The Other Side (2 page)

In the course of my narrative, however, something odd has happened. As, with scrupulous regard for the truth, I set down my experiences I found that, without realising it, I had somehow managed to describe scenes which I cannot possibly have witnessed nor heard about from some other person. Later on you will hear what bizarre phenomena the presence of Patera generated in the imagination of a whole community and I feel sure I must ascribe these mysterious feats of clairvoyance to his influence. If you want an explanation I recommend you seek it in the works of our learned research psychologists.

I got to know Patera sixty years ago in Salzburg when we both started at the same high school together. At that time he was a somewhat short but broad-shouldered lad and the most striking–indeed the
only
striking–thing about him was the classical cut of his features beneath a tumble of handsome locks. My God, back in those days we were wild young hooligans who didn’t care tuppence about outward appearances! Nevertheless I must mention that even today, advanced in years as I am, I still remember his large, somewhat protuberant light-grey eyes. But which of us, in those youthful days, had any thought for the future?

After three years I left the high school to attend another establishment and saw less and less of my former school-friends. Eventually I moved away from Salzburg to a different city and lost touch with the people and places I had known there.

Time passed and with it my youth. By now I was in my thirties, had seen a bit of the world, was married and making a living, more or less, as an artist and illustrator.

II

One foggy November afternoon–it was in Munich, where we were living at the time–the servant announced a visitor.

‘Come in.’

As far as I could tell in the murky light, it was a very ordinary looking man. He hastily introduced himself.

‘My name is Franz Gautsch. I would like to speak to you. Have you half an hour?’

I replied that I had, offered the man a chair and had the servant bring a lamp and some tea.

‘How can I help you?’ It was only in the course of the stranger’s tale that my initial indifference turned first to curiosity, then to astonishment.

‘I have come to put certain proposals to you’, he began. ‘I am not speaking in my own name, but for a man whom you, perhaps, have forgotten, but who still remembers you well. This man has at his disposal what is, by European standards, untold wealth. I am speaking of your former classmate, Claus Patera. Please do not interrupt me! By a strange chance, Patera came into possession of what is probably the largest fortune in the world. Your old friend then set out upon the realisation an idea for which access to fairly inexhaustible financial resources is an absolute prerequisite.
He resolved to found a dream realm
. This is a somewhat complex matter, but I will be brief.

First of all a suitable tract of some 1,200 square miles was acquired. One third of the area is mountainous, the rest consists of a plain and hills. A lake, a river and large forests divide up this small realm and add variety to its landscape. A city was established, villages and farms. The latter were sorely needed as even the initial population was 12,000. The present population of the Dream Realm is 65,000.’

My visitor paused and took a sip of tea. I said nothing but a rather embarrassed, ‘Go on.’

‘Patera’, he continued, ‘feels an extraordinarily strong aversion to all kinds of progress. To be precise, to all kinds of
scientific
progress. Please take this literally, for in it lies the main idea behind the Dream Realm. The Realm is shut off from the rest of the world by a surrounding wall and protected against any attack by strong fortifications. There is a single gate for entry and exit, facilitating strict control of people and goods. The Dream Realm is a sanctuary for all those who are unhappy with modern civilisation and contains everything necessary to cater for their bodily needs. It is not at all the intention of the lord of this country to create a utopia, a kind of model state of the future. Although provision has been made to ensure there are no material shortages, the whole thrust of the principal aims of this community is directed less towards the maintenance of property and goods, the population, individuals. No, definitely not! … But I see a smile of disbelief on your lips. It is difficult, I know, almost too difficult for mere words to describe what Patera hopes to achieve with his Dream Realm.

At this point I should perhaps say that everyone who is admitted to our Realm is predestined to do so, either by birth or by later experiences. It is well known that abnormally sharp sense perceptions enable those who possess them to see relationships in the outside world which, apart from occasional moments, simply do not exist for the average person. And it is precisely these ‘non-existent’ things, you see, which are the essence of our endeavours. In the ultimate and most profound sense they form the unfathomable foundation of the world which the Dream people–as they call themselves–never forget for one moment. One could say that normal life and the Dream world are opposites, and it is precisely this difference which makes understanding between them so difficult. My answer to the question, ‘What actually happens in the Dream Realm? What is life there like?’ would have to be silence. All I could tell you about would be the surface, but the very essence of Dream people is that they seek the depths. Everything is geared towards giving life the deepest possible spiritual dimension. The values of the Dreamlanders are so different that the joys and sorrows of ordinary people are alien to them and will ever remain so. The word that probably comes closest to describing the core of our world is ‘mood’. The only things our people experience are moods or, better,
they exist in moods alone
. For them the external world is only raw material, so to speak. They mould it according to their wishes through the highest possible degree of interactive cooperation. Naturally full provision is made to ensure the raw material does not run out. But all the Dreamers believe in is the dream,
their dream
. And these are nurtured and developed, to disrupt them would be unthinkable, would be high treason. That explains the strict selection process for people who are invited to take part in our community. To be brief and make an end of it’–here Gautsch put his cigarette down and looked me straight in the eye–‘
Claus Patera, the absolute ruler over the Dream Realm, has instructed me, as his agent, to pass on to you an invitation to cone to live in his country.’

My visitor spoke these last words louder and very formally. Then he was silent and, for the moment, so was I, as every reader will readily understand. I couldn’t help thinking I must be confronted with a madman and I found it extremely difficult to conceal my unease. As if I were playing with it, I moved the lamp out of his immediate reach; at the same time I cleverly pushed a compass and an erasing knife–dangerous, pointed implements–to one side.

The whole situation was decidedly embarrassing. When he started on this dream business it occurred to me that some acquaintance might be playing a joke on me. Unfortunately this hope gradually died and for the last ten minutes I had desperately been working out my chances. I knew that the best way of dealing with lunatics was to go along with their
id
ée
s fiixes
, but nevertheless! I’m no giant, basically I’m a shy, rather puny individual. And there was this massive Gautsch, with his prim and proper air of a bureaucrat, his pince-nez and blond goatee, sitting in my room!

Those, more or less, were the thoughts going through my mind. And now I had to say something, my visitor was waiting for me to. If the worst came to the worst and he was seized with a frenzy I could always blow out the lamp and quietly slip out of the room, knowing the disposition of the furniture so well.

‘Certainly, certainly, Herr Gautsch. I can hardly wait! I’ll just have to talk it over with my wife. You’ll have my answer first thing in the morning.’ I spoke in soothing tones and stood up. My visitor, however, calmly remained seated and said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘You have completely misunderstood the situation, which I find quite understandable. Most likely you don’t believe a word I’ve said, always assuming, that is, that the agitation you are taking such pains to try and conceal does not indicate some even more sinister suspicion. I am as normal as the next man, I assure you, and everything I have told you is to be taken seriously. It does sound remarkable, extraordinary, I grant you, but perhaps
this
will set your mind at rest.’

As he spoke, he took out a small package and put it on the table. It was addressed to me. I broke the seal and found I was holding a slim case of smooth, greenish-grey leather. In it was a little miniature, a strikingly individual half-length portrait of a young man. Brown locks framed a face with remarkably classical features; the eyes, large and abnormally bright, were staring out of the picture straight into mine. No doubt about it, that was Claus Patera! In the twenty years since we had last seen each other I had scarcely thought of my old schoolfriend once, but at the sight of this lifelike portrait all those pears simply rolled away. In my mind’s eye I saw the yellowpainted corridors of the high school in Salzburg and the old janitor with his venerable goitre, only partly concealed by a cunningly trained beard. I saw myself again among the schoolboys, and among them too was Claus Patera, his looks desecrated by a bowler hat and a strait-jacket of a coat, the result of the rather muddled taste of the aunt who was bringing him up.

‘Where did you get this picture?’ I cried, suddenly seized with a mood of optimism and curiosity.

‘I’ve already told you’, replied my visitor. ‘And your fears seem to have vanished too’, he went on with a good-natured smile, completely lacking in menace.

‘But that was all a piece of nonsense, surely, a trick, a hoax’, I exclaimed with a laugh. By now Gautsch seemed a completely normal, respectable person to me. He was stirring his tea with great deliberation. There must be some joke behind the whole affair, I would find out who was responsible later. It was simply my overactive imagination that had played a trick on me. How could I have jumped to the conclusion that a decent fellow was mad just on the basis of that story? In my younger days I would have found a humorous response. Dear God, I must be getting old! By now I had cheered up completely.

‘But you do accept the picture as genuine?’ said Gautsch. ‘Your friend, whom it depicts, has had a varied life. He only stayed at the high school in Salzburg for a few years. At fourteen he ran away from his aunt and travelled round Hungary and the Balkans with a band of gypsies. Two years later he ended up in Hamburg. At the time he was an animal-tamer, but he gave that up and went to sea, signing on as cabin boy on a small merchantman. In that way he came to China. The ship lay at anchor with many others in Canton; they had brought millet and rice to prevent an imminent rise in prices. After the cargo had been unloaded the vessel had to stay in port for a few days because the goods they were to take back to Europe–human hair and a new type of fine China clay–were not yet ready for loading.

Patera used this period of enforced leisure to explore the surrounding area. On one occasion he saved an elderly Chinese, a lady of rank, from drowning. She had slipped on the mud left behind by flooding into a canal running into the Canton River and would surely have drowned. The local inhabitants who saw her–almost none of them can swim–wrung their hands and screamed, but none of them dared to plunge into the murky brown waves. Your friend, an expert swimmer, happened to be passing and wasted no time but leapt into the water and, after a hard struggle with the current, brought the woman, unconscious, to land, where she was resuscitated. She was the wife of one of the richest men in the world, a frail old greybeard who had been quickly carried to the spot in a litter. Wordlessly, he embraced his wife’s rescuer, who was taken to a large country villa. What discussions took place there we do not know. What we do know is that HiYong, who was childless, kept the poor cabin boy with him in his house and adopted him as his own son. After a further three years–all we know of that period is that he undertook journeys to the unknown interior of Asia–Patera mourned the loss of his adoptive parents. Hi-Yong and his wife died on the very same day. Their heir was now in sole possession of fabulous, untold wealth.’

I interrupted him. ‘And I suppose the Dream Realm comes next?’ I said, still amused by the whole affair. ‘It’s a novel idea, certainly. If you’ve no objection, I’ll pass it on to a writer friend of mine. I’m sure it could be turned into a nice little story. Would you like a cigarette? My visitor politely declined the offer, heaved a deep sigh and said in calm, measured tones, ‘As I said, I can see you think I’m making it all up. However, my purpose here is not to convince you of the existence of the Dream state but to pass on the invitation from my employer. I have carried out my mission, for the moment at least. If you absolutely refuse to believe what I have told you, then there is nothing I can do about it just now. I would, however, ask you to give me a receipt for the picture. It is quite possible that I will have further messages to pass on to you in the very near future.’

Gautsch stood up and sketched a bow. I must admit that, with his simple manner, he did not seem at all like a con-man, and I had the leather case in my hand. As I opened it again I felt a flap I must have overlooked before. Underneath was a card on which was written in ink,
If you want to, come
.

Once more the dreamlike shimmer of an image from a long-forgotten past softly surfaced in my memory. Splayfooted, rambling, clumsy, too large–that was exactly what my old school-friend’s handwriting had been like; ‘desperate’ one of the teachers had once called it. The hand that had written those five words was firmer, to be sure, but it was clearly the same hand. Now I was seized by a strange unease. The handsome face had fixed me with an ice-cold stare. They were eyes that could ensnare a man; there was something cat-like about them. My previous amusement was gone, I felt strange, confused. Gautsch was still standing there waiting. He must have noticed my agitation for he was observing me closely.