie production: the idea, the plot or screenplay, the location or setting, the casting, the film-like scenes. The idea or trigger of a dream takes place the day preceding its occurrence. But in the Lola and Rose dream, I don’t recall any scene, sensation, or thought that happened the previous day that could have triggered it. Lola is a total stranger, and Rose is someone I met before, but I don’t know where, and I must have seen her quite a while ago. She might be a nurse at the hospital where I practice or, God forbid, one of my former patients. I didn’t come across her or think of her, feel amorous, see palm trees, or ride a motorcycle. Nor had I touched sardines in a long time because fish stink, and their stench sticks with me like a broke brother-in-law. The dream plot showed Sonie having fun in a location that replicated a Caribbean town, which reminds me of one of the tourist destinations I’ve enjoyed.
The main character in my dreams is young and handsome Sonie. From time to time, it features Daniel Brandon—me—at my current age with my older look, mustache, and receding hairline. When it does, I become the central figure in nightmares that put me through the wringer. I suspect Sonie controls my dreamland because he assigns me the worse part and saves the best experiences for himself. There is no end to his deviltries. I never know what kind of ordeal Sonie will subject me to at night. In contrast, the son of a gun sorts out my landfill of mental images and picks for himself whatever he pleases, reveling in mirth and celebrations. I have no say in his selection, so I plead not guilty of anything that goes on in my dreams. Seldom does somebody else, a friend, or one of my late pets acts as the protagonist.
Last night’s cheeky behavior under my very nose is an example of Sonie’s total disregard for me. He jumps into my brain and takes over. I don’t know where he comes from. He doesn’t care what I think, or what other people think, and never tires of fooling around. Some old authors believe I am responsible for Sonie’s behavior. For example, in 1914 Hildebrandt wrote:
“It is impossible to think of any action in a dream for which the original motive has not in some way or another—whether as a wish, or desire or impulse—passed through the waking mind.”
Does he mean that Sonie has all the libertine fun, but I am the sinner? Do I work all day long, yet I still bear all the responsibility for his behavior at night? What intrigues me most about the last dream is his bout of laughter associated with the exclamation,
“I am not overwhelmed by love anymore!”
Perhaps, it means that love doesn’t chain Sonie to his lover because it runs free in the world of dreams. He may be a disguised hippie who sits on top of the world and enjoys a tremendous advantage over others since, as with Rose, he can listen to other people’s thoughts.
Sigmund Freud states in his book The Interpretation of Dreams that the primary goal of a dream lies in the fulfillment of a wish. This assertion might be interpreted that I desired such elation in the Lola and Rose dream. Even if I did, the one who ended up full of happiness with a smile on the face was Sonie, not me. He relished every minute of the erotic adventure, and at the conclusion, wore a grin from ear to ear. I’ve never acted as Sonie did. Nor have I ever experienced his feeling of freedom, cheeky attitude, and carefree approach to women.
I’ve always been so shy I am sure I’ve encountered nothing close to those scenes in real life. I love my wife and don’t check women out. Shyness plagued me. Compliments embarrass me, confrontations unnerve me, and asserting myself makes me toss and turn all night long. These flaws seeped into my leisure habits, for games bored me, and fun activities felt like a waste of my time. Years of conscious work have eliminated my timidity and changed me into a stolid person who seldom laughs or enjoys hours of idleness. I avoid immorality, disloyalty, unfaithfulness, dishonesty, hypocrisy, and ill will. My conduct stems from my own principles and is not the result of religious beliefs or fear of God’s commandments. Yet jealousy assaults me whenever others fare better than me. At this very moment, I am jealous of the man in my dream, jealous of the audacious freedom and elation he enjoyed when he laughed in unrestrained guffaws. I’ve never had this kind of pleasure in my life.
I wonder what my mother had in mind when she said I could have become a different person. I guess she meant someone who can look at life with optimism when confronted with adversity. Maybe, she noticed some drastic change in my mood when I was a child. I collect my thoughts and call her. She is an early riser.
“Mother, do you think I developed healthily during my childhood? Was I a normal little boy who liked to play and have fun?”
“Well, you always were peculiar.”
“What do you mean?”
“You spent your days hitting nails on the head.”
“That isn’t bad. I guess. I was already displaying self-confidence.”
“No. You were such an oddball. You smashed anyone or anything around you with your hammer, and then you laughed.”
“I don’t remember the last time I laughed. How did you change me? Did you indoctrinate or brainwash me?”
“What is wrong with you this morning? This is not a good way to start your day. Control your aggression, Daniel. Those are strong words. I did my best. I studied under Professor Proskish.”
“The chimpanzee guy! You went to Lincoln Park Zoo to learn how to raise me?”
“He was an expert in comparative psychology.”
I scratch my head and thank some divine or vital force for the pity bestowed upon me. At least, it has allowed me to grow up into the person I am.
I must disregard this conversation and continue my divagations about last night’s dream, using Freud’s notions and approach to interpret it. He defines dream thoughts as the unconscious repressed wishes behind a dream, which are more important than the dream scenes—the images we remember upon awakening. Our brain selects bits and pieces of recollections from our memory storage and converts dream thoughts into dream scenes. Motorcycles, palm trees, and flowers are symbols that behave like the signs of a hieroglyphic. Each is a replacement—substitution—of something else: palm trees, male sexual organs; flowers, female and male sexual organs; riding a motorcycle, sexual intercourse. I never met or saw Lola before, so she is a fusion—condensation—of the images of various women. A fish represents a sexual organ, so Sonie’s shout “I need to buy some sardines” circumvented the rudeness and emotion—displacement—associated with the slang word for female genitalia. The symbolic interpretation concludes that Sonie had intercourse with an aberration made up of several women that didn’t satiate his sexual appetite. Otherwise, why would he need an extra supply of sardines?
“Daniel, what kind of nonsensical argument is that? Are you making fun of me?”
“Sigmund… Sigmund Freud? You are dead!”
“Yes, dead but not deaf. Up here we are aware of what goes on down there.”
“Jesus! I am not dreaming, am I? I am fully awake. Am I going crazy?”
“You are awake, and you are not insane, Daniel. It is I, Sigismund Freud. You don’t imagine anything. Your arguments are so bizarre that I cannot remain indifferent.”
“I didn’t mean to disturb your peace or offend you. I wanted to prove to myself that one could get carried away with symbols.”
“You shouldn’t conclude such stupidity. As I wrote: ‘A dream exposes itself to the doubt and derision of all those who have hearsay knowledge of interpreting dreams.’”
“I don’t make fun of your concepts. I question them, but I respect them.”
“Daniel, no one will ever believe any of your work.”
“Why not? A subtle satire to avoid excessive symbolism hurts no one.”
“Satire? I believe you meant satyr.”
“Are you talking about Sonie’s lascivious desires?”
“Sonie?”
“Yes. The stranger who lives in my dreams.”
“I am not referring to Sonie. I am referring to you. Dreams reflect the true dreamer’s character.”
“Are you trying to say I need sex?”
Freud doesn’t answer my question, but according to his writings, Sonie is the other ‘me,’ someone who holds my true desires and wishes. They escape the censorship of my mind during dreams and bubble up to the surface from the depths of my brain. My sex life hasn’t been great, but I disagree with his opinion because Sonie doesn’t behave like me or anyone else in my family. Nor do I often agree with the rationale behind his interpretations. Examining dreams and scrutinizing artwork might be based on similar principles. Some people admire the realism in traditional paintings by Rembrandt while others prefer the symbolism in the abstract ones by Picasso. Likewise, one could look at a dream literally like a movie, symbolically like a hieroglyph, or both ways. After all, in the sanctuary of dreams, our mind doesn’t object to contradictory findings because weird, logical, or illogical events become permissible.
