My Father’s Dreams
‘This topsy-turvy world of illusions and hopes, in which Flisar plays with the function of dreaming, is spiced with unusual and original grotesque overtones ... With masterful strokes, Flisar weaves the episodes of his story into an eccentric bildungs-roman-in-reverse, moves the action from one mental or emotional state to another, and resolves it with a dream vision ... ‘
IGOR BRATO, DELO (Literary Supplement)
‘The dream material is richly differentiated, the descriptions are luxuriously sensual, poetic, morbid, prophetic, archetypal, erotic, hellish, heavenly ... All the way to the moment of final reckoning, when everything turns cruelly real ... ‘
LUCIJA STEPANčič, Contemporary Review
‘If Flisar can provoke the reader to shift from Rabelaisian belly laughs to disgust with irrational authority to new takes on epistemology within a few sentences, he has accomplished something that many branches of 20th-century art have sought, often without success.’
KARL YOUNG, Introduction, My Father’s Dreams (U.S. edition)
‘My Father’s Dreams violates the psyche precisely as the characters are violated. It is via one’s own trust and through the aggressive defense of one’s own innocence (or ignorance) that the violation occurs ... What we see in Flisar’s My Father’s Dreams is precisely what Edmund Burke defined as the sublime.’
SUSAN SMITH NASH, Preface, My Father’s Dreams (U.S. edition)
First published in 2015 by
Istros Books
London, United Kingdom www.istrosbooks.com
Originally published in Slovene as Velika žival samote
© Evald Flisar, 2015
The right of Evald Flisar to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
Translation © Evald Flisar and Alan McConnell-Duff
Graphic design: Davor Pukljak, Frontispis.hr
ISBN: 978-1-908236-22-7 (print edition)
ISBN: 978-1-908236-87-6 (eBook)
Printed in England by
CMP (UK), Poole, Dorset www.cmp-up.com
This publication is made possible with the financial assistance of the Trubar Foundation, Ljubljana, Slovenia
Men don’t choose evil because they like it,but because they mistake it for happiness. Mary Wollstonecraft
1
It isn’t easy to talk of one’s early life, even after so many years. However, allowing for lapses of memory, I intend to hold nothing back, otherwise telling the story would be a fruitless exercise. Much of it remains unclear, including why my father shortly after his fiftieth birthday went off his head. That was all the more surprising because he had never given any impression that he was anything other than the sanest person on earth. So, at least, he appeared to those who knew him. And he was known to a great many people: as a country doctor he covered twenty villages and was paid regular visits by patients ranging from pregnant girls to old men requiring colostomies. It is true that the doctor in the neighbouring district was of a friendlier disposition, but my father could boast a much higher rate of cure. That’s why he felt that a guarded measure of disdain for one’s patients was hardly a crime. Surprisingly, he was exceptionally pleasant to hypochondriacs, for whom he harboured a special feeling of closeness.
In my mother’s opinion he could have been a little less pleasant to young pregnant girls, who appeared to be his favourite patients. As far as I remember, that never caused any problems, except once, when a particularly attractive Gypsy girl from a hamlet in the nearby woods came for an examination insufficiently clean. This upset Father so that he locked her into a bathing cabin, releasing her only after she had showered twice and once more for good measure. Although he later denied accusations that he had spent half an hour drying her with a miniscule towel, the Gypsies threatened him with court action until he mollified them with a wad of cash, about half of his monthly salary.
My father was a quiet man, but occasionally he was struck by a fit of anger of such magnitude that he was more shocked by it than anyone else. Usually it was my mother who pushed him over the border of self-restraint, especially when she dared to criticize his ‘experiments’ in the basement of the health centre. In her opinion he should have refrained from any work that was not part of his duties at the surgery, and devoted the rest of his time, like most husbands, to his family.
“Family?” was his usual response. “One bastard and one feebleminded woman are hardly a family.”
Mother could bear his rudeness only by turning it into a joke. “Everybody’s got what they deserve,” she would observe with a bitter smile whenever she felt disinclined to argue. Her capacity, not to mention the will, to argue with Father had eventually waned, and they settled for aiming their words past each other, with Father exploding only when he was hit accidentally. But never, not even in the throes of his worst distemper, did he hit Mother, however much I felt that that was what she was trying to get him to do.
Whenever I summon my father to memory I see a tall, slightly stooping gentleman of middle age, with slow, careful movements, somewhat plumper round his waist than he would have wished, yet far from being fat, with a neatly trimmed reddish beard and gently greying hair parted on the side, which made him look younger than he was, always wearing a slightly anxious expression, which could, however, together with the softness of his eyes, unexpectedly leap into a warm, puzzling smile, sufficiently charming for him to be known, especially among the female patients, as the ‘handsome doctor’.
It was probably his popularity that irked Mother most, for she desperately wanted his smile to be reserved for herself and me, although I was its happy recipient often enough, most likely because I never argued with Father. Another habit of his that Mother couldn’t stand was his natural tendency to be eternally lost in thoughts. Indeed, very often he seemed to be most absent when he was at home, pontificating on God knows what problems or, with eyes closed, completely absorbed in classical music, hardly Mother’s favourite.
At first Mother worked as a receptionist at the health centre, but shortly after they married Father talked her into retraining for the position of an accounts clerk with a nearby brick factory. Otherwise, ran his argument, the health centre would begin too resemble ‘a family practice’. There was hardly any danger of that, for next to Father and his assistant, Nurse Mary, the health centre also housed a dentist and his assistant, not to mention their common receptionist. It was much more likely that Father began to be bothered by Mother’s increasing curiosity about his “experiments” in the basement of the health centre, where he was spending so much of his time. Once he even admitted as much. He said he had nothing to hide, but simply wanted to pursue his research in peace.
“You mustn’t think,” he would occasionally turn to Mother with a sarcastic smile, “that marrying a doctor automatically confers on you a degree in philosophy. What could a man of science and a housemaid possibly talk about? Wishes are one thing, but fortunately in this world it is abilities through which we realise our potential.”
Mother tried her best not to show how lonely she felt. Any objections she found the courage to raise were promptly brushed aside by Father’s acid wit, in the face of which she felt transfixed like a small rodent confronted by a deadly snake. Gradually she came to realise that it was much safer to communicate with Father in monosyllables, and to entrust her grievances to me. There were days when