Tell Me Your Dreams

“Buzz off.” And Toni would be out of there. She would lie in her bed at night, thinking about how stupid men were and how bloody easy it was to control them. The poor sods did not know it, but they wanted to be controlled. They needed to be controlled.

And then came the move from London to Cupertino. In the beginning, it had been a disaster. Toni hated Cupertino and she loathed working at Global Computer Graphics. She was bored with hearing about plug-ins and dpi’s and halftones and grids. She desperately missed the exciting nightlife of London. There were a few nightspots in the Cupertino area, and Toni frequented those: San Jose Live or P. J. Mulligan’s or Hollywood Junction. She wore tight-fitting miniskirts and tube tops with open-toed shoes having five-inch heels or platform shoes with thick cork soles. She used a lot of makeup—thick, dark eyeliner, false eyelashes, colored eye shadow and bright lipstick. It was as though she were trying to hide her beauty.

Some weekends, Toni would drive up to San Francisco, where the real action was. She haunted the restaurants and clubs that had music bars. She would visit Harry Denton’s and One Market restaurant and the California Café, and during the evening, while the musicians took their break, Toni would go to the piano and play and sing. The customers loved it. When Toni tried to pay her dinner bills, the owners would say, “No, this is on the house. You’re wonderful. Please come back again.”

Did you hear that, Mother? “You’re wonderful. Please come back again.”

On a Saturday night, Toni was having dinner in the French Room at the Cliff Hotel. The musicians had finished their set and left the bandstand. The maître d’ looked at Toni and nodded invitingly.

Toni rose and walked across the room to the piano. She sat down and began to play and sing an early Cole Porter number. When she was finished, there was enthusiastic applause. She sang two more songs and returned to her table.

A bald, middle-aged man came up to her. “Excuse me. May I join you for a moment?”

Toni started to say no, when he added, “I’m Norman Zimmerman. I’m producing a road company of The King and I. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

Toni had just read a glowing article about him. He was a theatrical genius.

He sat down. “You have a remarkable talent, young lady. You’re wasting your time fooling around in places like this. You should be on Broadway.”

Broadway. Did you hear that, Mother?

“I’d like to audition you for—”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He looked at her in surprise. “This could open a lot of doors for you. I mean it. I don’t think you know how talented you are.”

“I have a job.”

“Doing what, may I ask?”

“I work at a computer company.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll start by paying you double whatever you’re getting now and—”

Toni said, “I appreciate it, but I … I can’t.”

Zimmerman sat back in his chair. “You’re not interested in show business?”

“I’m very interested.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Toni hesitated, then said carefully, “I’d probably have to leave in the middle of the tour.”

“Because of your husband or—?”

“I’m not married.”

“I don’t understand. You said you’re interested in show business. This is the perfect showcase for you to—”

“I’m sorry. I can’t explain.”

If I did explain, he wouldn’t understand, Toni thought miserably. No one would. It’s the unholy curse I have to live with. Forever.

A few months after Toni started working at Global Computer Graphics, she learned about the Internet, the worldwide open door to meeting men.

She was having dinner at the Duke of Edinburgh with Kathy Healy, a friend who worked for a rival computer company. The restaurant was an authentic pub from England that had been torn down, packed in containers and shipped to California. Toni would go there for Cockney fish and chips, prime ribs with Yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash and English sherry trifle. One foot on the ground, she would say. I have to remember my roots.

Toni looked up at Kathy. “I want you to do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to help me with the Internet, luv. Tell me how to use it.”

“Toni, the only computer I have access to is at work, and it’s against company policy to—”

“Sod company policy. You know how to use the Internet, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Toni patted Kathy Healy’s hand and smiled. “Great.”

The following evening, Toni went to Kathy Healy’s office, and Kathy introduced Toni to the world of the Internet. After clicking on the Internet icon, Kathy entered her password and waited a moment to connect, then double clicked another icon and entered a chat room. Toni sat in amazement, watching rapid, typed conversations taking place among people all over the globe.

“I’ve got to have that!” Toni said. “I’ll get a computer for my flat. Would you be an angel and set me up on the Internet?”

“Sure. It’s easy. All you do is click your mouse into the URL field, the uniform resource locator, and—”

“Like the song says, ‘Don’t tell me, show me.’”

The next night, Toni was on the Internet, and from that time on, her life changed. She was no longer bored. The Internet became a magic carpet that flew her all over the world. When Toni got home from work, she would immediately turn on her computer and go online to explore various chat rooms that were available.

It was so simple. She accessed the Internet, pressed a key and a window opened on the screen, split into an upper portion and a lower portion. Toni typed in “Hello. Is anyone there?”

The lower portion of the screen flashed the words “Bob. I’m here. I’m waiting for you.”

She was ready to meet the world.

There was Hans in Holland:

“Tell me about yourself, Hans.”

“I’m a DJ in Amsterdam at a great club. I’m into hip-hop, rave, world beat. You name it.”

Toni typed in her reply. “Sounds great. I love to dance. I can go all night long. I live in a horrible little town that has nothing to offer except a few disco nights.”

“Sounds sad.”

“It bloody well is.”

“Why don’t you let me cheer you up? What are the chances of our meeting?”

“Ta ta.” She exited the chat room.

There was Paul, in South Africa:

“I’ve been waiting for you to check back in, Toni.”

“I’m here. I’m dying to know all about you, Paul.”

“I’m thirty-two. I’m a doctor at a hospital in Johannesburg. I—”

Toni angrily signed off. A doctor! Terrible memories came flooding through her. She closed her eyes a moment, her heart pounding. She took several deep breaths. No more tonight, she thought, shakily. She went to bed.

The following evening, Toni was back on the Internet. Online was Sean from Dublin:

“Toni … That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you, Sean.”

“Have you ever been to Ireland?”

“No.”

“You’d love it. It’s the land of leprechauns. Tell me what you look like, Toni. I’ll bet you’re beautiful.”

“You’re right. I’m beautiful, I’m exciting and I’m single. What do you do, Sean?”

“I’m a bartender. I—”

Toni ended the chat session.

Every night was different. There was a polo player in Argentina, an automobile salesman in Japan, a department store clerk in Chicago, a television technician in New York. The Internet was a fascinating game, and Toni enjoyed it to the fullest. She could go as far as she wanted and yet know that she was safe because she was anonymous.

And then one night, in an online chat room, she met Jean Claude Parent.

“Bonsoir. I am happy to meet you, Toni.”

“Nice to meet you, Jean Claude. Where are you?”

“In Quebec City.”

“I’ve never been to Quebec. Would I like it?” Toni expected to see the word yes on the screen.

Instead, Jean Claude typed, “I do not know. It depends on what kind of person you are.”

Toni found his answer intriguing. “Really? What kind of person would I have to be to enjoy Quebec?”

“Quebec is like the early North American frontier. It is very French. Quebecois are independent. We do not like to take orders from anyone.”

Toni typed in, “Neither do I.”

“Then you would enjoy it. It is a beautiful city, surrounded by mountains and lovely lakes, a paradise for hunting and fishing.”

Looking at the typed words appearing on her screen, Toni could almost feel Jean Claude’s enthusiasm. “It sounds great. Tell me about yourself.”

“Moi? There is not much to tell. I am thirty-eight years old, unmarried. I just ended a relationship, and I would like to settle down with the right woman. Et vous? Are you married?”

Toni typed back, “No. I’m looking for someone, too. What do you do?”

“I own a little jewelry store. I hope you will come and visit it one day.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Mais oui. Yes.”

Toni typed in, “It sounds interesting.” And she meant it. Maybe I’ll find a way to go there, Toni thought. Maybe he’s the person who can save me.

Toni communicated with Jean Claude Parent almost every night. He had scanned in a picture of himself, and Toni found herself looking at a very attractive, intelligent-looking man.

When Jean Claude saw the photograph of Toni that she scanned in, he wrote, “You are beautiful, ma chérie. I knew you would be. Please come to visit me.”

“I will.”

“Soon.”

“Ta ta.” Toni signed off.

On the work floor the next morning, Toni heard Shane Miller talking to Ashley Patterson and thought, What the hell does he see in her? She’s a right git. To Toni, Ashley was a frustrated, spinsterish Miss Goody Two-shoes. She doesn’t bloody know how to have any fun, Toni thought. Toni disapproved of everything about her. Ashley was a stick-in-the-mud who liked to stay home at night and read a book or watch the History Channel or CNN. She had no interest in sports. Boring! She had never entered a chat room. Meeting strangers through a computer was something Ashley would never do, the cold fish. She doesn’t know what she’s missing, Toni thought. Without the online chat room, I never would have met Jean Claude.

Toni thought about how much her mother would have hated the Internet. But then her mother had hated everything. She had only two means of communicating: screaming or whining. Toni could never please her. “Can’t you ever do anything right, you stupid child?” Well, her mother had yelled at her once too often. Toni thought about the terrible accident in which her mother had died. Toni could still hear her screams for help. The memory of it made Toni smile.

“A penny for a spool of thread, A penny for a needle. That’s the way the money goes, Pop! goes the weasel.”

Chapter Three

IN another place, at another time, Alette Peters could have been a successful artist. As far back as she could remember, her senses were tuned to the nuances of color. She could see colors, smell colors and hear colors.

Her father’s voice was blue and sometimes red.

Her mother’s voice was dark brown.

Her teacher’s voice was yellow.

The grocer’s voice was purple.

The sound of the wind in the trees was green.

The sound of running water was gray.

Alette Peters was twenty years old. She could be plain looking, attractive or stunningly beautiful, depending on her mood or how she was feeling about herself. But she was never simply pretty. Part of her charm was that she was completely unaware of her looks. She was shy and soft-spoken, with a gentleness that was almost an anachronism.

Alette had been born in Rome, and she had a musical Italian accent. She loved everything about Rome. She had stood at the top of the Spanish Steps and looked over the city and felt that it was hers. When she gazed at the ancient temples and the giant Colosseum, she knew she belonged to that era. She had strolled in the Piazza Navona, listened to the music of the waters in the Fountain of the Four Rivers and walked the Piazza Venezia, with its wedding cake monument to Victor Emanuel II. She had spent endless hours at St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museum and the Borghese Gallery, enjoying the timeless works of Raphael and Fra Bartolommeo and Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo. Their talent both transfixed her and frustrated her. She wished she had been born in the sixteenth century and had known them. They were more real to Alette than the passers-by on the streets. She wanted desperately to be an artist.

She could hear her mother’s dark brown voice: “You’re wasting paper and paint. You have no talent.”

The move to California had been unsettling at first. Alette had been concerned as to how she would adjust, but Cupertino had turned out to be a pleasant surprise. She enjoyed the privacy that the small town afforded, and she liked working for Global Computer Graphics Corporation. There were no major art galleries in Cupertino, but on weekends, Alette would drive to San Francisco to visit the galleries there.

“Why are you interested in that stuff?” Toni Prescott would ask her. “Come on to P. J. Mulligans with me and have some fun.”

“Don’t you care about art?”

Toni laughed. “Sure. What’s his last name?”

There was only one cloud hanging over Alette Peter’s life. She was manic-depressive. She suffered from anomie, a feeling of alienation from others. Her mood swings always caught her unaware, and in an instant, she could go from a blissful euphoria to a desperate misery. She had no control over her emotions.

Toni was the only one with whom Alette would discuss her problems. Toni had a solution for everything, and it was usually: “Let’s go and have some fun!”

Toni’s favorite subject was Ashley Patterson. She was watching Shane Miller talking to Ashley.

“Look at that tight-assed bitch,” Toni said contemptuously. “She’s the ice queen.”

Alette nodded. “She’s very serious. Someone should teach her how to laugh.”

Toni snorted. “Someone should teach her how to fuck.”

One night a week, Alette would go to the mission for the homeless in San Francisco and help serve dinner. There was one little old woman in particular who looked forward to Alette’s visits. She was in a wheelchair, and Alette would help her to a table and bring her hot food.

The woman said gratefully, “Dear, if I had a daughter, I’d want her to be exactly like you.”

Alette squeezed her hand. “That’s such a great compliment. Thank you.” And her inner voice said, If you had a daughter, she’d look like a pig like you. And Alette was horrified by her thoughts. It was as though someone else inside her was saying those words. It happened constantly.

She was out shopping with Betty Hardy, a woman who was a member of Alette’s church. They stopped in front of a department store. Betty was admiring a dress in the window. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Lovely,” Alette said. That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen. Perfect for you.

One evening, Alette had dinner with Ronald, a sexton at the church. “I really enjoy being with you, Alette. Let’s do this more often.”

She smiled shyly. “I’d like that.” And she thought, Non faccia, lo stupido. Maybe in another lifetime, creep. And again she was horrified. What’s wrong with me? And she had no answer.

The smallest slights, whether intended or not, drove Alette into a rage. Driving to work one morning, a car cut in front of her. She gritted her teeth and thought, I’ll kill you, you bastard. The man waved apologetically, and Alette smiled sweetly. But the rage was still there.

When the black cloud descended, Alette would imagine people on the street having heart attacks or being struck by automobiles or being mugged and killed. She would play the scenes out in her mind, and they were vividly real. Moments later, she would be filled with shame.

On her good days, Alette was a completely different person. She was genuinely kind and sympathetic and enjoyed helping people. The only thing that spoiled her happiness was the knowledge that the darkness would come down on her again, and she would be lost in it.

Every Sunday morning, Alette went to church. The church had volunteer programs to feed the homeless, to teach after-school art lessons and to tutor students. Alette would lead children’s Sunday school classes and help in the nursery. She volunteered for all of the charitable activities and devoted as much time as she could to them. She particularly enjoyed giving painting classes for the young.

One Sunday, the church had a fair for a fundraiser, and Alette brought in some of her own paintings for the church to sell. The pastor, Frank Selvaggio, looked at them in amazement.

“These are—These are brilliant! You should be selling them at a gallery.”

Alette blushed. “No, not really. I just do them for fun.”

The fair was crowded. The churchgoers had brought their friends and families, and game booths as well as arts-and-crafts booths had been set up for their enjoyment. There were beautifully decorated cakes, incredible handmade quilts, homemade jams in beautiful jars, carved wooden toys. People were going from booth to booth, sampling the sweets, buying things they would have no use for the next day.

“But it’s in the name of charity,” Alette heard one woman explain to her husband.

Alette looked at the paintings that she had placed around the booth, most of them landscapes in bright, vivid colors that leaped from the canvas. She was filled with misgivings. “You’re wasting good money on paint, child.”

A man came up to the booth. “Hi, there. Did you paint these?”

His voice was a deep blue.

No, stupid. Michelangelo dropped by and painted them.

“You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” What do you know about talent?

A young couple stopped at Alette’s booth. “Look at those colors! I have to have that one. You’re really good.”

And all afternoon people came to her booth to buy her paintings and to tell her how much talent she had. And Alette wanted to believe them, but each time the black curtain came down and she thought, They’re all being cheated.

An art dealer came by. “These are really lovely. You should merchandise your talent.”

“I’m just an amateur,” Alette insisted. And she refused to discuss it any further.

At the end of the day, Alette had sold every one of her paintings. She gathered the money that people had paid her, put it in an envelope and handed it to Pastor Frank Selvaggio.

He took it and said, “Thank you, Alette. You have a great gift, bringing so much beauty into people’s lives.”

Did you hear that, Mother?

When Alette was in San Francisco, she spent hours visiting the Museum of Modern Art, and she haunted the De Young Museum to study their collection of American art.

Several young artists were copying some of the paintings on the museum’s walls. One young man in particular caught Alette’s eye. He was in his late twenties, slim and blond, with a strong, intelligent face. He was copying Georgia O’Keeffe’s Petunias, and his work was remarkably good. The artist noticed Alette watching him. “Hi.”

His voice was a warm yellow.

“Hello,” Alette said shyly.

The artist nodded toward the painting he was working on. “What do you think?”

“Bellissimo. I think it’s wonderful.” And she waited for her inner voice to say, For a stupid amateur. But it didn’t happen. She was surprised. “It’s really wonderful.”

He smiled. “Thank you. My name is Richard, Richard Melton.”

“Alette Peters.”

“Do you come here often?” Richard asked.

“Si. As often as I can. I don’t live in San Francisco.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Cupertino.” Not—“It’s none of your damn business” or “Wouldn’t you like to know?” but—“In Cupertino.” What is happening to me?

“That’s a nice little town.”

“I like it.” Not—“What the hell makes you think it’s a nice little town?” or “What do you know about nice little towns?” but—“I like it.”

He was finished with the painting. “I’m hungry. Can I buy you lunch? Café De Young has pretty good food.”

Alette hesitated only a moment. “Va bene. I’d like that.” Not—“You look stupid” or “I don’t have lunch with strangers,” but—“I’d like that.” It was a new, exhilarating experience for Alette.

The lunch was extremely enjoyable and not once did negative thoughts come into Alette’s mind. They talked about some of the great artists, and Alette told Richard about growing up in Rome.

“I’ve never been to Rome,” he said. “Maybe one day.”

And Alette thought, It would be fun to go to Rome with you.

As they were finishing their lunch, Richard saw his roommate across the room and called him over to the table. “Gary, I didn’t know you were going to be here. I’d like you to meet someone. This is Alette Peters. Gary King.”

Gary was in his late twenties, with bright blue eyes and hair down to his shoulders.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gary.”

“Gary’s been my best friend since high school, Alette.”

“Yeah. I have ten years of dirt on Richard, so if you’re looking for any good stories—”

“Gary, don’t you have somewhere to go?”

“Right.” He turned to Alette. “But don’t forget my offer. I’ll see you two around.”

They watched Gary leave. Richard said, “Alette …”

“Yes?”

“May I see you again?”

“I would like that.” Very much.

Monday morning, Alette told Toni about her experience. “Don’t get involved with an artist,” Toni warned. “You’ll be living on the fruit he paints. Are you going to see him again?”

Alette smiled. “Yes. I think he likes me. And I like him. I really like him.”

It started as a small disagreement and ended up as a ferocious argument. Pastor Frank was retiring after forty years of service. He had been a very good and caring pastor, and the congregation was sorry to see him leave. There were secret meetings held to decide what to give him as a going away present. A watch … money … a vacation … a painting … He loved art.

“Why don’t we have someone do a portrait of him, with the church in the background?” They turned to Alette. “Will you do it?”

“Of course,” she said happily.

Walter Manning was one of the senior members of the church and one of its biggest contributors. He was a very successful businessman, but he seemed to resent everyone else’s success. He said, “My daughter is a fine painter. Perhaps she should do it.”

Someone suggested, “Why not have them both do it, and we’ll vote on which one to give Pastor Frank?”

Alette went to work. The painting took her five days, and it was a masterpiece, glowing with the compassion and goodness of her subject. The following Sunday, the group met to look at the paintings. There were exclamations of appreciation over Alette’s painting.

“It’s so real, he could almost walk off the canvas …”

“Oh, he’s going to love that …”

“That should be in a museum, Alette …”

Walter Manning unwrapped the canvas painted by his daughter. It was a competent painting, but it lacked the fire of Alette’s portrait.

“That’s very nice,” one of the members of the congregation said tactfully, “but I think Alette’s is—”

“I agree …”

“Alette’s portrait is the one …”

Walter Manning spoke up. “This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter’s a professional artist”—he looked at Alette—“not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can’t turn her down.”