A heavyset man bumps into her, pushing her slightly off her circle.
“Oh, pardon me,” he says.
She looks at him. His khaki shirt has a small purple dot on it. His gray hair needs combing. She has the urge to smooth it down with her hand. Silver-rimmed glasses decorate his round face, unnecessary when sight correction is done at each doctor’s visit.
He carries a briefcase, the type with multiple compartments. The weathered leather bag has a soft patina from regular use and the passage of time. It is an archaic item, like his glasses—earthly unlike most things of this time, which live in the clouds. They belong more in a museum than on an elderly gentleman.
“Are you going to the Natural History Museum?” she asks.
“How did you—?”
“Just a guess. I work there.”
“What a coincidence. I have a meeting there this morning.”
“With Thane?”
“Yes! You’re quite a guesser,” the old man says.
“He’s the director.”
The train approaches. The commuters file onto it like ants entering the cavity of a dead snake. Aris goes to her seat by the window. The old man sits next to her and places his large briefcase in front of him.
“Hope you don’t mind. That way I won’t forget it when I get off,” he says. “My memory is not so good in old age.”
“Not at all. I’m Aris.” She gives him her hand.
He takes it. “Professor Jacob.”
“Professor Jacob? The one who wrote Manual of the Four Cities?”
“You know me?”
“Yes! Of course. I’ve been reading your book every night.”
“Everybody keeps telling me it’s my book.”
“It’s the best interpretation of the Planner’s ideology I’ve ever read.”
“It’s just rewriting his words, my dear. I don’t really think of it as mine.”
“I found the section about dreams thoroughly fascinating,” she says.
Professor Jacob smiles. “It’s a favorite subject. A never-ending search, you see. There are so many schools of thought on dreams.”
“So, which do you subscribe to?”
“Oh. Well, let’s see. One thought is that dreams are meaningless, random firings of neurons that happen when the body rests. Excess energy working its way out of the system.”
He notices the purple dot on his shirt. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it to no effect.
“Another is that the brain uses dreams to work out problems the person encountered during the day, connecting them with solutions that the person may have overlooked. Or strengthening the knowledge they gained while awake.”
He licks the end of his handkerchief and rubs at the spot. It smears the dot, making it look worse. He gives up and puts away the handkerchief.
An odd expression crosses his face, and he leans in, his eyes hard and penetrating.
“There’s another, and this is a dangerous one. Some people believe that memories seep back through dreams. Some go as far as attempting to get back to their old lives using their dreams as guides, not caring about the consequences of their reckless pursuit.”
“Why is it dangerous?” she asks.
“Unearthing the past—even just believing it is possible—undermines Tabula Rasa, the system that holds us together. It could tear the fabric of our society apart.”
Professor Jacob’s eyes soften.
“Today is a gift. That’s why they call it the present,” he says in a lighter tone. “You must pardon me. I have a weakness for old, funny sayings. I can’t help myself.”
He doesn’t have to convince her that Tabula Rasa is necessary. She likes the idea of a blank slate. You can be whomever you want to be, four years at a time. Still, it’s hard to fathom how people chasing their dreams could be detrimental to the Four Cities. Dreams are not reality.
“Was there a question you asked? I’m sorry I don’t remember,” the professor says. He points a finger to his head. “Old age.”
She gives him a gentle smile. “I was just wondering what your belief on dreams is.”
“Ah. Well, I’m partial to thinking that dreams are a combination of synapses making connections and your brain trying to make sense of them. We humans have a need to find meaning in even the most random, insignificant thing,” he says. “Like our existence.”
The train slows. A flash of an image on the side of the subway wall catches her attention. Red. A flower maybe? She has seen it every day for as long as she can remember. Graffiti done by a brave and idiotic artist. She wonders about the probability of the artist being hit by a train as it passes. Brain splatter would make impactful art.
She looks down and sees a thin cut on her hand. It’s new and an angry pink. She doesn’t remember when she got it. She touches it gently.
“You have a wound,” Professor Jacob says.
“Just a scratch.”
“Here. Let me help.” He pulls out a small bandage from his wallet and places it on the cut.
“You keep that in your wallet?”
“I always do.”
“Why?” Aris asks.
He thinks about it. “I’m not sure. But it’s useful today.”
She stands up. “Here’s our stop, professor.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
She looks at her watch.
“I can take you to Thane’s office, if you’d like.”
“Are you sure that’s not too much of a bother?”
“Not at all. You would actually give me an excuse for being late.”
They get off the elevator at the street level. The sidewalk is busy with pedestrians. Just as Aris turns toward the Natural History Museum a block away, she hears shouting. It comes from across the street. She and everyone near her stop to look, transfixed by the unusual sight.
On the corner adjacent to them is a man. Sun-bleached blond and muscular. He’s shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice crazed
