Jedediah Smith

Now I get about forty percent of my sets an[d] characters from dreams. Sometimes, just a phrase, a voice, a glimpse, and sometimes I will get a whole story or chapter. All I have to do is sit down and transcribe the dream. An example is a story in Exterminator! called “They Do Not Always Remember” And, sometimes in dreams I find a book or a magazine and read a story. So perhaps writers don’t write, perhaps they just read and transcribe.

Now what are dreams made of? – Much the same material as a novel – pieces of old movies, newspapers, magazines, novels, sensory in-put. The line between subjective and objective experience is purely arbitrary. No objective reality could be experienced without somebody there to experience it subjectively, and no subjective experience could exist without something to experience.

THEY DO NOT ALWAYS REMEMBER

It was in Monterrey Mexico … a square a fountain a café. I had stopped
by the fountain to make an entry in my notebook: “dry fountain empty
square silver paper in the wind frayed sounds of a distant city.” “What
have you written there?” I looked up. A man was standing in front of
me barring the way. He was corpulent but hard-looking with a scarred
red face and pale grey eyes. He held out his hand as if presenting a
badge but the hand was empty. In the same movement he took the
notebook out of my hands. “You have no right to do that. What I write
in a notebook is my business. Besides I don’t believe you are a police
officer.” Several yards away I saw a uniformed policeman thumbs
hooked in his belt. “Let’s see what he was to say about this.”

We walked over to the policeman. The man who had stopped me spoke
rapidly in Spanish and handed him the notebook. The policeman leafed
through it. I was about to renew my prostests but the policeman’s
manner was calm and reassuring. He handed the notebook back to me
said something to the other man who went back and stood by the
fountain.

“You have time for a coffee señor?” the policeman asked. “I will tell
you a story. Years ago in this city there were two policemen who were
friends and shared the same lodgings. One was Rodriguez. He was
content to be a simple agente as you see me now. The other was Alfaro.
He was brilliant, ambitious and rose rapidly in the force until he was
second in command. He introduced new methods … tape recorders …
speech prints. He even studied telepathy and took a drug once which he
thought would enable him to detect the criminal mind. He did not
hesitate to take action where more discreet officials preferred to look the
other way … the opium fields … the management of public funds …
bribery in the police force … the behaviour of policemen off duty.
Señor he put through a rule that any police officer drunk and carrying a
pistol would have his pistol permit canceled for one flat year and what
is more he enforced the rule. Needless to say he made enemies. One
night he received a phone call and left the apartment he still shared with
Rodriguez … he had never married and preferred to live simply you
understand … just there by the fountain he was struck by a car … and
accident? perhaps … for months he lay in a coma between life and
death … he recovered finally … perhaps it would have been better if he
had not.” The policeman tapped his forehead “You see the brain was
damaged … a small pension … he still thinks he is a major of police
and sometimes the old Alfaro is there. I recall an American tourist,
cameras slung all over him like great tits protesting waving his passport.
There he made a mistake. I looked at the passport and did not like what
I saw. So I took him along to the comisaria where it came to light the
passport was forged the American tourist was a Dane wanted for
passing worthless checks in twenty-three countries including Mexico. A
female impersonator from East St Louis turned out to be an atomic
scientist wanted by the FBI for selling secrets to the Chinese. Yes
thanks to Alfaro I have made important arrests. More often I must tell to
some tourist once again the story of Rodriguez and Alfaro.” He took a
toothpoick out of his mouth and looked meditatively at the end if ot. “I
think Rodriguez has his Alfaro and for every Alfaro there is always a
Rodriguez. They do not always remember.” He tapped his
forehead. “You will pay for the coffee yes?”

I put a note down on the table. Rodriguez snatched it up. “This note is
counterfeit señor. You are under arrest.” “But I got it from American
Express two hours ago!” “Mentiras! You think we Mexicans are so
stupid? No doubt you have a suitcase full of this filth in your hotel
room.”

Department and I am arresting you and your accomplice Rodriguez for acting in concert to promote the sale of narcotics … caffeine among other drugs …”

A hand touched my shoulder. I looked up. A greyhaired Irishman was
standing there with calm authority the face portentous and distant as if I
were recovering consciousness after a blow on the head. They do not
always remember. “Go over there by the fountain Bill. I’ll look into
this.” I could feel his eyes on my back see the sad head shake hear him
order two coffees in excellent Spanish … dry fountain empty square
silver paper in the wind frayed sounds of distant city … everything grey
and fuzzy … my mind isn’t working right … who are you over there
telling the story of Harry and Bill? … The square clicked back into
focus. My mind cleared. I walked toward the café with calm authority.

WSB