After we danced, I told him that it was an honour to meet him, and then stopped myself, "oh, wait."

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"Well, I think you died in 1991. Therefore, even if this dream is taking place as early as 1992—and that's a stretch—you're already dead."

"Don't take it to heart," he remarked. "Anyway, does it really matter?"

"It matters to me."

"My dear," he told me. "You aren't making any sense. It wouldn't make any concrete difference if you'd dreamed about me while I was still alive, because it would still only be a dream."

"I did dream about you while you were alive," I insisted. "You were a big part of my life; I even knew you were from Zanzibar, and was properly shocked when I learned about Mary Austin."

"Doesn't that only prove how little you knew me?" he replied. "I mean, what about all those songs I wrote about her? Didn't that give you some kind of a clue?

"Now you're the one who's being silly," I spat out. "That 'clue' colloquialism won't be gaining currency for at least another decade. Right now, it's 'wake up and smell the coffee.'"

"You're the only person I've ever met who nitpicks in your dreams."

"I'm sorry," I told him. "It's just that I'm rather in awe of you. Except that, well . . . you know."

"Yes, I know: you feel bad about not loving 'Bohemian Rhapsody' as much as you love the rest of the Queen canon. But it doesn't really hurt my feelings; after all, it's your prerogative, and it got to a point where I was sick to death of 'Rhapsody' myself. Besides, you never read Catcher in the Rye, and you're one of J.D. Salinger's biggest fans, just based on his writing about the Glass family."

"It's because he captured so well the life of the intellectual misfit," I remarked. "Anyway, you seem to know a lot about me."

"Don't flatter yourself. Remember: this is your own dream. So what you really mean is that you know a lot about you."

"Fine," I told him, irritated again. "But you shouldn't underestimate self-knowledge."

He laughed. "Oh, I don't. Say, did I tell you I've moved to the country and started farming sheep?"

"Oh, right. Like you're living this Ian Andersen agrarian-type existence, with the salmon and all that."

"No, really. I'm a terribly down-to-earth person. I even cut my hair in 1980."

"Yeah," I told him. "I didn't like that. I preferred it long. And I hated the moustache."

"Well, I don't have it on now," he remarked. "And my hair's long again. But that was your decision. Wasn't it?"

"I am trying for some verisimilitude," I pointed out. "You do have a streak of grey in your hair, and you're getting thin."

"Oh, thanks," he told me. "I love it when people notice that. You're as bad as the bloody press."

"Am I, really?"

"No, not really."

"So maybe this is normal?" I asked him. "Like people seeing Elvis?"

"Elvis is a special case," he reminded me. "People see Elvis when they are awake."

"Does that make him some sort of musical saint?" I enquired.

"Well," he replied, "it certainly means he's transcended some kind of barrier. But I've got to go."

"Why?"

"Because you are about to wake up, and since you're using your cell phone as an alarm clock right now don't want to have to listen to those tinny notes coming out of it."

"Why, Freddie," I told him. "I do believe you're a bit of a snob."

"When did you first figure that one out?"

So he grinned, and then he vanished. And then, sure enough: the cell phone rang.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 08:46 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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1 If you feel like it, you can pay your respects to Freddie here: http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=2164 BTW, until recently I had no idea that ol' Faroukh was an Indian Parsi, or Zoroastrian. Apparently he's the most famous one of all time, and is seen as a big hero in that somewhat obscure ethnic/religious enclave.

Posted by: Mike at November 09, 2008 09:03 AM (3dXbO)

2 Except that the local Muslims prevented the rest of 'em from the mass celebration they had planned for what would have been his 60th birthday. Of course, the British claim him as well. But they always do that. I mean, how can they say that both T.S. Eliot and W.H. Auden are English? I think they should have to choose one. Probably Auden. After all, Eliot was American--and I want more recognition for my own obscure enclave . . . what? I left daffodils; he once remarked that he was "as gay as a daffodil."

Posted by: Attila Girl at November 09, 2008 09:20 AM (TpmQk)

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