The Deep Sea Diver's Syndrome Read Free

in large, tremulous letters,
My dear man, you’ll get nowhere tonight. Beat it before the police surround the building
. The eyeball was floating in the air, peering at the statues and bronzes; sometimes it swooped down and froze over the ledgers, hovering like a helicopter. David pressed his forehead against the safe’s icy door. He couldn’t back out; it was an easy job. Nadia had said so. Besides, there was no way he could go back up empty-handed; these last few weeks he’d already dived three times without bringing anything back. If this unlucky streak dragged on, they’d soon be accusing him of incompetence. They’d even go so far as to claim his powers were wearing out.
I’m rising
, he thought as panic seeped in.
Yes, we’re going up
, the severed hand feverishly scribbled on the blotter.
Fifth floor: women’s lingerie, silken trifles; sixth floor, children’s department
—frantically, David grabbed the dial. The door to the safe let out a loud sigh.
Why, Doctor, what icy hands you have!
the lock snickered.
I’m too light
, thought David,
I’m flying upwards. It’s like my feet aren’t even on the ground anymore. My pockets are full of bubbles
. Echoing this last thought, a heavy cut-glass inkwell rose from the desk, wafting gently overthe books and the clock. As a phenomenon, weightlessness meant the world of the job was in the process of losing its initial density. Objects hollowed, grew friable, fragile as papier-mâché. A thick leather-bound tome took flight next, joining the inkwell. David touched the door. The metal had changed textures too; now it felt like something between terra-cotta and stucco.
Might as well
. David steeled himself.
What are you waiting for?
He made a fist, drew it back, and punched the safe with all his might, as if trying to flatten a giant in an unfair match. There was an eggshell crack as his fist hit the steel door. Off-balance, he fell into the cube, his arm shoulder-deep inside the safe. His fingers blindly groped the shelves, fumbled crunching bagfuls of loose stones. He came across bags like that in every heist; the psychologist said it was negative thinking. Objects with a precise shape, however convoluted, would’ve been worth more. The bags invariably meant a small take. He grabbed them anyway.
    His heart was beating way too fast. The veins in his left arm were beginning to ache, a painful blister throbbing on his wrist, right over his pulse. He leaned on the desk to catch his breath. He had to stay cool in the face of a nightmare, or else the dream would eject him without regard for decompression stops. He mastered his breathing. If he gave in to the nightmare, the excess of anxiety would result in a brutal awakening as his consciousness tried to flee unbearable images by snapping back to reality. If he wasn’t careful, he’d take off right from where he was standing, literally sucked up toward the surface. He’d rise straight into the air, clothes and shoes tearing away, punch through the ceiling and the whole building like an arrow through a lump of clay … he’d livedthrough it once or twice before, and it was a horrible memory. The feeling of suddenly becoming a human cannonball, tearing headfirst at the most terrifying obstacles: walls, floorboards, ceilings, rafters, roofs … Each time he was sure his skull would burst open at the next impact, and even though that never happened, hurtling through buildings of slime was still a disgusting experience. When the dream stopped short, the structure of things weakened, the hardest materials took on an ectoplasmic consistency like raw egg whites or jellyfish. He’d had to make his way through that cloacal mire, arms over his head to streamline his ascent, mouth clamped shut to keep from gulping down the gelatinous substance of a decomposing dream …
    Nightmare ejected you without a care for the demands of your mission, subjecting you to the stress of an emergency procedure that left you empty-handed.