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    The Dreaming Girl
    The Dreaming Girl
    The Dreaming Girl
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    The Dreaming Girl

    By Roberta Allen

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    About this ebook

    A young American traveler in Belize has a brief affair with a man known only as the German. In THE DREAMING GIRL, Roberta Allen's exquisite and incantatory language slyly manifests how reality may be bent and blurred by desires hidden even to ourselves.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDzanc Books
    Release dateAug 6, 2013
    ISBN9781941531549
    The Dreaming Girl

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      Book preview

      The Dreaming Girl - Roberta Allen

      INTRODUCTION

      I’VE ADMIRED ROBERTA ALLEN’S FICTION since the publication of her first story collection in 1986. Also an artist in the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, she has the ability in her writing to produce images with a surprisingly elegant and poetic economy of words. To use Emily Hicks’s classification, Roberta Allen is a bicultural smuggler. Not that she moves freely from one language to another but from one culture to another, suppressing and often transgressing boundaries. In this novel, while roaming the world, a girl, probably American, and a German guy stumble upon each other and the inevitable takes place. They are in the rain forest, in Belize, we learn late in the book, and they have nothing else to do but allow themselves to marvel and wonder and give way to lust. A new Adam and Eve in a somewhat populated yet mystifying Paradise, the girl is also a smuggler. She often crosses the border to enter her own dreams, accommodating her so-called reality—for what is reality in this case? And what is reality anyway, to you, dazzled reader of this novel where nature and dreams intertwine like the vines of the jungle that enclose the young couple, where desire howls silently in counterpoint with the eerie howling of the monkeys, creating a universe vibrant with life in which you, reader, will become a part.

      Luisa Valenzuela, 2011

      PART ONE

      1.

      The girl lies on the bed, propped up on her elbows, looking out the window. The window is wide open. The wind blows through the window. The wind blows her long hair. Her hair is like the waves of the sea, undulating in the wind.

      The sea crashes on the stones of the promenade outside the window. She is not aware of the window. She is not aware of the room. She is out there with that sea, with that wind, with the sky that hides in the blackness.

      She understands the violence in the air. She is part of that violence, part of that blackness. She screams with every bird in her silence. The wind grows stronger, tries to tear the sound from her, but fails. Still, she lets the wind lift her.

      From the window, she can fly with those screeching birds. She can sail over the city: this ramshackle city; this city of rag-covered windows and rotting wood, of peeling paint and broken porches, of sagging floors and open sewers, of tattered palms, of heat, of dampness, of rains.

      The rains make her mind murky. When it rains, she sails within herself like a boat that has lost direction; she drifts. The rains haven’t started yet tonight. But even on the clearest nights, the stars are vague, as though they aren’t sure they want to be there.

      Tonight there are no stars. She can’t even try to grab hold of them. They have taken themselves away from her. The stars are out of reach. But the wind grows strong, so strong it pushes her breaths back inside her; it yanks her hair hard from the scalp.

      In the room her hair blows. Nothing else moves in the room. She is still sailing in that sky, but she finds it harder to breathe, harder to catch her breath. Very soon now she will come back. It’s inevitable. She can’t stay out there for long. Her thoughts get in the way.

      As though some God has suddenly thrown a bowl of water on the world, rain crashes down, but not straight down. Wind carries the water, throws the water every which way, throws the water in her room; soaks the pillow, part of the sheet before she manages to close the window. She is back now; her face wet, her hair wet, her neck, her shoulders, her chest glisten with water.

      She feels robbed by the weather. She would have stayed out there with that sea, with that wind a while longer. She looks around: there is nothing of interest in the room; just the usual walls and floor and ceiling.

      The walls don’t reach the ceiling in the rooms of the guest house. The walls stop two feet below: there are two feet of open space where in the night, the thoughts, the feelings of the guests circulate and mingle in the air, affecting each other in their sleep without their knowing. They dream of each other but forget their dreams when they awaken. They awaken with thoughts not their own, with feelings they never knew they had. They breathe each other’s breaths, share each other’s sorrows.

      In the morning when they awaken, they will pass each other without a word. Or if they talk, hello and all that, they will feel suddenly strange, as though they have been stolen, or else they will feel themselves thieves without knowing what it is they have taken.

      When the girl awakens, she doesn’t remember anything. It is as though she is alive for the very first time. There is the sea smell of the air, the cries of the birds, the blue sky.

      She looks up at the blue sky. She goes into that blue like one who is going home, like one who has been in a dark dream and suddenly sees the light. But the light is blinding. She comes back, back to the voices, to the footsteps in the guest house.

      Hearing the footsteps makes her remember. This time there is something nice to remember. It was just yesterday that she met him at the guest house. He came in through the screen door, he sat down with her at the table in the common room, this man she calls the German.

      She had wanted to meet somebody. It was lonely traveling by herself. Since the last one left her she has been lonely. But now there is the excitement that comes when somebody new enters her life. There is also the fear.

      In the shower in the communal bathroom, she forgets about the blue sky and the sea smell of the air. Her eyes are closed while she washes her body. She is dreaming of him as she rubs the bar of soap between her legs.

      When she opens the bathroom door, she sees him there in the hallway outside her room. She’s wearing a towel which she pulls tighter when she sees him. She doesn’t know what to say. She mumbles something. She’s embarrassed. She feels as though he knows her dream as she enters her room and closes the door.

      While she dresses, the German waits. He hears her moving about, though her room is so small she can only take a few steps in any direction. There is something, something about her, he is thinking. In his mind, he sees the loose hair, almost as long as his hair, the eyes that seem to be the same color as his own.

      He is smiling. This was good, this meeting her here like this after his friend had gone on without him.

      She opens the door. He’s right there. She’s surprised to see him so near. There’s so little space between them. She needs to take a deep breath, to step back for a minute.

      He’s smiling at her. It feels good to smile like this. It feels good to show his feelings. He should probably hide his feelings, he knows that, but today he doesn’t feel like hiding anything.

      The girl is trying to escape his eyes. They’re so focused, so directed on her. He’s trying to catch her, to hold her with his eyes.

      A thought passes through her mind: he wants too much. But so far, he has only asked her to have breakfast. She wants to step back inside the room for a moment just to breathe. She needs air. She feels him taking away her air.

      Instead of stepping back inside the room, she follows him down the stairs. She is enjoying herself even though this is a little bit scary. Pale green lizards, sunning themselves on the steps, run and hide in the leaves of the garden. He opens the heavy wooden gate, lets her out, then pushes the latch back into place behind him.

      The sun lights up his hair. He turns. The long hair moves with him. The long hair shimmering in the light. For a moment, she thinks of horses; their lean bodies, their smooth skin, their long manes.

      He is strange to her. In the bright sunlight, she would like to stare at him. But she doesn’t dare. Instead, she stares at clapboard houses they pass along the streets.

      They reach the bridge. Twice a day it swings open so tall masted boats may pass through to the sea. Like a huge animal, a strange beast, it moves

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