Reflection's Edge

The Subconscious

by Zdravka Evtimova

I didn’t tell anybody, especially my husband, about my plan, for as a matter of fact I was running no risk. In the afternoon, as I snoozed with my children, I could provide access to my subconscious to those interested in return for a modest entrance fee. You may have heard about that company from New Castle, The Subconscious, Inc. Of course, if you were a businessman or a lawyer with an intense working schedule, you wouldn’t have heard about it; the commercials were broadcast before five p.m. Housewives like me watch all sorts of stuff while they give their kids mid-afternoon snacks.

Some genius had concocted the commercial that ran: "Tourism in the world of the subconscious! That is the true modern industry. You choose your own working hours; you establish the entrance fee to your subconscious ; and we will find guests eager to visit it. We will make you rich!"

The most convincing argument for me to try that hi- tech venture was the fact that the company did not demand any initial payment. They said they’d include my subconscious in their system of tourist routes free of charge.

The man’s voice that answered the phone invited me to visit him at his office in the city, a place I hated to even think of, much less to go to. I was just about to decline the offer when the man informed me he could come to my place; there, I could sign the contract and choose the days when my subconscious ness would be open to visitors. So I made up my mind: from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. every working day. It was the time when I took naps with my sons: chaps who used every minute of their lives to beat, bite, kick and shout ugly words at each other. I couldn’t care less about my subconscious while I dozed off in the afternoon. And so I signed the contract.

Boredom poisoned my days. My nerves were constantly crucified by my sons’ fights and my husband’s complaints about how ungenerous his salary was. He refused to waste money on a nanny for his belligerent sons. He had funds neither for a butler nor for a maid to do the housework. He paid a fat girl to clean the house twice a week, but I had the feeling the rooms became dirtier after her sustained efforts. My sons adored her; she opened the fridge and took out thick pieces of cake which the three of them guzzled, and that was a thing they all knew I strictly forbade. I hated fat girls. My husband was getting fat too, although he often dragged me, together with the kids, to our family gym, a place where the boys shouted their heads off while he puffed and panted, complaining about his boss, his secretary, his staff and his friends. He felt good when we had sex, but then I didn’t feel good. He never seemed to notice that; I thought he was too busy with his own plans, or perhaps I faked happiness too well.

You must understand that my days were perfectly identical: the children’s fights; the constant squabbles over what to watch on TV, who had chosen the better truck and who ran faster. My husband, of course, encouraged them. It was a commendable achievement, he thought, if they learned about competition at an early age. He applauded their militant spirit and interpreted it as thirst for victories. The boys will be ready to live outside the home, dear, he'd say. You know nothing about life. You live amidst the oasis of calm that I built for you. Yes, I feigned happiness too well.

Amidst the oasis he had built all hours were identical like the specks of dust on my kitchen cupboard, so when the employee of that funny company paid a second visit to my modest home I was so surprised and excited to see anything different at all that I let him in. I had to admit he looked smashing. I hoped that my nosey neighbors had seen him enter my house.

"Madam, you received the greatest net receipts resulting from visits to the world of your subconscious ," he said, bowing slightly. "Thanks to you, I was elected the Officer of the Month for my financial contribution to our company’s standing."

You must have heard the expression "a bolt out of the blue." Right then, I felt exactly as if a thunderbolt had struck me on the forehead.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Your subconscious was visited by an overwhelming number of tourists, Ma’am. People make reservations for months to come. Ma’am, have you checked your bank account recently?"

"I have not," I said. I thought the phrase "bank account" sounded too pompous for the hundred and fifty dollars I kept in it. My husband was in the habit of depositing negligible sums in my bank account when he went on long business trips. I took out the money the minute he closed the front door and when the fat girl came to clean my house, I went to the cinema. I paid the girl generously so she looked after my children and I was free for a couple of hours. After the film was over, I walked to a small candlelit restaurant where I drank half a bottle of Chardonnay, a dry white wine of 1987 or 1989, the only good thing I could afford. I sipped at my drink all by myself, doing my best to neutralize all sorts of bores who attempted to buy me a drink. I happily spent all the rest of the money on the dullest film possible I could lay my hands on.

On principle, you see, I preferred half-empty cinemas where strangers had only a slim chance of annoying me. I didn’t even watch the film; I could have all films in the world on my home video-system. I adored the absolute absence of human beings around me. I knew very well that the fat girl and my sons took advantage of my absence to gorge themselves on cake, chocolates and sweets.

So I basked in the radiance of the dull film and its loneliness, a place where no one coveted my thighs. Of course, this didn’t always happen; losers went to watch even the dullest films. I was a magnet for them; they all claimed it would be a pleasure for me if they showed me around the places of interest in our totally uninteresting town. When that happened, for days I would despair. It was improbable that another sum, however negligible, would land in my bank account any time soon; and so my ruined evening seemed the blacker. My husband was convinced that wives should not have money to burn so he gave me virtually none. In his opinion money generated bad ideas about unauthorized shopping. Actually, I couldn’t have cared less about shopping; I longed for silence. It had never crossed my husband’s mind that I could cheat on him. He believed I adored him. I didn’t.

"Ma’am…" started the young clerk and I shuddered. First, I did not like strangers. Second, I hated being called Ma’am. I couldn’t say I liked my acquaintances either, although the man seemed acceptable: he had carefully cleaned his shoes on the doormat before he entered my house. "Ma’am, I took the liberty of meddling with the entrance fee to your subconscious . The tourists paid, so I charged higher fees. Please, check your bank account, Ma’am."

I said I’d check it and waited for the remaining part of his lecture. I suspected that he hadn’t driven for hours to my little hole just to thank me for the good job my subconscious had done for his company. My sons started bickering over a walkman they had broken a couple of years ago. The man rose from his chair and looked me directly, an act that in my opinion was equal to an affront: I hated it when people looked at me that way.

"Ma’am, could you lengthen the time of access to your subconscious?" he asked, staring at the base of my neck. This made me feel better. I knew the Jesuits back in 16th century had been instructed to look at exactly that spot of their interlocutor’s neck while they made efforts to keep the conversation going. Intimidation made me feel more comfortable. It always did; I didn’t scare easily.

I was surprised when he suggested, "Perhaps you would allow me to prolong the access hours into the evening?"

"Into the evening?" I thought about it. At night, my husband would be at home. His presence would demand my undivided attention. Men always took something from you. Even as young boys they robbed you of your peace and quiet. They enraged you with their shouts; when you were not at home they crammed down mountains of cake in order to become more arrogant when you came back after your lucky bottle of Chardonnay.

"By my calculations, you made a profit of twenty thousand dollars, Ma’am," the young man said. I hiccoughed. "Perhaps a little more. I had a day off and another administrator is servicing the access to your subconscious ."

"Are you sure?" was all I could say.

Twenty thousand dollars! I had been dreaming of twenty thousand all my life. In my dreams, I always landed in a remote land far away from my sons. That place was very far from my husband as well. His complaints about the stress he worked under could never reach me there.

Sometimes, in my most daring dreams, I hired two bodyguards, all dressed in black. When they noticed my husband approach my new place not far from Silver Moon Lake (I have seen the lake in a commercial on the TV), my bodyguards would warn him that the distance between me and him should be at least a mile. My husband, of course, did not obey their instructions; he tried to persuade them I was his wife. The guys had already warned him that they’d shoot him in the face if he persisted. My husband, of course, never gave up. He did persist. To be honest, that happened only in my very best dreams.

The pleasant young man fidgeted in his chair, but I had no desire to put his mind at ease. I would not prolong the hours of access during which his fatuous tourists could visit my subconscious. They might want to eat their picnics there. Although, if I really had twenty thousand dollars… it would be clear what I’d do, wouldn’t it?

"Ma’am, I visited your subconscious. Actually, I visited it seven times and… and I would like…"

"Seven times?" That was really something. "Did your company charge an entrance fee to you?"

"As a matter of fact, they did… I would appreciate if you would allow access to your subconscious during the evening, Ma’am. I would be the first to take advantage of that opportunity."

"What… what makes you feel like visiting again?"

"Please, don’t ask me that question, Ma’am. You know best what you dream about."

A shudder ran through me. I knew very well what happened in my best dreams. The Silver Moon Lake and a man prostrate on the shore, dead. Men go into raptures over blood and gore. I should be very good at dreaming now that I had made twenty thousand dollars!

"Are there sex scenes in my subconscious ?" I asked, my voice thinning.

"Well… As a matter of fact…I didn’t go in for them, Ma’am."

What if the tourists were attracted by what my bodyguards did to my husband?

"I will not allow access to my subconscious in the evening," I said, unflinching.

The young man who a minute ago seemed quite normal, even diffident (a quality I appreciated), jumped up from his chair and grabbed my hand suddenly.

"Why should you do that, Ma’am?

I pushed him off, disgusted. I hated anyone touching me. My husband’s hands were sweaty, although he treated them with musk lotion and cornflower oil. My whole house was sweaty; the sky above me was sweaty when someone touched me. The memory of a stranger’s skin touching mine often haunted me for days. I suffered severe asthma-like attacks after that. One of my husband’s colleagues, a senior executive manager, had once touched my shoulder and caused me to choke.

"Are you okay, Ma’am?" the young man asked, sounding concerned, reaching out and touching me again.

"Please, do not touch me."

His hands escaped from my skin like terrified insects.

"I am so s..sorry, Ma’am," he stuttered, beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead.

"Who visits me more often, men or women?" I asked.

"Both men and women do, Ma’am," he whispered, and his hands twitched on his knees as if trying to reach me.

"Please!" I cut him short. Luckily, he got control of himself. His fingers looked soft like cakes, with perfectly kept fingernails: the type of hands I particularly disliked.

A cold picture rushed through my mind: two bodyguards were taking aim at a pudgy man. He shouted at them, infuriated, informing them he was my husband and they’d better hurl their fucking weapons onto the ground. It was only natural the bodyguards hurled nothing onto the ground.

"It is quiet in your subconscious ness, Ma’am." The clerk’s eyes dwelt on the spot of my neck much beloved by Jesuits. Even that made me itch. "It is so beautiful there… it feels like a cozy, quiet cinema, and there’s a good film on. A film about… love."

When he pronounced the word "love" the beads of perspiration on his forehead glowed red.

At that point my children simultaneously yelled and belted out a song; next they started pummeling each other for no reason at all, scratching each other’s faces, emitting a low-pitched wail. If my husband were here now, he’d applaud warmly.

"Ma’am…" Now the young man’s voice was sweating, and his words dropped out of his mouth wet with discomfort. "Ma’am… you dream about a man who… who is…everything for you… he is like a cozy, quiet cinema… he is… your life. You can’t stand anybody touching you because you want him. You dream of … of… seeing springs and summers in his eyes. Ma’am, I… I felt I knew what your problem was. I helped you out of it."

My feet felt colder now. I could hardly breathe. My children had started throwing plastic toys at each other; they could swear in Latin, too, an achievement my husband rewarded with a generous daily allowance.

"Ma’am, I… when I entered your subconscious … you know what?" My visitor babbled on. "It…it seemed to me…" at that moment his eyes left the quiet spot on my neck and settled on my breast.

"Go on," I said. I felt prickles sinking into my skin: a sure sign that an asthma attack was approaching.

"You know… It seemed to me I was that man for you. So I came here and…"

The sun lit my visitor’s face.

"Perhaps another guy… another guy… thought he was… he was the man of your… dreams," he stuttered on. "Only I knew your address… and…I came to… tell you. I am that man, Ma’am."

I remembered the most beautiful moments of my dreams: the bodyguards’ guns were aimed at the forehead of a man who was explaining to the armed guys I was his wife. That man believed I adored him.

At that moment I knew the truth: I had faked my dreams. A pack of lies, that was what I was.

"So you helped me…you?"

"I… I love you, Ma’am!" he whispered.

At that moment the telephone rang.

"Jane, is that you? It’s Catherine…" My neighbor. I disliked her voice intensely; she was a journalist, and a brazenfaced one at that.

"Yes, Catherine Grissom. Guess what I saw on the TV a minute ago! Oh, Jane! Your poor husband was found dead near the shores of Silver Moon Lake! That’s what they said on the TV! The poor man! "

I gulped for air. My visitor looked like he was about to kiss me.

"He was shot in the face, Jane! The poor man! He had a heart of gold! They said his assaulter, a tall man, dressed all in black, escaped," she blabbered on.

A diffident smile crept on my visitor’s lips. He reached out a hand to touch me. I froze in my tracks.

"Jane! Jane! Are you okay?" the receiver shouted as Catherine Grissom’s voice disintegrated into a shower of hectic electrons.

Zdravka Evtimova was born in Bulgaria, Europe, in 1959. In her native country she has published four collections of short stories and three novels, including Your Shadow was My Home, Lindy and Thursday. The British Publishing House Skrev Press, Cardigan, UK, published her novella collection Bitter Sky in 2003. Two of her short stories have been broadcast by Radio BBC London, UK in the week dedicated to the East European literature in February 2004. Her SF novel God of Traitors was published in June 2004 as an E-book by Buck Publications. Zdravka Evtimova’s short story collection "Somebody Else" won the short story collection by an established author award of MAG Press, San Diego, California, USA in August 2004 and is nominated for 2005 Pushcart Prize in USA. She also works as a translator and lives with her husband, two sons and her daughter in the town of Pernik, Bulgaria.



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