The World Behind the Door Read Free

likely, but one never knows. What was his name again?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Dali searches his cluttered memory. He's read about the man, even discussed him with friends. What in the world was his name?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  And finally he remembers.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  It is Sigmund Freud.
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    Chapter 2: The Dubious Hypnotic
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    Â Â Â Â Â Â  The two men sat in comfortable leather chairs in a corner of the elegant, wood-paneled hotel bar.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "I appreciate your paying for the drinks, Senor Dali," said Sigmund Freud, taking a sip of his brandy, "but it really wasn't necessary. Your work is not unknown to me. I have been aware of it and admired it for a few years now."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "It is dreck," replied Dali contemptuously, putting a Turkish cigarette into a foot-long jeweled holder and lighting it. "Utter dreck."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "How can you say that?" asked Freud curiously. "You have had several successful exhibitions, you have won some awards, your reputation extends to my own Vienna, and I am told your art brings respectable prices."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "It dabbles on the surface of things," said Dali. "Your lecture this afternoon has opened my eyes. There are worlds undreamed-of . . . and yet I dream of them every night. I thought I might be going mad, and perhaps I still am, but at least I know now that I am not the only one whose nightmares repeat themselves again and again."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "Our dreams are like escape valves," explained Freud, setting his brandy snifter down on the table between them. "When an engine builds up so much steam that it seems it must explode, there will always be a small value that allows the steam to escape. That is what our dreams do. For example, do you ever dream about your family?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "How did you know?" asked Dali.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "It's really not at all unusual. Which member dominates your dreams—your father or your mother?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "Neither."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "Then who?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "Salvador Dali."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "But that is you."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "It is also my father, but I speak of neither of us." His mouth twitched uncomfortably. "I am not the first Salvador Dali born to my parents. Three years before my birth they had a son, and they named him Salvador. He died before he was two years old." Dali paused, trying to order his thoughts. "I suppose if I behave eccentrically at times, it is to prove that I am me and not that other Salvador, that I am my own unique person."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "And you have been having these dreams for how long?" asked Freud.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "All my life."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "And you have been behaving eccentrically . . . ?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "All my life."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "And it has seeped over into your artwork." Freud smiled. "I told you: I've seen some of your paintings."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "You know what I think of them," said Dali dismissively. "Yet I am a successful artist, at least in the eyes of the world. I am not hurting for money. No one is threatening my life or my property. Why should I keep having this dream?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "Perhaps," suggested Freud with a sly smile, "because your work is dreck."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Dali returned his smile. "Perhaps. In fact, that is why I have sought you out. I was wondering: if I were to paint my dream, would that become my escape valve? In other words, once I captured it on canvas, would I finally stop dreaming it?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "This is the dream you were describing to me earlier?" asked Freud.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "Yes."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  "The elephant on the stilt-like legs is interesting, though I have no idea how commercial such a painting might be," replied Freud. "But from what you tell me, the