SIX
It was Paris. Autumn-time and rather chilly out. The streets had an aching sense of familiarity about them, though he was sure that he had never been in France before, let alone in that particular boulevard. He was in his Navy uniform, proudly pressed and spotless, worn with all the arrogance of a new cadet. There was a thrill of excitement in the air and a promise of adventure - he was an officer of the Imperial Navy now... well, near enough anyway, and anything was possible.
Cadet Trapp had been let loose on the world for the first time in his life.
The dream flitted quickly through all he remembered of that evening – drunkenness, shameful debauchery, revelry and madness… their pay-packets spent on the cheapest and most potent of liquors, the supposedly fine young men of the Austrian Navy had descended on Paris with a vengeance, all woefully naïve and immature, reaching such heights of intoxication for the first time in their lives.
At last just Cadets Trapp and Steiner remained - the heaviest of drinkers and probably, the seasoned sea Captain would now admit, the most arrogant of them all. With their compatriots reduced to states of drunken bewilderment, they slipped away from the returning party, keen to test their charms on the ladies of Parisian society before returning aboard ship.
The tiny part of Georg's mind which was still conscious willed the dream to end there – he did not want to remember any more of that terrible evening, but as the washed-out wooden façade of a door appeared before his eyes, he felt himself drift completely away, sleep propelling him back through the years until he really was that nineteen-year-old hot-blooded youth, about to be introduced to an entirely new world.
With red-peeling paint, a stench of liquor in the air, and a poster proclaiming: 'Des aventures caches, des plaisirs secrets', it was not a bar which either of them would normally have dared to enter. But that evening, with the courage of whisky and vodka behind them, they found themselves tumbling in through the door, hardly able to walk straight any more.
It was a seedy, blurred, and hazy world of cigarette smoke, potent beverages, and illicit transactions. Shadowy figures leered round the sides of their half-lit booths as the doors were flung open - surprised, perhaps, to see two uniformed, well-to-do looking young men entering such a place.
They caused such a stir in fact, that even the three dancers performing on a small stage in the corner of the room, span around to greet them.
The moment Cadet Trapp laid eyes on those dancers, his drink-fuelled mind had eyes for nothing else in the room. With their skimpy corset-like outfits, painted lips, long lashes, feathers, and fans, they were unlike any women he had ever seen before. Provocative, sensual, exciting… and also completely petrifying.
"Aha!" exclaimed Steiner, the lecherous gleam in his eyes intensifying as the dancers heard the exclamation and twirled elegantly around. Steiner took off his cap and bowed to them with exaggerated courtesy, winning them three mesmerizing smiles as the girls spun away again, their fans swishing this way and that.
Time suddenly skipped forwards. They were sitting in a booth now, nursing the last of their drinks, the few coins left in their pockets insufficient to buy another.
As the confusing jumble of music and movement on the stage came to an end, Georg felt Steiner pass him something under the table.
"Here, Trappy…" It was a mock-up medal, an imitation of the sort worn by much more senior officers. Even owning such a thing was an insubordination, and besides which, anyone who knew anything at all about the Navy would also know that he was much too young to have ever achieved such a ranking.
Nevertheless, he put it on.
"Caution be damned!" Steiner declared approvingly as he downed the rest of his drink. They were Captain and Captain now, and what woman on earth could refuse that?
The next part of the dream passed quickly – hardly a second seemed to have gone by before the dancers were at their table, enveloping them in a confusing, bewildering tangle of fans, feathers and exotic perfume.
He hardly saw anything of the apartment they were led to, and could remember nothing save for its large well-worn bed.
He was pushed backwards onto the mattress as skilled hands began to undo the buttons of his uniform, pulling his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and unclipping the fake medal which was soon lost somewhere in the covers - he was sure that he never bothered to retrieve it afterwards.
He could hear Steiner somewhere, his voice raised in excitement.
Regret - that was all he would come to feel about this moment, but it had all happened so quickly and -
"Captain..." One of the dancers purred his assumed title into his ear.
He knew that voice.
His breath caught as he pulled back slightly to see Maria looking down at him, wearing an uncharacteristic smile which did not suit her.
She was beautiful. And she did not belong in that torrid, awful place.
What had he done to her?
She ran her hand down his chest, her fingertips skittering their way towards his belt buckle.
"No!" he caught her wrist and stopped her.
She smiled again.
"Isn't this what you want, Captain?"
She began to drop her other hand towards the belt of his trousers instead.
"Not like this," he insisted, seizing her wrist again.
Her enchanting blue eyes stared questioningly down at him.
"Georg..." another voice purred in his ear, and he snapped his head around in bewilderment to find Elsa Schrader bearing down on him. He dropped Maria's hand as she came towards him, and then stiffened in shock as behind her he saw the third dancer, now transformed into the image of his dear wife, Agathe.
It was horrific - three phantoms depicting the three most important women in his life, now thoroughly distorted and unnatural… and somehow present altogether at one of the most shameful moments of his youth.
"How...?" he finally breathed.
Elsa pushed him backwards onto the bed as she reached him. Her once-seductive smile vanished as he shuffled frantically away from her, turning around desperately for an escape.
"You do not love me."
Her words were simple and, he had to admit to himself, perfectly true. He shrank away as she came nearer still, running a hand carelessly across his bare chest, her nails scratching his skin. Before he could stop her she was kissing him, harshly and horribly - as close as a kiss could come to an act of hatred. He tried to pull away, but somehow she had ensnared him. He struggled, tearing his lips from hers and shouting that this was not what he wanted, and at last she broke away from him, hurling herself across the room before suddenly vanishing.
He hardly had a second of respite before Agathe took his hand.
A lump rose in his throat at the sight of her.
Did she think he had forgotten her? Moved on from her?
Because he hadn't. He wouldn't.
He wouldn't let himself.
It did not seem however that Agathe was bothered by any of these concerns. With a soft smile playing across her face she lent down and kissed him gently, her lips brushing his own lightly before she pulled away.
He made to follow but she stopped him with a single gesture, and for the first time he saw that her other hand was holding Maria's.
Could she forgive him, he asked, staring into her soft brown eyes.
She smiled warmly back, squeezing his hand gently before releasing it. A second later she too had vanished.
An eternity seemed to pass by in a heartbeat as he met Maria's gaze.
Awkwardly he rose to his feet, only half-aware of the bed melting away from beneath him. The crimson red walls vanished too as he took a step nearer to her, leaving them hanging together in a milky white stasis. He cupped her chin gently with his hand and watched as her lips curved into the smile he knew so well.
He was nineteen-years-old no more, and she was no longer wearing the dancer's outfit. Instead she was clad in a long flowing white dress and he was the veteran sea Captain once again – the man who had earned every one of his medals.
"My love," he stroked his fingers across her cheek and sank his lips down to hers.
The instant they met he felt himself being dredged towards consciousness again. The dream was suddenly falling away, disappearing elusively into the mysteries of sleep.
This time he did not want to wake up, and struggled against his subconscious once more as he felt that wonderful, perfect moment beginning to slip through his fingers…
Georg awoke feeling surprisingly at ease. He lay for a few minutes, propped up on his pillows, wondering what it was that had rendered him into such a state of tranquillity. It must have been something in his dream, he supposed, though he could hardly recall anything of it. He had been remembering that terrible evening in Paris, he cast his mind back, but it seemed that somewhere amongst his recollections he must have fallen asleep…
A few seconds later he shrugged the feelings away – the revelations of his slumber did not seem keen to return and he was sure that they had been nothing important anyway.
It was an old adage, and one which Georg Von Trapp would have done well to believe in, that one could often be much wiser in sleep than in the reality of daytime.