The ghost of Philip K Dick haunts me in my sleep.

The hovercab descended to the curb just long enough for Jereth to step out, then dashed
away, the driver proud of his speed and accuracy. Jereth adjusted his pink mohair sweater
– he'd been told to dress 'business formal', and this was his best outfit – and looked
up at the building that housed today's appointment.

He looked up…and up. Synchrorealities, Inc, covered a lot of celestial territory –
the Air Corps considered the campus a no-fly zone. Jereth craned his neck to appreciate the
headquarters in all its retrogothic glory. He'd passed it many a time, but today, he was invited
in. All the way to the 42nd floor. He shouldered his conservative tartan rucksack – he'd
bought it especially for the occasion, to seem more businesslike – and headed for the
entrance. The brass-bound revolving door moved with satisfying slowness and a slight whoosh
of its rubber gaskets. Take your time, it said. Enjoy the experience. It won't last long
enough. Jereth entered the vaulted mezzanine, paused for a moment to gawk (he couldn't
help it, he was a sucker for stone arches), then hurried through the wrought-iron gates with their
quote about the stars being new, and presented his invitation to the uniformed chauffeur at the
special lift that went all the way up. The chauffeur studied the gilt-edged pasteboard, favoured
Jereth with a superior smile, and took a large brass key from his kangaroo pocket. He turned
it in the panel, pulled the gated door shut, and away it sped, upwards, towards the sky, a metal
merkabah containing a hopeful newcomer and his dreams.

When the lift opened again, Jereth was greeted by the man himself: Ottokar Weisheit
vom Freilichtmuseum, looking dignified in his khaki shorts and safari vest bearing the logo of
Synchrorealities – two hands drawing one another. He smiled broadly as he shook Jereth's unresisting hand.

'Jereth Cheloweth, I presume? So glad you could come. Step this way. I imagine you would
like to have a look at our view before you begin work?' Jereth gulped – not only because
a look out these windows was exactly what he'd been wanting ever since, say, he was
old enough to want anything besides a bottle of milk, but also because he was overwhelmed by
being in the presence of true greatness. Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum was a household name.
Graciously acknowledging Jereth's awkward nod, the director took him on a tour of the office,
which was surprisingly quiet, with only a few workers, and led him from window to window,
allowing Jereth to gaze his fill at the skyscraper view of the city in which he had pent most of
his life, now made small and unfamiliar beneath the mist. When an eagle soared past at eye
level, Jereth started, and then blushed, but the director laughed. 'I never get used to that, either,'
he admitted in a friendly way. When the tour was over, and Jereth had recovered his breath, Dr
Weisheit vom Frelichtmuseum led him into an inner office, where a bright-eyed young man in
company uniform offered him a cup of excellent Jav-o-Moque. He accepted with an inner thrill
of unwonted privilege.

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made himself comfortable in the e-z-chair opposite
Jereth. When they had both sipped and appreciated their Jav-o-Moques, pouring the obligatory
libations into the enameled saucer that was placed on the floor beside the kafftable for the
purpose, the director eased himself back into his chair, gesturing for Jereth to do the same.
Jereth, however, sat upright at first, rummaging hastily through his rucksack.

'I've brought some sketches for you,' he stammered. 'They may not be up to the high-type
standard you're used to, but…'

Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made a demurring gesture. That gesture alone is
worth millions, thought Jereth. He must practice before a mirror. The director
smiled. 'Rough sketches are our favourites,' he explained. 'They are so much closer to the
original thought than a more polished version – closer to the original yitzirach,
don't you know. Thank you for bringing them.' With another priceless gesture of graciousness, he
took Jereth's sketches, the product of many sleepless nights, and, barely glancing at them, handed
them to his assistant, who promptly vanished through a side door. He leaned back again, clasping
folded hands over crossed knees. 'Now, Jereth,' he smiled encouragingly. 'I am ready to listen.
Begin at the beginning, please.'

Thus emboldened, Jereth finally allowed himself to sink back into the really very beautiful
e-z-chair, and gave himself just a few seconds to appreciate the softness of its angora damask
cushions. The secret to weaving these cushions was a closely-guarded treasure of the Catawba
Tribe of Sawdie Daisy, Tennetucky, he knew. Obviously, Synchrorealities, Inc, supported only
the best of native craftsmanship. But the director must be waiting. Jereth took a deep breath, and
began his recital.

I was born on the North Side of the city, in Gheniville. It wasn't like it
is now, all gentrified. It was sort of a slum, full of Walesians, like me, and Germanoslavs. Most
of our dads worked in the mills, rolling synthosteel, and our moms stayed at home. The first
memory I have was when the little boy next door – about two years old, like me –
set fire to the grass with a sparkler on the 4th of Juneteenth. You know, I don't remember
thinking in words back then. I just had this picture in my head, you know, of what might
happen, and I ran and told my mother...in my memory, the grass looked brown, and the trees,
not really brown, maybe sort of sepia, but the fire…the fire was bright yellow, you know, I think
that's when I first noticed colour…

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded intently as Jereth went on, from his early
childhood memories, the train that used to come by the house at 3 a.m., and how he got out of
bed and opened the door to watch and listen better, and how it scared his dad…on to first grade,
the pretty little girl who sat next to him the first day, how her name was Barbara and he thought
that was a cool name to spell, b-a-r-b-a-r-a, a pleasing pattern…on through sports and movies
and stray thoughts and first loves and firsts of all kinds…and lasts…last kisses, last times to
see loved ones before they died, last glimpse of the vintage airplane he'd flown in before the
hurricane broke it in half, last view of the skyscraper in Nueva Amsterdami before it pancaked
flat in an apocalyptic cloud…on and on, memory upon memory, big and small…the director
nodding and the intercom open on the kafftable…

Somewhere during the recital, there was lunch. Jereth was almost too excited to eat, but the
delicate flavor of the sandwich – the best ham-and-cheese sandwich he had ever tasted
– distracted him for a few minutes. The pickle, even in a city known for its fine pickles,
was a revelation. After this meal and a few swallows of Cohola, Jereth plunged in again –
describing work, play, love, loss…his listener seemed rapt, although Jereth thought, he must
have something more important to do.

Hours later, Jereth was finished. When he came up for air, it was as if he were seeing the
room – and Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum – for the first time. The light had
shifted. It was afternoon. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum clapped his hands in satisfaction,
and the assistant came from the other room, carrying the most unusual book Jereth had ever seen.
The director smiled.

'Jereth, that was splendid,' he said warmly. 'Let's see what we have, shall we?' He held out
the book. Jereth took it.

It was made of heavy black cloth, stiff and ridged, with a red sort of oilcloth sewn around the
edges – to protect the pages, Jereth thought. The book, about the size of his laptop screen,
bulged. On the cover was the title, Jereth Cheloweth, Memories. Inside, each page was
a collage of photos, sketches from Jereth's sketchbook, realia such as train tickets and ID cards
(Where did they get them? Jereth wondered), all stapled to the ridged cloth. The images
on each page were arranged intuitively rather than consecutively. One page, for example, held
pictures of girls and women from Jereth's recital. Barbara was there, a six-year-old with a gap-
toothed grin and a pageboy cut, alongside a glamorous vamp Jereth barely remembered from his
road trip in Romania…Jereth turned over the pages, amazed, and rediscovered his own story.

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum pointed out pages that particularly pleased him. 'I
love this one,' he said of the double travel page with its stamped passport, tickets, and photo
collage. 'It speaks to the need in all of us to find common ground amid new experiences. You've
done well here.' They sat for an hour, going over the book. Jereth felt a glow of satisfaction.
These people chose me, he thought. And they're experts. They knew what they were
doing.

At last they were done. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum walked Jereth to the lift and
shook his hand. 'I want to thank you,' he said simply and sincerely. 'Your work has been vital
to our enterprise. Here at Synchrorealities, Inc, we appreciate good quality.' He chuckled at a
private joke. 'The cheque is not in the mail. The million postcreds have already been credited to
your account. You may withdraw any funds you need immediately.'

The chauffeur was holding the lift door, but Jereth hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to

leave. 'Er, Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum? I really enjoyed this.'

Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded genially. 'I know. And you wish you could work
with us some more.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry. You really have helped us a lot. But it's one day to a
contractor, I'm afraid.' He smiled gently. 'Look at it this way,' he suggested. 'You never have to
work again.' He clasped Jereth's hand one last time. 'You have done a good day's work. Good-
bye.'

Standing outside the towering building, Jereth looked up at it once again, nostalgic already
for his one great experience with it. I have to remember it all, he thought. I have to
tell Marika all about it. She'll be thrilled.

The man with the million-dollar memory turned on his heel and went to hail a hovercab back
to Gheniville.

I said the ghost of Philip K Dick haunted my dreams. I didn't say he had the last
word.


That man never let his heroes have a good time. Or get paid.


I may not be PK Dick. But I'm nicer than that.

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

21.02.11 Front Page

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