Dreamed of a spa deep underground, down hundreds of stairs of wood, where one could swim in volcanic waters. A guide from the shop upstairs led us, a young man, and he accompanied my wife into the changing room, which mildly disturbed me. I waited outside, gazing at the surroundings.
A natural pool had been enclosed behind glass. A few tables and chairs had been placed in an open area within sight of the pool, at which some people sat, some dressed in Edwardian, others nude.
I strolled around a corner and found a dead-end cul-de-sac carved in a curve from raw volcanic rock. I thought, were I to buy this resort, I’d change the cheesy decor of rubber bats and hellish hints into a Belle Epoque style spa, with acid-etched glass, shining brass, and elegantly trim furniture.
As I thought this, a naked woman emerged from the pool. She was middle-aged, in reasonable shape, but looked shocked or terrified. Her walk past everyone to the changing room included a bit of stagger. She looked dazed, and overwhelmed somehow.
Standing motionless in a quilted black silk smoking jacket with black velvet lapel and wearing what looked to be black silk trousers and pointed black boots, an attendant watched the room like a maitre-d’ poised to swoop at any sign of disturbance or trouble.
I spoke to the bearded attendant, asked him how long he’d been the devil. He chuckled and said, “Not long.”
Meanwhile, my wife, with whom I’d descended, swam in a sky-blue 1950s full-body swimsuit, while my lover sat at a table sipping an aperitif.
To the attendant I mentioned I’d never be able to climb all those stairs, having had a heart attack, and the attendant, mentioned there was a street entrance he’d show me, so I could avoid the stairs. “We can’t have a heart attack here,” he said. Charming guy, the devil. Very caring and human.
His assistant wore a medieval suit of leather armor with a flap over his face. I said, “I see your son works here, too.”
“How did you know that’s my son?”
I smiled. “Echoes, I suppose.”
The attendant’s eyes glittered as he smiled and nodded. “Thought so. You’re evidently one of us.”
“No, I’m American,” I told him.
This was in Germany, I think. Or Switzerland.
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant.”
Inwardly, I knew precisely what he’d meant and, in the dream, yes, I was one of them.
/ geste
