Daniel's Dream by Peter Michael Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

reached over, took his new book, Greek Idyll , out of the paper bag and allowed his gaze to drift back and forth across the cover, focusing here and there when something took his interest. Daniel knew nothing about the contents of the book, but he was greatly attracted to the cover. It was wonderfully evocative; the use of water-colours, the delicate application of hue and tint, the clever manipulation of light and shade. Once again, Daniel became aware of how well the artist had captured that sense of summer, of heat and stillness; it seemed to radiate from the picture with startling verisimilitude.
     
    Daniel studied the scene carefully. There was no longer any doubt in his mind; the shadow cast by the open book on the sand was certainly a face. The features were not delineated with any particular definition, but he could make out the hairline, the sunken eyes, the Roman nose and the point of a beard. Daniel examined the line that separated the sand from the sea. It was an inviting (though, now that he looked more closely, slightly disturbing) scene; it asked questions of the viewer. Whereabouts was this beach? Was it on an island? Who does the book belong to, and where is that person now? What is the book about, and why has it been left open on the sand? Why does it cast a shadow of a face?
     
    Daniel searched the opening pages for some information about the author, Robert Jameson, but could find no photographs or biographical notes.
     
    Having nothing better to do (or to be more accurate, having nothing at all to do), Daniel embarked upon the first chapter. He still wasn’t really interested in reading fiction, and even if he had been it was unlikely he would put his efforts into a book by a complete unknown. It was unlike him to make an impulsive purchase based on, of all things, a cover, but the front cover of Greek Idyll had lured him in, and there now seemed no alternative but to continue.
     
    The first chapter was narrated in the first person, and its initial themes, its setting and to a degree its main character seemed uncomfortably reminiscent of John Fowles’s The Magus , though lacking the latter’s finesse and cleverly crafted intrigue. Daniel read the first chapter with a gnawing sense that he was being taken for a ride. His interest dwindled swiftly and, finding himself unaccountably tired, he put the book to one side and allowed his eyelids, already heavy with sleep, to close.
     
    What a pity, he thought as he tuned out of the world of letters and into the world of sounds. Jarrett’s ingenious and delightful improvisation was embracing him once more with delicious wisps of melody and rhythm. He had thought, for just a moment, that something extraordinary and enticing was about to happen to him; the curious coincidence of spotting the book with its Mediterranean setting had caused a frisson of excitement and identification when he saw it in the bookshop that morning, as if he had been meant to find it just then. For a few moments it had reverberated with some sort of sympathetic vibration, a sense that there was more here than met the eye. And yet, within minutes of starting to read the opening chapter, Daniel found himself once more disappointed and distressed. The world, he sensed, was not about to provide him with the meaning or excitement or pleasure that he craved and that had been absent from his life for so long.
     
    The record came to an end, but Daniel remained seated on the sofa, his eyes closed, his heart heavy with longing for something which had no name or recognisable form, but which nevertheless called out to him like a drowning man going down for the third and final time. 
     

Chapter 2 
     
    Daniel found himself walking along an unfamiliar dirt track. The sun beat down from a pale-blue sky, and a heat haze made the air above the track shimmer. Little wisps of dust lifted with each footfall, the dirt puffing and swirling