Sleepwalking

“When I close my eyes the dream persists, so too the colors, the sounds, the feel of uneven pavement under my feet. There’s a warmth here, and I inhabit it as long as possible, staving off the black, crawling courtyards of unconsciousness.”

I haven’t been sleeping lately. Sometimes, after lying awake too long and feeling the itch and tingle of invisible insects, I dress and go nightwalking backstreet labyrinths, old neighborhoods where sidewalks are cobbled and crumbling and the asphalt undulates like a calm sea, where canopies of trees quiet the streets in a gentle green hush, and the amber streetlamps, few as they are, make shadow puppets of the folks out on late-night strolls. Here apartment blocks are identical rabbit warrens of winding alleys and black courtyards, each wall flaking pastel paint, and every surface joined by powerlines tangled from one building to the next.

Occasional splashes of color: storefront neons, paper lanterns, the green “for hire” light in the windscreen of a passing cab. Even after dark, summer heat rises up from the pavement. I drift through streets and courtyards with my eyes almost closed, humming a tune I heard on the bus. Around the corner a night market is in bloom – a garden of blinding color. More red lanterns, orange coals in innumerable grills, the yellow glow of bare bulbs illuminating whole blocks of candy-colored tents. Anything can be found here: fresh produce, hot meals, crates of slithering eels and gasping fish, baked goods, houseplants, secondhand clothing, children’s toys.

Some of the shops look like they’ve heaved themselves inside-out; while these places may be an indoor concern during the day, with nightfall they disgorge themselves into the streets – tables, stalls, scales, grills, everything – and join the delirium of sight and smell unfolding block after block.

But it’s getting late, and some vendors are pulling up stakes, shouting out a few last minute pitches to anyone in earshot. A man loads crates of unsold fruit onto a motorized cart; his sons sit up front and pretend to drive.

Barbecue smoke obscures the sky in the market’s busiest block, and the apartments seem to fade into a dream. Families move through a coal-and-cumin-scented mist, half-visible – silhouettes of little girls in flowery dresses hop circles around their mothers, laughing, singing. On flicker-lit walls I can make out weather-beaten bulletin boards, though most of the postings have mouldered and dripped away. Notices or ads, stenciled onto walls in fading pant, grow less legible as the corridors move away from the light and into those courtyards, which, in my half-sleep, seem vague and sinister, a nightmare held back by this dreamscape.

I used to dream about places like this. I don’t want to leave, so I find excuses to linger. I want bananas for breakfast tomorrow, so I make a show of drifting from one fruit stall to another, one red tent to the next, trying to make small talk with the sellers. By this time, the market has become less about commerce and more about socializing. People sit on blankets and share meals, talk, play cards or checkers. It hardly matters that all the good fruit has sold hours ago, or that I can’t tell which of these people are working and which are simply visitors. Maybe the division is less binary than it seems.

But it’s late now, and the market is fading into the summer gloom. Carts are packed, tents are rolled, tables and scales are being carried back inside. Everything melts to dark and quiet. I walk home, minding my step on the broken streets, smiling to myself, a slow awakening from a pleasant dream.

Back in my apartment, I undress, grab a book, and climb into bed. In the glow of my reading lamp I see a cockroach skittering across the floor. I pinch it in a paper towel and flush it down the john. Before I make it back to bed, I take care of a small centipede crawling around my waste basket, though it wasn’t hurting anything. I turn off the light, at once wishing I’d left the bugs alone and wondering what else is flitting around in the dark, and it’s only a matter of time before the nightmares and the itching return.

The barbecue smoke has clung to my skin, and I smell coal and cumin whenever I roll over. When I close my eyes the dream persists, so too the colors, the sounds, the feel of uneven pavement under my feet. There’s a warmth here, and I inhabit it as long as possible, staving off the black, crawling courtyards of unconsciousness.

I used to dream about this, I tell myself, and tonight, finally, I’ll sleep well.