The Recurring Dreams of Victor Dumoure

On an August morning as the sun cast its rays through the window, Victor Dumoure awakened from a dream. The handsome and successful singer got up, stretched, and crossed to his favorite chair, a Vintage from the Renaissance period. He sat down and crossed his silk clad legs. I haven’t had a dream like that since I was a young hard rocker, he thought. I was so terrified after that unforgettable performance, that I hired a private investigator to find out if someone had tried to kill me. How cunning my agent and Lenore were, slipping that drug in my drinks. It’s a good thing that since then, I’ve studied dream interpretation. Of course, the drug caused me to hallucinate, and even affected my dreams.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and pondered his recent dream:

The singer is walking down a cobbled road. He wears jeans and a black dinner jacket. His hair is short and brushed from his fair brow. He clutches a guitar. On his feet are fashionable boots. He moves with purpose as he walks toward a glow. At last, he comes to a field of daisies. He feels warmth from the sun’s rays. He stops to contemplate. Has he been here before?

The singer stirred in his chair. He opened his eyes. I know what the dream means, he thought. An occurrence analogous to one I’ve experienced, is about to take place. He sighed as he closed his eyes again. His mind drifted to an unhappy time in his past.

It was late Sunday afternoon, on November 19, that Victor Dumoure, a struggling hard rocker, lounged in his red striped pajama bottoms on the bed, which he shared with ballad singer, Lenore Devancier. Suddenly, he heard the door slam in the living room of his two-room apartment. “Who’s that?” he growled.

His agent, Jake Swindler, appeared at the door to his bedroom. “You left the door unlocked. Put something on. I’ll wait in the living room.”

The hard rocker slid off the bed and he put on his thin blue cotton robe, which hung on the wooden chair by the bed. Pulling the sash around his waist, he went into the living room. “What’s up, Jake?” he asked as he sat down on the worn brown sofa across from the agent.

“I found a gig for you, Vic. You can’t pass this up. This could be your chance to make it big,” said the agent. His stringy blond hair, pulled tight into a ponytail, rendered his face a gaunt look, as he appraised the hard rocker with cool blue eyes. His dull white dress shirt, opened and exposing a scrawny neck, folded over his thin baggy jean clad legs.

Victor Dumoure pushed his abundant chestnut hair away from his sleepy hazel eyes as he considered his agent. “Do I know the place?” he asked.

“You know the place. It’s called Club Delight.”

“Yeah, I know it. What’s the details? You know I can’t afford to pass this up.”

“No, you can’t. M-m-m, well, you’ll get four hundred dollars for one night, that’s Friday, November 24. You’ll get a hundred more if they book you for more; then, four hundred for each show after that. Okay?”

“Okay,” the hard rocker muttered.

“I’ve scheduled a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock.” The agent paused. He smiled wryly. “Oh yeah, Vic. There’ll be other rehearsals. You must do them all. Rehearsals mean you’ll succeed.”

“Okay, Jake. Thanks.”

“Hey, what are agents for?” The agent got up and he went out. The door clicked behind him.

That night, Victor Dumoure dreamed as he slept beside Lenore Devancier:

The singer, holding a guitar in his hands is standing on a stage. His fair hair is long and wavy. He wears a blue suit. His jacket has raised shoulders, befitting the famed. He is singing to an audience in a vast hall. Women are screaming and swooning.

Monday morning, November 20, the hard rocker awoke at five o’clock. He dwelt on his dream. I wonder if my dream is trying to tell me something. But the dream singer is famous, by the women screaming like that. Why would I have such dreams? Is it just because this is my life? But I’m not a celebrity, and that’s what the dream singer is. What bothers me is that I have recurring dreams. I may need help, but I don’t think I should mention this to anybody.

Unhappy, the hard rocker dressed and left for rehearsal.

Tuesday, November 21, as the hard rocker ate eggs and toast, he spoke enthusiastically to Lenore. “I feel good about the show, Lenore. The rehearsal went better than I thought,” he said as he admired her smooth cooper skin, and her slightly mussed short brown feathery hair. She stood at the stove, dressed in a pale blue silk robe.

She smiled at him. “When’s the show, Victor?”

“Friday,” he said as he forked the last of his eggs.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much time for rehearsal. Will you be going with me to my family’s home for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday?”

“No, I know I can’t. I don’t have much time, so I have to rehearse every day.”

Lenore pouted. “You could make an exception. It won’t seem right you not being there with me.”

“It can’t be helped. I’ll make it up to you.” He pushed away his empty plate, and got up, and went over to Lenore. He put his arms around here and kissed her on her neck. “I’ve got to go. Breakfast was good as ever,” he murmured. Then he released her. He went out.

Wednesday morning was dark and rainy. Lenore Devancier paced the living room; her silk robe swished as she moved. While Victor was out, she waited for Jake Swindler. She was afraid because the agent was late. Finally, there was a knock. She took a deep breath, then she opened the door. Swindler stood there, hooded in a black raincoat.

“You’re late,” she hissed, as her brown eyes glared at him. “What if Victor caught us. He never comes home at the same time, depending how rehearsal goes.” She moved aside as he came in. She shut the door.

Jake Swindler turned to her. “Calm down. You know I have other musicians to manage.” He took off his coat. He hung it on a rack beside the door and turned to her. “Listen, I have a plan that’ll put Vic out of commission for a while. I’ll be able to concentrate on my other musicians.” He snapped his long fingers. “My income will increase, and you will benefit, my dear.”

“How will I benefit?”

“Because of his failure, you will have the excuse to leave him. You can give the reason that he can’t support you the way that you need, that you can’t stay behind a musician with emotional problems that interfere with success, and that he’s not the man you love anymore.” The agent paused, and he grabbed her, and kissed her rough on her full smooth mouth. “I’ll give you more than he ever did.”

She pushed him. “What do you mean, more than he ever did?” she gasped.

He reached into his pocket, and he pulled out a wad of bills. “Take this,” he said.

She took it tentatively. “You must want something,” she said, enunciating each word.

“What I want is for you to give him this.” He pulled out a bag of white granules. “See this? It’s called ‘the party drug.’ Its real name is ‘ketamine.’ Just put a little in his food, just enough to cause hallucinations. It won’t kill him.”

Lenore Devancier glared at him, but she took it and she put it in her pocket.

Jake Swindler smiled slowly, as he looked at her, his eyes heated and intense. “Start tonight, Lenore,” he said. He pulled her to him again and he kissed her. This time, she didn’t resist.

The agent pulled his raincoat off the rack and put it on. “You better mop up after I leave. Rain dripped from my raincoat.” Then he went out.

That night, the hard rocker’s lover asked him if he’d like a glass of wine before they went to bed. In the kitchen, after she poured the wine, she dropped in a small dose of ketamine.

She brought the two glasses of into the bedroom. She handed him one as she slipped into bed beside him.

“What make is this? It’s delicious,” he said as he sipped.

She laughed. “Pinot Noir, my love.” She nibbled his ear.

Later, Lenore Devancier gazed at the hard rocker as he slept beside her. She kissed him lightly on his lips. “Sleep well, my love,” she whispered.

The hard rocker tossed and turned in his sleep. He dreamed of the dream singer. This time there was a sign behind him that read, “Anti-Drugs Campaign.” He sat at a desk with documents in front of him. He awoke, the dream was still vivid. He shook his head as he sat up, as he tried to clear his mind. It was as if he was in the room with the dream singer. He could touch the sign. He lay back, and he closed his eyes. He waited for the dream to pass.

The dream singer swirled in front of him. Finally, Victor struggled out of bed. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Soon his mind cleared. He staggered into the living room and sat down. He wondered if it was more than the dreams. Is something wrong with me, he thought. Suddenly, he was afraid. I better not mention it to anybody. They might think I can’t perform, and I must perform. He struggled with the memory of the evanescent dream singer, as determination filled his heart.

Thursday morning, a dejected Victor Dumoure sat in the kitchen. Shadows lined his reddened hazel eyes. He picked at his food as he thought of the dreams, and of his worry that he might fail in his performance. His head felt woozy. He put his fork down and he reached for the orange juice. He gulped it down. “I’m going to be late today. I have to rehearse practically all day to prepare for tomorrow,” he said to Lenore, who sat across from him. A frown creased her brow.

“I’m going out to my parents’ home without you,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you,” Victor mumbled. He got up and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He went out.

Late that night, Victor pulled Lenore to him. She struggled. “Not now,” she said.

“What’s the matter with you? I need you,” Victor grumbled.

She pushed him so hard, he released her. He stared at her, flabbergasted.

She turned from him. “I’m leaving you,” she said.

“Why?” he stammered as he stared at her rigid back.

“Jake is all I need. He’s somebody, and he’s got money.”

The hard rocker got up and staggered into the living room. Holding his weary head, he sat down. Man, first the dreams, then the hallucinations, and now this, he thought. My life is falling apart. He lifted his head up and leaned back. “I just got this gig. You could’ve given me a chance,” he croaked, as Lenore sauntered into the room.

“I don’t want you anymore. Get that through your head,” she sneered.

“Get your things and get out,” he said hoarsely.

Her face grim, she went back into the bedroom. She slammed clothes into suitcases. Soon, she came out. She strode past him, opened the door, went out and slammed it shut.

The hard rocker stayed on the sofa, motionless, until the room darkened with twilight.

Later, alone in his bed, he slept fretfully.

On Friday morning, November 24, Victor Dumoure awakened from a dream by the shrill of the alarm. Sluggishly, he got out of the bed. He went to the bathroom, turned on the facet and splashed water on his face. He stared in the mirror at himself. “Get yourself together. You’re not going to fail. You mustn’t fail,” he said aloud. The unhappy hard rocker went into the kitchen and ate a cold meal.

That night, onstage, Victor Dumoure saw faces, blurry and swirling. The room permeated with the smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and sweaty bodies. I can’t hold on; I’m going to collapse, he thought. Fear and panic gripped his chest. Help me, he screamed silently. His white long-sleeved shirt clung to his clammy body.

Suddenly, a light flashed in the hard rocker’s mind, so clear it almost blinded him. It spread, then faded. An image of the dream singer filled his vision. A heat rose from the depths of his stomach and engulfed him. Then, like a force pulling him, it moved him. It forced his hands. He strummed his guitar, and he sang. He felt unlike himself, as if someone else was singing.

The song ended, and the dream singer vanished. Victor blinked. He stood still. The room was silent.

The crowd stood. They shouted. They stamped their feet and commanded more. The noise and the applause were deafening.

Tears filled the hard rocker’s eyes and spilled down his cheeks. Slowly, he lifted his hands and played the guitar. Calm now, his mind clear, he sang the next song.

That night, Victor Dumoure sat alone on his bed and thought, I’ll become like the dream singer, just as he is in my dreams. I’m going to make it. I’m going to be a star, just like him. He leaned back against the pillows and cushioned his arms beneath his head. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt to hire an investigator to find out if someone was trying to kill me. Maybe I was drugged. He was satisfied with these thoughts. He got up, turned out the lights, and went to bed. He slept throughout the night. His dreams were pleasant, but not one was of the dream singer.

Reminiscence faded from Victor Dumoure’s mind. He stirred in his chair. He opened his eyes. Yes, he thought, the dream meant a similar experience. He nodded. Yes, I’m prepared this time. He leaned back, crossed his long legs, and smiled.

Victor Dumoure, his rinsed blond hair brushed and clipped short, walked onstage. He was elegant, dressed in a black suit and white silk shirt.

His heart stirred as the thought of his lover and her betrayal.

Time stood still as he gazed at his audience. A heat rose within him. He thought of an image of himself as a hurt hard rocker long ago, on a certain night.

He began to sing. His voice rose and fell, deep and rich in practiced timbre. A tear fell from his eyes. And just like long ago, the crowd rose, and they shouted, and they applauded, and they demanded more.