I.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a 2002 Ford Mondeo. My dad or someone similar is driving. We’re on a dirt road leading to a film set that looks like a jungle. The view of the film set is obscured by a pile-up of cars ahead of us. I point this out to the driver. You’re completely correct, he says. He mumbles something about a recent epidemic. We drive straight through the wreckage and into a huge mud pool.
II.
A mannequin pretending to be Andy Warhol signs a fifty dollar bill and gives it to me. The mannequin’s hair is badly glued to its fibreglass head and its left eye is droopy. We’re on a train. In the background I can hear high-pitched voices arguing about the meaning of life and which stop they need to get off. A conductor looms over me. The mannequin pretending to be Andy Warhol signs another fifty dollar bill and hands it to him. We pass rolling hills. The mannequin rests his head on my shoulder and says: ‘that’s just how you have to deal with the French, you’ll see.’ I feel like I’ve got glue all over my hands. ‘The Belgians,’ he adds, ‘now that’s another matter.’
III.
I wake up feeling well-rested and think something is wrong. I’m in a classroom with blackout curtains, which creak as they open themselves. A child walks into the room, wheeling through a whiteboard. Today, he says, we’re going to learn about Taipei, via an educational montage covering the films of Edward Yang and Tsai Ming Liang. After that we’ll get orange juice. Then you can go back to sleep. I tell him I already have plans: there’s a huge library attached to a theme park that I’ve read about and would like to visit, partly because I believe I used to live there. That doesn’t exist any more, he says, and it’s not on the syllabus. A swarm of mosquitos appears above the boy’s head. I hand him a can of lemon air freshener, which he sprays all over the carpet. Outside the window I see several hot air balloons. The boy yanks shut the blackout curtains.
IV.
There’s a severed head on a rickety desk. We’re in a poorly-lit interrogation room drinking cold coffee. The head resembles a young Samuel Beckett. It’s gabbling away, obviously trying to throw me off the scent. Look, I say, calm down, let’s try and walk through this step-by-step. The head starts laughing hysterically. I am calm, it says, extremely calm. I suggest we take a break. I try to stand up, but I can’t move. On the desk, there’s a small pink hand tightly gripping mine.
V.
A woman is sleeping in a four-poster bed in an elegant, red-carpeted room. She rings a little bell and I kneel down beside her. Her face is already professionally made up, but I still offer to fetch her concealer. She pulls back the duvet. She’s naked, and an old, shrieveled man is clinging to her breast and whimpering. A little blizzard starts up in the corner of the room. ‘We’re in a snow globe,’ I murmur. ‘No, she replies, ‘you’re still tired and woolly-headed.’ I look up: the chandelier is falling to pieces.
*