A DREAM - In Memory of Peter Lieberson

He found himself in a gray-green sky, high above an ocean the color of greenish slate. He was piloting a WWII Japanese Zero, and the plane, oddly, was painted the same color as the sea. Far below, he could see one or two bright blue splotches: some kind of boats with white lines of foam trailing behind. He was all by himself in the misty sky.

He was not aware that he had ever piloted a plane before, but the situation seemed familiar enough. He had a faint memory of stealing the plane; walking across the tarmac, climbing up on the wing, settling in the cockpit, pulling the canopy forward, taking off; he’d known what to do. He looked over at the fuel gauge: the hand was fluttering on empty. Yes, that too had been part of the plan.

Now he saw it: apparently it had been his intention all along to crash the plane into the sea, to die. Strange. He felt no anguish, no despair. There was no terrible memory, no ache of inassimilable loss. There was nothing of that kind. He was calm and, as far as he could tell, lucid. He had no strong memories of anything and no strong feelings about what he should be doing. He was just a middle-aged Japanese man, alone in the air. The air around him had the same muted hues as the sea below.

The engine stuttered slightly; fuel was beginning to run out. What was about to happen was suddenly extremely vivid. He saw the plane crash into the sea, felt the sudden pain of being ripped against the seat harness, knew the confusion as water splashed up engulfing the canopy. Even though he had not lost consciousness, he would be too stunned to move. The plane would float for a moment before tipping forward and begin its slow sinking. Slowly the light would darken above him. The air trapped inside the canopy would allow him to continue breathing. Soon water would begin to leak in, a little at first then more.

The engine coughed and shuddered, the nose dropped forward, and the plane began to fall from the sky. He was suddenly aware of his own claustrophobia. He knew that he would be unable to prevent himself from struggling against the leather harness, fumbling uncontrollably with the buckles. He could see himself clawing to release the canopy, even as the massed weight of the sea held it in place. He could hear his own gasping, and see his own mind go wild. All this was very clear to him. He pulled on the controls to lift the plane’s nose, to allow it to glide for as long as possible. He did not think he’d had a change of heart or discovered some desire to live; he simply did not wish, if he could help it, to die in the way he’d just foreseen.

When the plane began to descend, he steered it into a broad lateral arc. There was, strictly speaking, no advantage in doing this. He simply liked the idea of moving through the air in this way. Wisps of fog blew past. He decided that when he was about ten feet above the water, he’d pull the nose up as much as possible to ease the plane onto the surface of the waves. Just before that, he’d open the canopy. The force of the air, as the plane fell, would tear it from the fuselage. He’d have to duck to make sure it didn’t hit him. Then he’d release the harness buckles. Then, after the plane sank, he’d be alone in the water until exhaustion overcame him.

He still sensed no desire to live, but he thought perhaps he might be able to steer the plane into a glide that might bring him near to one of the bright blue boats he’d seen before. He hadn’t made up his mind to do this, but it was still possible.

He woke up; the dream was tangible. He could smell the cold salt mist and hear the rushing of the sea. He felt a pervasive but not unmanageable undercurrent of danger and also sadness. He looked out the window at the clear blue sky bright with diffused golden sunlight. Now, for the moment, he inhabited the dream of the man flying in the airplane.