My favourite holiday destination is the island of Bivolio. I spend my days in the shade near the sea, hard muscles soft, thoughts wandering away and slowly fading.
When I first went there, I asked people how they said ‘day dreaming’ in their language. They looked at me and laughed and gently corrected me – day dreaming? I was talking about dreaming and that happens in the day. Night dreams are different. Dreams, the ones that you rest into in the day, bring you possibilities for the future, night dreams solve the problems of the past.
“Dream on it,” they say, “and the answers will be there.”
“They have always been there,” some continue, ” but you have tried too hard, you have thought too hard. Dream on it.”
“Golden dreams” they wish me. The sweetest golden dreams.
We swam to the island together. The wind got up, and the waves. The next morning his father rowed out. I never saw him again.
In the old days, before the trouble, the calming, the fake peace, the taking up again, in the old days, in Franki’s shaven head and tanned days, he’d stood outside a bar, near his friends but not with them or of them.
A slight young man, dark skinned and bearded, walked up to him and spoke to him in a whisper. Franki didn’t understand the young man’s language so continued to look down the road, arms folded, clicking his tongue once. The slight young man nodded, walked away and didn’t look back.
It was night; the bar was the only light that showed in the town.
One of Franki’s friends walked quickly up to him now.
– Did you understand what he said?
– He said he recognised you. He asked if you wanted to go with them to steal sheep. He said he would fetch a gun.
Franki fell from the clouds with surprise but kept silence.
– We need to go before he comes back. With the gun.
If the slight young man came back with the gun, there was no one to meet him.
The next day, Franki left the island, still in the old days, before the trouble, the calming, the fake peace, the taking up again, the old days.