Perhaps it is living in the country, in these great swathes of silence lit by slanting afternoon sun; or perhaps it is all the films I have been watching; whatever the cause, I have been remembering my dreams: more of them each day. This morning’s is the first proper dream memory I have had in years. The dream was about a beautiful and headstrong young woman in whom I was in unrequited love. It was a highly unlikely situation: I don’t like slim, elfin blondes, have never been in love with a much younger girl, and have never been hopelessly in love. Perhaps my mind was creating a film script in which I only agreed to be an actor? The unlikeliness of the situation was in the back of my mind as I dreamed.
Now, the girl liked me, in the way in which most young girls like me because I was interesting to talk to, polite, generous, and – safe: the typical maternal uncle-figure in which so many men my age cast themselves in
Then there was a crime twist: a murder had been committed. While rummaging in the house in which we both (and several of our friends) were staying, I stumbled upon evidence that she, my love, was the murderer. The murder had been premeditated and ambition-driven (the details were not clear in the dream); this cast the girl in a suddenly much more interesting and attractive light, the viewer-cum-script writer in me thought: now, I could imagine taking an interest in a girl like that.
The final scene was an ending straight from an Iranian film: it was a kind of party, with general conversation and joking, at which she and I sat or stood side by side. I knew already; and I knew that soon she would find out that I know. And as I talked and joked I wondered what would happen when she did: would she decide to kill me, too? Or would she offer herself as a bribe? I remembered thinking fearfully that the former would be the more acceptable option: you see, it would have been shameful and ignoble to win her – or any woman – through subterfuge.
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