Free The Deep Sea Diver's Syndrome by Serge Brussolo Page B

work had troubled Antonine, embarrassed her a bit. She only liked things you didn’t have to go to school to appreciate. Real art—not excuses for intellectual jerking off that sent rich people into ecstasies. She’d dithered in the shop, turning the knickknack over and over in her fleshy hands.
    “You’re not supposed to touch them too much,” the man in the shop had explained, making a face. “It shortens their lifespan.” So they were expensive,
and
fragile? That had given her pause.
    “Just do it,” her neighbor had whispered, nudging her with an elbow. “It’ll do you a world of good. I used to be just like you. Now I spend my whole pension on this stuff, but no more nightmares, no more sleeping pills, no more sedatives. I sleep like a baby, twelve hours a night! A woman of my age—can you imagine? My aches and pains no longer wake me, I lie down and just melt away, like a sugar cube. And it’s all thanks to dreams. You dissolve, your body disappears, your brain dozes off—it’s bliss. Saints and real nuns—the ones from the old days—must’ve felt something like it.”
    Antonine had left herself be swayed. In women’s magazines, dreams were spoken of as wonderful mood stabilizers. “With just a few ectoplasmic curios carefully placed around your bedroom, you’ll enjoy a veritable rejuvenating experience in the comfort of your own home. Your body will flourish, your skin will grow softer,
your wrinkles will disappear!
” Everyone sang the benefits of dreams, and declared that there was no longer any needto buy costly works of art to see your life transformed. To sleep like a baby … it was all she asked. Being rid of those horrible nightmares, that head she found every night in boules of bread, its mouth stuffed with crumb—aah! If this kept up she’d lose her health. She’d already lost weight, and didn’t feel like doing anything anymore, not even making love, whereas once …
    She would’ve liked it better if the knickknack was an actual art object—a little marquise, for instance. She didn’t really like Greek statues, with their weenies and fig leaves. Fig leaves were stupid, and besides, how did they stay up? Was there a string? A spot of glue? Weenies were cute, especially in marble, all pink like a snail without a shell. Dreams were something else altogether. You weren’t sure which angle to look at them from. They had no front or back, and everyone saw whatever they wanted to see: a child’s head, a flower, a smiling cloud. In the end, she bought the object.
    “Is Madame thinking of starting a collection?” the man in the shop had inquired. “If so, there are rules.”
    She’d had to learn the rules. Above all, never touch or caress the dreams, even if you got a sudden urge to, for human contact shortened their lifespans, and they withered faster. Naïvely, she’d asked how such a phenomenon manifested itself, and the man in the shop had lowered his voice to whisper evasively: “Oh, you know, they’re kind of like flowers. Harmless. Just be sure to read the instructions.” She’d brought the tchotchke home and set it on the mantle in her little bedroom. That night, she decided to leave the light on so she could keep an eye on it. Shecouldn’t really see anything specific in it. A bird? A fat sleepy pigeon?
    For the first time since her husband’s death, she slept like a baby. A slumber like a long downy crossing, without a single image, without any of the absurd adventures that assail you as soon as you close your eyes. When she woke, she felt comfortable in her own skin, felt hungry for a huge breakfast, felt like running down to the bakehouse to knead dough and browbeat the apprentices. She was bubbling over with barely contained energy. From that day on, she began to collect dreams, haunting auction halls when she had enough money, and when she didn’t, making do with little “art boutiques” or even the home décor sections of larger department