KR: The nightmare seems definitely related. I should imagine you’d see the relationship for yourself by this time.
ME: It’s too simple.
KR: Who says it has to be complicated?
ME: I don’t need an analyst to point out the obvious.
KR: If it were really so obvious, you wouldn’t continue to dream about it.
ME: Dreaming about it keeps me off the streets.
KR: Nor would you make bad jokes about it.
ME: At forty dollars an hour, I can make all the bad jokes I want. Do you know the one about the man who comes to an analyst’s office and starts brushing imaginary bugs off his coat?
KR: Yes, I know it. Tell me about the nightmare.
ME: I’m sick and tired of the nightmare.
KR: So am I. But until we can deal with it...
ME: You deal, I’ll shuffle.
KR: I would like you to relate in detail the dream you had last night.
ME: It’s the same dream I had Tuesday night. Don’t you keep notes?
KR: Yes, I keep notes.
ME: Then take a look at them. It’s the same dream.
KR: Does it start on the Fifth Avenue bus?
ME: Yes, it starts again on Fifth Avenue bus.
KR: And?
ME: And there’s the same satchel on the seat beside me.
KR: What kind of satchel?
ME: A black satchel.
KR: Can you describe it?
ME: A small black satchel. Like a tool box.
KR: Is it a tool box?
ME: No, it’s a satchel. A black leather satchel.
KR: Does it remind you of anything?
ME: Yes. It reminds me of a black leather satchel.
KR: Why should it frighten you, then?
ME: I don’t know.
KR: Are you frightened before you open it?
ME: Yes. I’m frightened the minute I see it.
KR: Then, why do you open it?
ME: Why does a man climb a mountain? Because it’s there.
KR: Is that why you open the satchel? Because it’s there?
ME: Yes. And also, there’s the bus driver.
KR: What about him?
ME: He’s watching me. I have the feeling that unless I open the satchel, he’ll think I’m afraid to open it.
KR: But you are afraid to open it.
ME: I don’t want the bus driver to realize that.
KR: What does he look like?
ME: His features are vague.
KR: Is he a young man?
ME: No.
KR: An older man?
ME: About your age. Eighty-nine or ninety.
KR: I’m fifty-eight. You know that.
ME: Really? You look a lot younger.
KR: Why should it matter what the bus driver thinks?
ME: He’s driving the goddamn bus, isn’t he?
KR: So?
ME: If I don’t open the satchel, he’s liable to crash into a lamppost or something.
KR: Are you afraid of him, or afraid of what you might find in the satchel?
ME: Both.
KR: What do you find in the satchel?
ME: Human hair.
And then we usually go into the whole boring nightmare again, which Sandy says is a farce because there’s no such thing as a rape victim, and Rhoda must have wanted what happened to her or she wouldn’t have come with us into the forest, and besides, she damn well seemed to be enjoying it while it was happening.
Monday morning, December 18, was clear and bright, but exceptionally cold. Sandy came into my room at seven-thirty, looking as though she’d deliberately dressed for the impending holiday, hugging herself and shivering in red ski underwear and a bright-green robe. I was still in bed, huddled under three blankets. The windows were covered with thick rime, and the wind outside was howling from Nanook of the North.
“Move over,” she said, “I’m freezing,” and took off the robe and crawled into bed beside me. “Don’t get any ideas,” she added, cuddling up against me.
“I haven’t an idea in my head.”
“You are nice and warm, though.”
“Thank you. Where are we skiing today?”
“I thought the north face.”
“Today?”
“Why not?”
“We’ll freeze out there. Let’s save it for a warmer day, Sandy.”
“Okay, but I’m getting bored with the trails on this side.” She put her arms around my waist, hugged me hard, said, “Mmmmmm,” and then said, “What’d you think of Superman and Fartz?”
“Foderman and Schwartz.”
“Right, right, I’m very poor on names.”
“They seem like nice fellows.”
“Oh, charming.”
“Didn’t you like them?”
“Adored them. Peas in a pod.”
“They do look a lot alike, don’t they?”
“Except for Schwartz’s leg, they’re mirror images,” Sandy said, and suddenly began chuckling against my shoulder.
“What?”
“I just thought of something funny. Wouldn’t it be a riot if Foderman broke his leg, too?”
“Oh yes, hilarious.”
“The opposite one. Then they’d really be mirror images.” Laughing, Sandy hugged me again, and then said, “Listen, I think I’m changing my mind.”
“About what?”
“I think I’ll seduce you.”
“Not a chance. I’m a screaming fag. I don’t dig girls.”
I knew what her reaction would be, I know that girl so goddamn well. She exploded with raucous laughter, just as I’d anticipated, and then rolled herself on top of me, and straddled me, and grabbed my shoulders and began kissing me repeatedly all over my face, noisy exaggerated kisses intercut with more laughter, “A fag, huh?” and a kiss on the tip of my nose, “Yes, Sandy,” solemnly, and a laugh, and a wet kiss on my left eye, which I closed just in time, “Better quit then,” a loud smacking kiss on my ear, “Yes, please, Sandy, it would only become embarrassing,” another kiss on my cheek, and then my chin, “No use, is it, Peter?” and more laughter, “Hopeless, Sandy.”
She gave me a last wet kiss on my forehead, and then got out of bed, and put on her robe, and said, “Hurry up, Peter, it looks great out there,” and went back to her room to get dressed.
I’ve always suspected that David hears life instead of seeing it. He has often compared skiing to a musical composition, wherein there is a simple statement of theme, with subsequent development and variations, and finally a restatement in full orchestral voice. Mathematically and musically, he’s probably correct. There is an undeniable melody and rhythm to the lift line and the chair ride up, that first sugar-frosted glimpse of the summit, the soft snowclad foothills spreading below as far as the eye can see, the choice of downhill trails, the plunge of the fall line, the force of gravity intimidating the downhill ski — a theme stated once in the morning after breakfast and developed endlessly throughout the day.
The variations are weather, visibility, and snow. Subtly or blatantly, they work on the mountain to twist the basic melody and rhythm into something unpredictable each time down — a flat white universe above the tree line, with neither sky nor shadow; a patch of glare ice around a treacherous curve; a sudden bare spot, rocks and branches jutting like tank traps out of a thin veil of snow; a drop in temperature that freezes release bindings and turns the feet aching cold inside the prison of their boots; a clawing wind that attacks the face and seeps into the goggles, the eyes suddenly wet, the trail suddenly blurred; a stretch of heavy wet powder on a runout, the skis abruptly catching, the body’s forward momentum inviting disaster.