3 Dream

Once more he read the letter that lay on the table. Or rather his eyes went along its lines once again. He suddenly felt very happy although he was very tired. All day he had been out relating the entire history of the country to tourists and answering their multifarious questions. Now it seemed that some life had returned to his flagging ambitions. He smiled. A tragedy like this should have made him weep. But none of it touched him at all. It felt as ordinary as his everyday life getting up at dawn hurriedly rinsing out his mouth, pulling on jacket and trousers, tying a knot in his tie then smiling at strange faces as if he knew them well.

A few days before he had met a friend one of his best friend from his village, who had also come to city and become trapped in some menial job. This friend knew about tragic event and had uttered words of sympathy. " I am very sorry Jordan . You have my heartfelt sympathy.

But sympathy had not touched him at all. It had seemed meant for someone else. To observe convention, he had smiled nonetheless and simply said " thank you".

The letter had been lying there for week. He always came from hotel In the middle of the night and he was always tire like this. He had been caught by a pair of blue eyes or immersed in western music. His eyes always shone when he looked at the letter. perhaps he had needed to receive it before he could really achieve what he aimed for. Now that he had received it, perhaps he was very happy . Very very happy indeed.

He had always tried to speak English since he was a child. He had dreamed in English and considered English his all. It had brought him a new wave of happiness. Now he explained the culture and customs in his own way how the goddess was chosen how the goddess is worshipped what the horse festival was like. He thought of the foreigners staring at him and Lita and Eliza amazed by his words. His life was most enjoyable. Often he dreamed of New York skyscrapers and awoke from his dreams amazed by the goddess of liberty there. Or else he would imagine lying beside the ocean playing a tape of village folk songs. Sometimes he dreamed sentimentally then he became practical again. For it was quite certain that one day Jordan would follow a tourist girl far across the skies. Unfamiliar voices were calling him from distant lands. Come to us just once they seemed to be saying. We will be your guides. We will welcome you. We love you.

But then there was that letter which he would rather not have received . It took him back to earlier times and forced him to think about he would prefer not to consider. The person it concerned had never meant much to him. The had never felt the need to pay much attention to her. He still lived in the city just as he had ten years before trying to make his seedling dreams grow. The letter should have made him weep but it didn't . He should have felt regret but he didn't . He should have fasted for a while but he didn't. The letter should have affected him it should have elicited some response. But the wires inside Jordan was strange. No current ran along them. Nothing ever touched him. No grief could shake his heart.

He put it out of his mind and tried to sleep. He turned the radio on low and switched off light but sleep would not come. All that afternoons tourists came before him asking " how old is this piece of art?" " what is the importance of this?" Is woodcarving a new tradition?" And so on and so on.All were making fun of him about his vilage fashion and language. Such types of question make him so disappointed. He forget them and thought about his lodging. He paid a high rent but there were few amenities. If he got up too late there was no water. If he kept his light on for too long everyone complained. All sorts of houses had been built on the empty field in front. The open sky was long a long way off. He thought he would like to move somewhere else . Then he could invite that Miss Pande from the travel service home for dinner. But the room he rented was bad and soon even that mundane wish dwindled away.

Then he thought of the distant hills of his home. He had not visited many years. It could be good to go home every Christmas he thought to join in the dancing and singing of Christmas songs. He would gladly swap places with someone there even if it were only for a few days. Or he could brag to the idle young folk. If you have no work come with me, he could say. I will fix you up with a job. But as he thought of the hill country that woman came into his mind again the woman he did not want to define. he did not want to accept her or identify her. But a letter had come and there it was written " your wife died yesterday." There could be no doubt about what it told him. Your wife died yesterday it said your wife died yesterday.

It would not allow him to sleep. He pressed a switch and the room lit up. He went to to the table and read the letter again forcing himself to concentrate. Your wife died yesterday it said. Your wife died , your wife died .... For weeks he had slept there within sight of that message but tonight for some reason his mind was filled with desired and unwanted connections thought of the present and past all of them in disorder. Why couldn't he sleep tonight? Why couldn't he make sense of it and weep? Having lived alone for so long in the city , had he become like stone? Was he incapable of thought? Suddenly angry with himself he tore letter into shreds and burst into tears. He cried and cried , he knew not how long.