I turned to the back of the book to have a look at the author photo—a smug man with a prominent jaw and a dark sweater stood, arms folded, against a backdrop of suitably Scandinavian snow. Well, I thought, addressing the photo, what a complete waste of time this has been. I do not appreciate this at all. Technically, there were a few chapters remaining, but I, for one, would not be reading them. Instead I tossed the book to the floor beside the bed, turned out the light, and fell headlong into what would prove to be another strangely relevant dream.

22

In my dream I was walking across campus on a brisk morning, the sun behind a cloud cover. This is pleasant, I thought to myself, and I put my hand in my pocket and began to whistle. I seemed to be heading in the direction of the Oval, though I had a difficult time judging how far away that was. The trees and sidewalk, although familiar, were devoid of any distinguishing characteristics. I had put my left hand in my pocket, because with my right hand I was carrying the briefcase. It seemed to have grown much heavier overnight. There was something in it, definitely; I could hear it knocking around, and it seemed as though what was inside was a heavy but not particularly large object, as if I were carrying an ingot of gold, or a candy bar made of lead.

In my dream, I was unperturbed by this. A thought arose: Might it be possible to look inside and see what the object was? But the dream version of myself did not seem interested in this question, and only kept on walking, whistling an unidentifiable tune. What a pleasure it was to walk alone, on campus, early in the morning, the dream-me thought. Why didn’t I do it more often?

“Excuse me,” said a deep and familiar voice. I turned in its direction. Sitting on a bench, amid a profusion of shrubbery, was Gerry Van Gelder, looking large and uncomfortable. When he spoke, he seemed ill at ease.

“Excuse me,” he said again. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Of course,” I said. Although I could not, in truth, say that I was happy to see him (he would delay me somehow, I felt, though from what I could not have said), I could certainly do him this service; I was brimming with goodwill. I transferred the briefcase to my left hand, and rolled back my shirtsleeve.

But when I looked down at my watch’s face, I saw to my surprise that it was completely blank. Not only were there no hands, there were also no numbers. I gave it a little shake.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It looks like my watch has stopped.”