“Sir!” I exclaimed, indignant. “It’s not my legend, it’s yours. A prime example of the genre of fictional falsification. ‘Sir Max is from the Borderlands of the County Vook and the Barren Lands—an uncouth barbarian, but one heck of a sleuth!’”
“It’s mine alright,” Juffin sighed. “At least I’m good for something. Let’s go.”
At this point, I must elaborate on how I ended up in Echo, since, strange as it may seem, it is directly connected with how these events further unfolded.
For the first twenty-nine years of his muddled existence, Max, the Max I was then, nocturnal dispatcher at a newspaper, average in every possible sense of the word, had grown used to attributing special significance to his dreams. Events in dreams seemed even more real to me than everyday reality. It even went so far that when matters in my dreams weren’t going very well, nothing could comfort me when I was awake. Moreover, even on the best of days, when reality was absolutely agreeable to me, I didn’t quite see the difference between the dream world and the waking world. I dragged all my problems around with me, there and back—as well as joys and satisfactions, when there were any, of course.
Among the myriad dreams I saw (for it was like watching myself starring in a strange movie) there were several that stood out for their frequency. A city in the mountains, where the only kind of municipal transportation was a cable car; a shady English park, divided into two parts by a babbling brook; a series of empty beaches on a gloomy seacoast. And another city, whose mosaic sidewalks enchanted me at first sight. In this city I even had a favorite café, though I could never remember the name of it after I woke up.
Later, when I found myself in the real Glutton Bunba, I recognized it immediately. I even discovered my favorite table between the counter and window onto the courtyard. I felt immediately at home in this place—the smattering of customers who stood along the lengthy counter all seemed strangely familiar to me, and their exotic mode of dress didn’t daunt me in the least. I might add that they, too, looked upon my trousers without any particular curiosity. Echo is, after all, the capital city of a large country. It is also one of the largest seaports in the World. It’s hard to shock the local residents, least of all with exotic attire.
In time, one of the regulars began greeting me. I greeted him back. Even a cat, as everyone knows, appreciates a kind word—no less so when it’s asleep and dreaming.
Gradually, this person established the habit of sitting down at my table just to chat. And Sir Juffin Hully can do this as no one else can—just give him the chance, and he’ll talk your ear off. Things went on like this for a fairly long time. Sometimes when I woke up I would relate to my friends some of the marvelous stories I had heard from my new acquaintance. They all told me to write them down, but I never got around to it. I somehow felt that certain things shouldn’t be entrusted to paper. Well, laziness was a factor, too; why hide it?
Our curious friendship began suddenly—and, for me, completely unexpectedly. One day my conversation partner broke off his story in mid-sentence, and with the mock seriousness of a conspirator, glanced around furtively, then said in a mysterious whisper: “But you’re sleeping, Max. This is all just a dream.”
I was thoroughly shaken, and my body jerked so that I fell off the chair and woke up safely on my floor at home.
For the next seven years I dreamed about everything under the sun except the mosaic paving tiles of the wondrous city. I was sad not to be visited by those dreams, and in my waking life things got worse and worse. I lost interest in my old friends, broke off with my girlfriends, and changed jobs more frequently than underwear. I threw all my books away, since they could no longer comfort me, and when I drank too much I invariably got into fist fights, as though I wished to smash to bits the reality I could not abide.
In time, however, I calmed down. I adopted the whole package of life-affirming values: friends, girlfriends, a tolerable job, decent living quarters, a large library attesting to the affluence of its owner, rather than to his literary tastes. In bars I began ordering coffee instead of spirits. I showered in the morning, shaved no less than every other day, took my underwear to the laundry, and kept my wits about me, resorting to withering glances and biting comments instead of using my fists.
Instead of justified pride, however, I still experienced that dull longing and boredom that drove me out of my mind in my youth. I felt like a walking corpse that had risen from the grave, and had for some reason settled down to a quiet, unobtrusive existence among people who were only half-alive, just as he was.
But I got lucky—and how!
One day, early in the morning, as soon as I had fallen asleep after work, I saw in a dream the long counter of the bar, my favorite table, and my old acquaintance waiting for me at the neighboring table. I remembered right away how our last conversation had ended. I knew I was having a dream. But this time I didn’t fall off my chair. I didn’t wake up. I wasn’t even afraid. I guess as I had grown older I had learned, from necessity, to keep my wits about me.
“What’s happening?” I inquired. “And how is it happening?”
“I don’t know,” my old friend answered. “I don’t think anyone knows how things like this happen. But they do happen. My hobby is examining that fact, when I’m up to it.”
“You don’t know?” I asked, flabbergasted. For some reason I assumed this person was bound to know the answer to my every question.
“That’s not what matters just now,” he interrupted me. “But tell me—do you like it here?”
“Do I? It’s my favorite dream! When I stopped dreaming it I thought I’d lose my mind.”
“I understand. And do you like it there, where you live?”
I shrugged. Around that time problems had been piling up at home. No major difficulties—they were all in the past by then—but dull, trivial, everyday problems. I was the proud owner of a mediocre, uneventful life, and delusions of grandeur about what I actually deserved.
“You are a nocturnal creature,” my conversation partner observed. “And not without eccentricities, am I right? Where you live, it’s a problem when you can’t sleep at night, I suppose.”
“A problem! You’re not kidding!”
Before I knew it, I was unburdening my heart to this sympathetic old man. And when all is said and done, why be ashamed of it? It was only a dream, as I had been frankly informed seven years before.
He listened to me rather indifferently; but he didn’t laugh at me, either, for which I am grateful to this day.
“Well then,” he began, after I had gone quiet. “That’s all quite sad, but I have an excellent proposal for you: an interesting, well-paid job here in this city, which you have already come to love. Moreover, you’ll work only at night—just like you’ve always wanted.”
I didn’t have to think twice. It still hadn’t sunk in that a decision I made there, in my dream, could have any real consequences. But I wanted him to fill me in on the details, purely out of curiosity.
“Okay, let’s say you’ve already won me over. But why do you need me? Do you mean to say that there are no other night owls in this entire city?”
“Of course there are plenty of those,” he said with a grin. “By the way, my name is Juffin. Sir Juffin Hully, at your service. Don’t trouble yourself, I already know your name is Max. And your last name is immaterial to me. You’d be surprised, but I know quite a bit about you already. In particular, I know that you have a certain rare talent that is relevant to the organization I head. It’s just that it hasn’t revealed itself to you yet.”
“What kind of talent might that be? Not a criminal streak, by any chance?” I snickered foolishly.