It was always the same dream. It had been the same for three weeks. A feeling of desperation framed his senses and there was nothing he could do to stop what he knew was going to happen. And then he would flee into the graying skies as rain approached, unsure of what lay ahead but certain of what would await him if he turned back.
The dream ended prematurely this time, as Orlando was jolted into consciousness by a hand on his shoulder. Panic overcame him and he bolted upright with a cry of terror, opening his eyes to see the concerned face of the stranger from the night before. And once again, Orlando had to remind himself that while he was now awake, the nightmare was still alive and well.
"I'm sorry," Viggo said softly. "I tried to wake you by calling your name, but you were in a deep sleep."
"It's alright," Orlando told him in a shaky voice, realizing Viggo hadn't meant any harm. "What time is it?"
"A little after six."
Orlando sighed and ran a hand through his dark curls. "I suppose I should start getting ready to head down to the port."
"Well, your clothes from last night are dry now and I put them in the bathroom for you. I'm making breakfast, so please help yourself to some food before you go."
"Thank you." Orlando had lost count of how many times he had said that in the last ten hours. "Really, Mr. Mortensen, you've gone above and beyond what most people would do."
Viggo smiled. "I told you that I just wanted to do the right thing. I'm glad to see that you look a lot more rested than you did last night."
"I feel a bit better. The food and sleep helped me immensely."
"And now you're ready to try and get back home," Viggo said.
"Yes." Orlando's voice was wistful. "Home."
"Well, whenever you're ready there's breakfast in the kitchen. I'll be in there if you need anything."
Orlando nodded and smiled gratefully. Viggo left him alone, and he took his sack into the bathroom as he got dressed, unwilling to let it out of his sight. His clothes were worn thin, the cuffs of his pants were beginning to fray and a rip marred the shoulder of his shirt. Still, they were dry and comfortable, and Orlando got a strange sense of security as he put them on.
There was soft music playing on the phonograph in the kitchen when Orlando ventured down the hall, and Viggo was sitting at the table with his basset hound lounging at his feet. "I poured you some coffee," Viggo remarked. "And there's bread and butter on the counter."
"Thank you. I haven't had coffee in almost a month."
"Do you want milk or sugar with it?"
"No, just black is fine," Orlando said, sitting down with a slice of bread. The coffee was strong and bitter -- just the way he liked it. As he started eating the bread and butter, the basset hound stirred and walked over to him, placing his head in Orlando's lap and looking up at him with pleading brown eyes.
"Milo, no," Viggo told the dog in a firm voice. "Leave Mr. Foster alone."
Orlando laughed for the first time in ages. "It's alright. He's just friendly."
"He's definitely friendly. He also wants your bread," Viggo chuckled.
"His name is Milo? That's an unusual name for a dog."
"Perhaps," Viggo mused, smiling as the dog lay down again. "It just seems to fit him."
The two men ate breakfast in a comfortable silence, Orlando savoring the rare fresh food and Viggo lazily writing on a sheet of paper. Both of them started when the shrill sound of a telephone ringng shattered the silence. Orlando's eyes widened and Viggo immediately noticed the look of alarm on his guest's face.
"Nobody knows that you're here," he assured Orlando before picking up the phone. Despite the calming words, Orlando was still tense as he watched Viggo have a brief conversation on the phone. He had no clue what Viggo was saying as he spoke in Danish, and he anxiously picked at the slice of bread. When Viggo hung up the phone, he sat down again and gave Orlando a smile. "It was only a friend of mine. I wouldn't sell you out, Mr. Foster."
"I don't believe you would," Orlando said sincerely. His training as an actor had made him a keen judge of people's body language and tones of voice, and consequently, he was often able to tell when someone was lying. "I guess I'm just a bit overly cautious."
"That's understandable."
"It's just that during times like this . . . well, you tend to forget that there are still decent people in this world."
"Indeed." Viggo sighed. "Can I give you a piece of advice?"
"Of course you can."
"There are a number of people down at the port who will try and take advantage of you. Don't give anyone money unless you're *sure* you have passage on a boat. And if you can manage it, don't show any emotion. If they smell desperation, they'll hike up the price because they know you'll pay anything to leave."
Orlando nodded as he finished his breakfast. "Well, I'm anticipating a difficult time at the port. I'll soon find out just how difficult it will be." He looked at the small clock on the wall and sighed. "I think I should get going."
"Alright."
Both men stood up and walked to the front door. "Thank you again for all the hospitality you extended to me, Mr. Mortensen," Orlando said with a genuine smile. "I don't think I can tell you how grateful I am."
"You're very welcome. I hope you can find passage on a boat, and that you make it back to England safely."
"I hope so, too."
Viggo extended his hand and Orlando shook it, swallowing hard at the feel of the firm hand wrapped around his own. "Good luck."
"Thank you." Orlando opened the door and walked out into the hallway, turning one last time to see Viggo. "Goodbye, Mr. Mortensen."
"Goodbye, Mr. Foster."
Orlando watched the front door close behind him and he made his way down the stairs of the apartment building. However fortunate he had been to find food, shelter, and a bit of companionship for one night, he knew that he was going back out into a world of pain and prejudice, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Still, his faith in humanity had been partially restored thanks to a kind and generous man named Viggo Mortensen.
*****
"Have you money?" the man asked in stilted German.
"I have money," Orlando told him as he resisted the urge to nervously shift his weight. He had pawned his valuables a few hours earlier and received a lot less money than he had hoped for. It was doubtful that what he had received would be enough to cover the expenses of his journey. In addition, the pain of handing his father's gold watch and cigarette lighter over to a stranger had been wrenching, knowing that they would pass to someone who would never know how much the objects meant to Orlando.
"Need money before ticket. Must have money."
"I need to see a ticket first," Orlando said firmly. "I need to know I can be on the boat."
"I not cheat you!" the boatman exclaimed indignantly.
"I don't think you would, but I need to be sure of passage before I pay. Now how much does a ticket cost?"
"How much money you have?"
Orlando sighed, knowing the boatman was trying to take advantage of him. This was his seventh attempt to get on a boat, and each boatman had turned him down because he didn't have papers or enough money. "Tell me first how much it costs."
"I can get in trouble putting Englishman on my boat. You pay what I ask, you need the trip."
"I'm not going to pay whatever you want just because--" Orlando stopped talking as he saw officers arrive at the port. "Shit," he whispered.
"They check papers," the boatman said helpfully. "You have some, no?"
"No," Orlando muttered.
"You get in trouble trying to leave without papers."
"No kidding. Look, can I get on the boat now? I'll pay whatever you ask."
"You no have papers. No boat without papers. I get in trouble."
Orlando darted his eyes around, seeing the officers walking closer to him, one of them stopping only a few yards away. He couldn't stay here, and he knew that he wasn't going to get passage today. Being careful to avoid making a scene, he slowly walked away from the boatman, trying his hardest to look calm and collected. Once he had walked for several minutes and the port was behind him, he leaned against a wall and tried to collect himself.
His hopes for going home had been dashed, at least for now; he had no
papers, he had very little money, and he had no hope. Not knowing
what else to do, he started retracing his steps back to where he had stayed
the previous night.
