"So, you wanna tell what's going on?" she asked, passing him a mug filled with fresh coffee.
He pressed the edge of the cup against his lips, taking a small sip before drawing back with a bitter look on his face.
"My God, what is this?"
"It's decaf."
"You might as well have brought me poison. Do you want me to kill myself? Is that it?"
"Okay, Oscar--A: caffeine is bad for you, and B: you're dodging the question."
"Nonsense on both counts. When you get to be my age, dear, you realize that caffeine is one of the few things that make life worth living. As for the rest, I'm still trying to figure that out, myself."
"Fine, then let's go over the things we do know. Why did you ask me if there was a young man at my door?"
Oscar took another sip of the decaffeinated coffee before placing it far away from him with an exaggerated frown. Then with a nod, he relented, resolving to tell her everything.
"Before I met you, Kate, I started having dreams, and, as you already know, I began waking up in strange places with no idea how or why. Then something else happened. Every morning, I found that I'd written a little more on my typewriter, leaving me with the first few pages of Here Comes a Revolution, which, as you also know, I've already written some years before. It was after we started working on your project, when I couldn't sleep and had all the time in the world to sit and think, that I finally made the connection. I was reliving my life every night--each dream another little piece of my history. For some reason, I thought that I might actually have become my old self during these dreams, that I had become young again. It sounds quite mad when I say it aloud like this, but when one is unable to sleep, one often ponders the most bizarre things."
"When I opened the door, you said you had something to tell me. You said it was important. Any idea what it is?"
Oscar shook his head sadly.
"No, my dear. No clue at all. There is something else, though--something that has more to do with the waking world, I'm sure, and I meant to tell you yesterday, but the opportunity never presented itself. I know two men, both of whom I was acquainted with in my younger days. One is an editor, and one is a printer."
Her eyes went round, her lips poised in a smile.
"You mean we're going to publish it?" she asked.
Oscar winced. "Yes, I suppose. Technically, it would be self-publishing, though. The important thing is: it will be in print, and you will see it, you will hold it, and you will smell it."
"That's great!"
"Indeed. Should something happen to me immediately following our completion, they'll know what to do."
"Oscar, not this again. Please."
"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to convince you."
"You don't have to. I'd just... I'd rather not dwell on it, okay?"
"Fair enough. But do find them, should you need to."
She nodded sharply, unable to meet his gaze.
"How's your work going?" he asked. "Have you found your names yet?"
"Yeah... yeah, I did. Check these out. For the brother: Minaki, which means sun. For the sister: Istuminaki, which means moon."
"Ah, all right, a good, standard naming convention for something as mythic as this. And the daughter? What's her name?"
"Tcuw-tahe."
"What does that mean?"
"It means butterfly. It was the closest thing to moth that I could find."
Oscar smiled.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"Perfect, my dear. Absolutely perfect. How much have we finished so far?"
"Well, we have your fifty pages, and I have... I think it was forty-five at last count. So less than a hundred, but still more than I expected."
"Wonderful. Don't stop now, Kate there's still so much to be done," he said. "But now, I believe I'll see myself out. Get some sleep. You'll need it."
"Good night, Oscar," she said as he ambled toward the door.
"Good night," he said, and then disappeared.
Once again alone in her apartment, Kate poured out the remaining coffee, washing it down the kitchen sink and leaving the upturned cups atop a dish-cloth at its side. Then she rechecked the lock on the front door, strode back across her small, crowded living room in checkered shorts she had adopted as her sleep-wear, and settled back into her bed, where her caffeine-free body and mind quickly drifted off to sleep.
In the dark, she dreamed. In the dream, she awoke in her bed at the sharp pounding of another knock at her door. It was Oscar again, she knew, as if everything that had happened earlier in the night, when she was wide awake, had carried over like a piece of ancient history in her dream world. She trudged from her bed, crossing back through the book stacks of her living room, and opened the door to find a young man standing in front of her, clad in flannel pajamas. This was the moment Oscar had warned her about, and she wanted nothing more than to reach out, grab the man before her and shake him until he woke, despite the fact that he appeared quite awake already, but she found herself unable to move, almost unwilling.
"You're Oscar, aren't you?" she asked him.
"Yes," said the sleepwalker.
"Do you have something to tell me?"
"Yes."
"Now's the time."
"You'll be okay, Kate. I just wanted to tell you that you'll be okay."
Just when she was about to ask him what he meant, just before she found the meaning of it all, she woke up. Her eyes snapped open, and she was once more in her bed, lodged beneath the thick covers. The phone was ringing, like the grating song of some mechanical bird. She lifted herself up, glancing at the clock to find it was half past eight in the morning. It seemed like it should be much earlier. She caught the phone on the fourth ring. Walter Russell was on the other end of the line, calling to tell her that Oscar Bruges was dead.
He pressed the edge of the cup against his lips, taking a small sip before drawing back with a bitter look on his face.
"My God, what is this?"
"It's decaf."
"You might as well have brought me poison. Do you want me to kill myself? Is that it?"
"Okay, Oscar--A: caffeine is bad for you, and B: you're dodging the question."
"Nonsense on both counts. When you get to be my age, dear, you realize that caffeine is one of the few things that make life worth living. As for the rest, I'm still trying to figure that out, myself."
"Fine, then let's go over the things we do know. Why did you ask me if there was a young man at my door?"
Oscar took another sip of the decaffeinated coffee before placing it far away from him with an exaggerated frown. Then with a nod, he relented, resolving to tell her everything.
"Before I met you, Kate, I started having dreams, and, as you already know, I began waking up in strange places with no idea how or why. Then something else happened. Every morning, I found that I'd written a little more on my typewriter, leaving me with the first few pages of Here Comes a Revolution, which, as you also know, I've already written some years before. It was after we started working on your project, when I couldn't sleep and had all the time in the world to sit and think, that I finally made the connection. I was reliving my life every night--each dream another little piece of my history. For some reason, I thought that I might actually have become my old self during these dreams, that I had become young again. It sounds quite mad when I say it aloud like this, but when one is unable to sleep, one often ponders the most bizarre things."
"When I opened the door, you said you had something to tell me. You said it was important. Any idea what it is?"
Oscar shook his head sadly.
"No, my dear. No clue at all. There is something else, though--something that has more to do with the waking world, I'm sure, and I meant to tell you yesterday, but the opportunity never presented itself. I know two men, both of whom I was acquainted with in my younger days. One is an editor, and one is a printer."
Her eyes went round, her lips poised in a smile.
"You mean we're going to publish it?" she asked.
Oscar winced. "Yes, I suppose. Technically, it would be self-publishing, though. The important thing is: it will be in print, and you will see it, you will hold it, and you will smell it."
"That's great!"
"Indeed. Should something happen to me immediately following our completion, they'll know what to do."
"Oscar, not this again. Please."
"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to convince you."
"You don't have to. I'd just... I'd rather not dwell on it, okay?"
"Fair enough. But do find them, should you need to."
She nodded sharply, unable to meet his gaze.
"How's your work going?" he asked. "Have you found your names yet?"
"Yeah... yeah, I did. Check these out. For the brother: Minaki, which means sun. For the sister: Istuminaki, which means moon."
"Ah, all right, a good, standard naming convention for something as mythic as this. And the daughter? What's her name?"
"Tcuw-tahe."
"What does that mean?"
"It means butterfly. It was the closest thing to moth that I could find."
Oscar smiled.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"Perfect, my dear. Absolutely perfect. How much have we finished so far?"
"Well, we have your fifty pages, and I have... I think it was forty-five at last count. So less than a hundred, but still more than I expected."
"Wonderful. Don't stop now, Kate there's still so much to be done," he said. "But now, I believe I'll see myself out. Get some sleep. You'll need it."
"Good night, Oscar," she said as he ambled toward the door.
"Good night," he said, and then disappeared.
Once again alone in her apartment, Kate poured out the remaining coffee, washing it down the kitchen sink and leaving the upturned cups atop a dish-cloth at its side. Then she rechecked the lock on the front door, strode back across her small, crowded living room in checkered shorts she had adopted as her sleep-wear, and settled back into her bed, where her caffeine-free body and mind quickly drifted off to sleep.
In the dark, she dreamed. In the dream, she awoke in her bed at the sharp pounding of another knock at her door. It was Oscar again, she knew, as if everything that had happened earlier in the night, when she was wide awake, had carried over like a piece of ancient history in her dream world. She trudged from her bed, crossing back through the book stacks of her living room, and opened the door to find a young man standing in front of her, clad in flannel pajamas. This was the moment Oscar had warned her about, and she wanted nothing more than to reach out, grab the man before her and shake him until he woke, despite the fact that he appeared quite awake already, but she found herself unable to move, almost unwilling.
"You're Oscar, aren't you?" she asked him.
"Yes," said the sleepwalker.
"Do you have something to tell me?"
"Yes."
"Now's the time."
"You'll be okay, Kate. I just wanted to tell you that you'll be okay."
Just when she was about to ask him what he meant, just before she found the meaning of it all, she woke up. Her eyes snapped open, and she was once more in her bed, lodged beneath the thick covers. The phone was ringing, like the grating song of some mechanical bird. She lifted herself up, glancing at the clock to find it was half past eight in the morning. It seemed like it should be much earlier. She caught the phone on the fourth ring. Walter Russell was on the other end of the line, calling to tell her that Oscar Bruges was dead.
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