Daniel's Dream by Peter Michael Rosenberg Page A

travelled somewhere new in his dreams, but he was loth so much as to suggest that anything had changed in his nightly excursions. And it was not because he did not want to bother her. His decision was much more deliberate, much more active than that. This new dream was something different, something special, and he did not want to share it with her.
     
    Daniel waited quietly until he heard the reassuring sound of Lisanne’s deep breathing, indicating that she had fallen asleep, and, satisfied that she was not about to wake, settled down once more.
     
    He waited patiently to be drawn back into sleep, trying to keep his mind clear of his troubles and confusions so that his descent would be swift and easy, but the sound of the bouzouki in his head kept him awake for hours, and it was not until the first glimmer of dawn crept through the gap between the curtains that Daniel slipped peacefully into unconsciousness. 
     

Chapter 4 
     
    At ten, Daniel awoke for the second time. He vaguely recalled having woken in the night, but could not remember why. He knew he had woken Lisanne, but could not recall anything else about the disturbance. Had it been his usual nightmare? He thought not. Once again he had woken with his head clear, his body cool and dry, free of the black thirst that usually plagued him after a night’s sleep. He looked at the ceiling, searching for clues, his concentration distracted momentarily by half-remembered visions of Mediterranean vistas. Just a dream, he said to himself, just a dream.
     
    On the kitchen table was a note from Lisanne, reminding him of his appointment with Dr Fischer. Great, thought Daniel, just what I need. He considered the possibility of telephoning Fischer and making some excuse, but he knew that Lisanne would be upset if he missed his appointment. Fischer was, after all, a great family friend, a pillar of the  community and a rock of ages in these troubled times. Such a pity, then, that he doled out the sort of healthcare treatment that Noah (or, indeed, any one of his animals) might have expected on emerging from the ark.
     
    Daniel had to steel himself for the visit in the only way he knew how. But at ten in the morning, not surprisingly, the scotch went straight to his head, and he arrived at the surgery half an hour late having taken several wrong turnings along the way.
     
    Daniel entered the surgery and sat down in the black, cracked-leather chair facing the doctor. He looked around him at the familiar, dowdy room, with its antiseptic smell and ageing wallpaper, and then at Dr Fischer, who, Daniel noted with some concern, appeared, like the wallpaper, to be yellowing and peeling at the edges.
     
    ‘So, how are you feeling, Daniel?’ croaked Dr Fischer, peering over the antique pince-nez balanced precariously on his bulbous nose, its intricate web of capillaries spreading out across its surface like a road map of the home counties.
     
    ‘Okay,’ said Daniel, who had learnt of late to be as non-committal as possible; every admission, he had realised, seemed to land him with another prescription for yet more drugs to throw down his throat, this being Fischer’s first line of attack: redemption through chemistry.
     
    ‘I see,’ said the doctor, who had grown familiar with Daniel’s unhelpful attitude. ‘And how are you sleeping?’
     
    ‘The same as ever,’ replied Daniel. ‘I have yet to enjoy a complete, restful night’s sleep.’
     
    ‘I see,’ repeated the doctor, with a nod. ‘And are you still taking the sleeping tablets?’
     
    ‘Yes,’ lied Daniel. Any attempt to thwart Fischer”s regimen would only end in tears.
     
    ‘And, in view of their qualified success, do you suppose you could manage without them? Barbiturates are addictive you know; we don’t want to turn you into a junkie, do we?’ Dr Fischer gave a little, stifled laugh, as if he had made a joke.
     
    Daniel forced a