Sleepless in Dublin
My eyes are closed. A faint melody finds its way to my ears from the furthest edges of darkness. At first, the melody is so quiet that I have to listen carefully to be able to hear it, but it grows louder with every passing second. It is a hypnotically cheerful jazz tune, where the musicians take turns to dominate the melody and carry it somewhere new. I try to make a mental list of all the instruments I can hear: trumpet, piano, bass, drums. Any more specific analysis of the tune would be too sophisticated for my inexperienced ears. Once I start getting used to the music, a deep voice asks:
“Sogno o son desto?”, Am I dreaming or am I awake?
As I attempt to reply, muffled noises leave my throat in the form of air bubbles. I am incredulous: how can this be? I must be underwater. Yet, the jazz band continues playing its crystal-clear tune, which is in no way altered by the presence of water. My eyes refuse to open. The same voice echoes again,
“Sogno o son desto?”
The question sounds a bit more demanding this second time. I try really hard to respond, but my voice comes out trapped in air bubbles.
I force my eyes open, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I’m sitting in my favourite armchair inside the biggest, oldest bookshop in Dublin; however, I am underwater. And so are the tall shelves full of books, and the armchair I’m sitting on, and the jazz quartet, too. The voice booms one more time,
“Sogno o son desto?”
This time I can speak normally, for I have become a natural component of this underwater environment. I say, “can it please be both?”.
Our roles must have reversed because the voice answers me in the shape of air bubbles, which hit my face in a way that makes me feel like I’m being scolded. I suddenly feel an itch around my eyes, and I immediately realise that I have grown a second pair of eyelids, so that, although one of my sets of eyelids is open, the second one is still closed. With great effort, I manage to open the second set of eyelids, too. That’s when I awaken, on the bookstore armchair. A child is violently blowing soap bubbles in my face. A woman yells something at him and the child starts weeping. I mutter to myself, “stavo sognando”, I was dreaming.
✬
Even after waking up, I still cannot shake the unsettling sensation of being under water. When I raise from the armchair, my limbs are heavy and slow, and each one of my clumsy movements requires great effort. Once I’m on my feet, my hand slowly reaches my face, and it touches my eyes in a way it’s never done before, not to scratch them or rub them, but to check that they’re still in their place, covered by my one set of heavy eyelids. I feel both relief and an incomprehensible disappointment in confirming that everything is where it should be.
As I move towards the Classics section of the bookstore, I wonder if my sleep could have taken me to an alternate universe where gravity is three times stronger than the one on my planet. At my destination, I notice a whole subsection dedicated entirely to the various editions of all of James Joyce’s works. I look at the various editions of Dubliners and select the one that I find more aesthetically pleasing. I look at the price, let out an involuntary gasp, and place it back on the shelf. Then I select another edition which is also aesthetically pleasing but also has a less discouraging price tag. I slowly make my way to the counter and purchase it. As I take my change, I notice that the salesperson’s hand is completely covered in scales. Or is it a tattoo of scales? Before I can investigate further, my heavy feet have taken me out of the shop, and back onto Dawson Street.
✬
I have read the book Dubliners before, but this time I don’t want to read it: I want to walk it. I open it to the chapter called Two Gallants, and, after engaging with the jokes and the banter between the two characters of Corley and Lenehan, I start retracing their steps across the city. It is strange to be able to do this, the geography of this city really hasn’t changed much in one hundred years. Every time the characters stop somewhere, I do the same. At the end of the walk, I pass my gym in Baggot Street and finally reach Stephen’s Green. That’s where the two characters finally reunite, and Corley shows Lenehan the gold coin in his hand. I let my body fall into a sitting position on one of the benches of Stephen’s Green park. A seagull walks in my direction and then abruptly turns back to pursue the sandwich in the hand of a tourist. I let my limbs relax again.
✬
Among all the stories in the book Dubliners, I’ve always had a soft spot for the one called Eveline. This is a story that one can’t walk as easily as Two Gallants, but one can feel it and smell it, instead. As my eyes diligently follow each line of the story, my nose is invaded by the smell of dusty cretonne. As Eveline describes her yearning for a new life, I let the epiphany that she must leave the city unsettle my feelings like a wave in the calm summer sea; her subsequent paralysis freezes my limbs while stirring up a storm inside my head. I shut the book and my eyes closed and let my fingers investigate the texture of the bench I’m sitting on in a feeble attempt to ground myself.
✬
Once I have managed to quiet down the storm inside me, I manage to lift my eyelids, heavy as rocks. A child swims past me, his skin completely covered in scales. He floats into his mother’s embrace. Her skin is as scaly as that of the child. A question finds its way out of my mouth in the form of a series of air bubbles. The child swims fast towards the bubbles and lets out a delighted giggle. As he pops each bubble with his curious finger, the words they contain become audible.
“Sogno o son desto?”