Fifteen-year-old Jonny Napper spends his summers in London with his enigmatic grandmother, Margaret, where he helps out at his family’s curious sleep accessories store which has been in business for centuries. On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, Margaret tells him of the Dreamworld, a parallel dimension where sleepers leave Reality and embark on a world based on their memories, experiences, and emotions. Margaret has a gift to create individual dreams for customers and reveals to Jonny that he has the genetic ability to do the same. When his mother goes missing, Jonny seeks help in the peculiar world only to discover a long-buried secret that changes everything he thought he knew about his family.
Fifteen-year-old Jonny Napper spends his summers in London with his enigmatic grandmother, Margaret, where he helps out at his family’s curious sleep accessories store which has been in business for centuries. On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, Margaret tells him of the Dreamworld, a parallel dimension where sleepers leave Reality and embark on a world based on their memories, experiences, and emotions. Margaret has a gift to create individual dreams for customers and reveals to Jonny that he has the genetic ability to do the same. When his mother goes missing, Jonny seeks help in the peculiar world only to discover a long-buried secret that changes everything he thought he knew about his family.
“Jonny, you’re turning sixteen this year—a significant age for a young man. I hope you already have a girlfriend?” asked Grandma, trying to hide a mischievous smile.
“Not yet.” Jonny blushed slightly.
Throughout the year, except for Christmas and summer vacations, he lived in a sports boarding school, where he studied the regular school subjects and practiced boxing and dancing.
“Dancing is all about feeling the rhythm,” his boxing coach, San Sanych, used to say. He was a Scotsman with Russian roots. “And let me tell you, a sense of rhythm is key to success. Whether you’re boxing in the ring or going on a date, feel the rhythm. Miss a beat, and they’ll carry you out of the ring on a stretcher. Get out of sync, and someone else is courting your girl. So box and live to the rhythm of dance, Jonny.”
Jonny had learned that lesson the hard way when he had misjudged things in a fight – and he still had the crooked nose to show for it. But now he had no problems with his sense of rhythm in the boxing ring; he could hold his own in his sixty-three-kilogram weight class. But in the ring of personal relationships, he was still shadowboxing. This summer, he hoped it would be different.
“Granny! W-where should these go?” Jonny held up two white pillows embroidered with black threads.
“Jonny! I beg you!” Grandma whispered, even though they were completely alone in the warehouse of her store. “How many times do I have to say that when we’re in public, you should just call me Margaret? We had an agreement!”
He was always amused by the fact that Grandma hid her age, trying to resemble a mother rather than a grandmother. His own mother, her daughter, Helen, had been so embarrassed about being a single mother that she had sent Jonny to a boarding school at the earliest opportunity. Nevertheless, she didn’t love him any less and spoiled her only son with gifts at every opportunity while rebuilding her own personal life. She was spending the summer with Jonny’s stepdad in Siberia, far from the city noise and hustle of London.
Margaret nodded toward the nearest shelf. “Pillows with pillows,” she said firmly as she sifted through a pile of letters scattered across the only table in the room. “You could have guessed that yourself.”
Today, they were dedicated to sorting through incoming letters and packages at the warehouse. Margaret’s employee Greg, responsible for warehouse organization, had taken a week off due to his brother’s wedding. Jonny temporarily took his place to familiarize himself with the store’s workflow under the guidance of Grandma Margaret.
A significant amount of incoming goods had accumulated in the past few days. Piles of boxes of various sizes were stacked near a square hole in the wall, which served as the portal for receiving parcels.
The warehouse was the size of a soccer field, a well-lit room without windows, featuring five-meter-high ceilings, gray-painted walls, and a concrete floor. It was packed with multi-tiered shelves, with narrow aisles between them. Countless products were piled on the shelves, each meticulously labeled.
“How do you navigate around here?” Jonny looked around, a bit dumbfounded by the labyrinth of goods.
“To be honest, without Greg, I feel like a guest here,” Margaret confessed.
“Where should I put the feathers of the dodo bird?” Jonny twirled a transparent plastic bag filled to the brim with gray feathers. “With the pillows? Talismans? Or perhaps, it’s a bedroom accessory?”
“Who’s the sender?” Margaret asked, shifting her attention from the letters to peer over her glasses and assess the unusual parcel.
“The Mauritius Archaeological Society,” Jonny read from the postage label. “Gran… I mean, Margaret, didn’t the dodo bird go extinct a hundred years ago?”
“It went extinct, much to my deepest regret.” She sighed. “And still nothing compares to the softness of its feathers. This is a special order from our regular customer. Place it on the shelf with the VIP sign. If my memory serves me right, it’s behind the shelf with the cashmere pillowcases.”
Unpacking packages and sorting merchandise into the warehouse categories, Jonny couldn’t help but be amazed by the variety. Reading the sender labels was like studying the geography of the world. Suppliers from all six continents sent their goods to 5 Poka Drive, the address of Napper’s Emporium, which had been trading in sleep accessories since 1703 in the heart of London. Despite the fact that in the first two hundred years of its existence, the store’s address often changed, its base of loyal customers continued to expand continuously, as the desire for quality sleep grew with each passing year. Along with the increasing number of customers, Nappers’ reputation as masters of organizing sleep solidified.
In any weather, winter or summer, visitors would enter through the massive oak door and find themselves in the main hall of the store, facing a long glass counter so long that, walking from one end to the other, people who led a sedentary lifestyle would start to catch their breath.
Right in the center was the store’s most popular section: an extensive range of sleep-inducing herbs and teas from all around the world. To the left of it was a section for talismans and amulets, and to the right a section for sleep accessories. There were so many magical items that they covered not only the wall of the corresponding department but also the one adjacent to the street. Some of them hung from the ceiling on strings and ropes, occasionally brushing against the heads of the tallest customers, making them apologize for their clumsiness while trying to stop the agitated trinkets from swaying above their heads.
The two most prominent sections, flanking both sides of the glass counter, were the bedding department, where the well-known Nappers pillows were sold, and the pajamas department. While bedding was relatively straightforward, taking into account materials, size, and design, pajamas were traditionally a source of personal pride and a Nappers hallmark. Nappers pajamas were exclusively custom-made, and in terms of cost, they not only matched but often exceeded the price of renowned brand suits. The waiting list for Nappers pajamas included distinguished clients such as artists, musicians, athletes, politicians, and businessmen. They all had to patiently wait, sometimes for years, until the Nappers’ shop tailors would finally take their measurements. These unique and world-famous pajamas were on their wish list alongside Swiss watches, yachts, airplanes, and multi-carat jewelry.
During a tea break, Jonny had a question for his grandmother. “How come we’re selling everything related to sleep, except for beds and mattresses?”
“That’s a very good question. I can see that on your very first day, you’ve outgrown the position of the senior and only unpacker and clearly deserve a promotion.” Margaret took sip of tea, leaving a pearly lipstick mark on the rim of the cup, and squinted. “Well, what are your thoughts?”
Jonny chuckled. “I-I-I don’t know… Maybe because beds and mattresses are too bulky, and there’s not enough space in your warehouse?”
“Close, very close. First of all, it’s not just my warehouse, it’s our warehouse—if I can count on you as a fully-fledged partner in the future, of course.” She paused, and although her statement lacked a questioning tone, Jonny understood where she was leading.
“Of course, Gr… I mean, Margaret!”
Margaret nodded gratefully.
“Second,” she continued, “Nappers has historically not sold beds because three hundred years ago, our great-great-grandparents didn’t have a cozy store on 5 Poka Drive, and they had to sell their wares at bazaars and city fairs, traveling with their goods on horse-drawn carts. And, as you’ve probably guessed, a bed is hundreds of times heavier than pajamas and costs less.”
In an uncharacteristically vulgar manner, she playfully clicked her tongue like a market vendor and shrugged her shoulders.
“Nothing personal, just a business. We’re not carpenters, and beds with mattresses are simply not within our expertise.”
Summoning his courage, Jonny blurted out, “When will you sew me pajamas?”
“Do you mean signature Nappers pajamas?” Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “With the emblem on the chest and personal initials on the cuffs?”
“Yes!” Jonny exclaimed, swallowing his nervousness.
“I’m afraid we have a long waiting list, and you’ll have to wait just like everyone else.”
His enthusiasm cooled, Jonny sighed understandingly.
“Wait a couple of months until your birthday, is what I meant,” Margaret clarified with a smile.
Jonny got up from his chair and hugged his grandmother from behind, planting a kiss on her rosy cheek. “I love you so much, Granny!”
“Margaret,” she grumbled under her breath.
“M-M-Margaret,” Jonny echoed, imitating her, and they both burst into laughter.
“Okay.” She switched back to her business-like tone. “Let’s finish our tea, enjoy these wonderful crumbly biscuits, and then head to the pajamas department to take your measurements. Your birthday isn’t far off, and Nappers pajamas aren’t something that’s ready in a snap. In fact, it’s usually the other way around: snap, snap, and it’s not ready,” she teased, tousling Jonny’s short, spiky hair.
The warehouse was connected to the shop’s main hall by a narrow corridor. They approached the door leading to the sales floor and stopped.
“Shh!” She placed a finger on her lips, then partially opened the door to peek inside. Without turning around, Margaret grabbed Jonny’s sleeve and pulled him after her.
Behind the counter in the talisman department, two Asian girls in white pajamas, identical twins, smiled warmly and chatted with customers while dusting off the merchandise and returning it to its place under the showcase. From Jonny’s perspective, they looked like bartenders cleaning glasses while attentively listening to the confessions of their patrons.
Upon seeing his grandmother, the twins smiled even more broadly and waved their hands in greeting. Smiling in response, Margaret gestured for them to get back to work.
“Follow me,” she whispered, and they both rushed toward the pajamas department, where a tailor awaited them.
Mr. Wagner, a slender, bald man of short stature in his early forties, wore glasses and smiled so widely that his eyes turned into narrow slits. He was dressed in classic black trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and the top button undone.
“Mr. Napper, I’m immensely pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, stepping toward them with his smiling eyes, extending a hand with long, pianist-like fingers. “I’m Mr. Wagner, but if you prefer, you can call me by my first name—Walter—with the stress on the last syllable.” He smiled widely again, displaying perfectly even teeth, just like his perfectly even eyelids.
“J-Jonny, Jonny Napper. You can just call me Jonny.” He noted a certain resemblance between Wagner and his boxing coach. San Sanych also had a completely bald head, loved classic clothing, but was twice as broad in the shoulders and only occasionally smiled, his lips tightly pressed.
The pajamas section was different from the rest. It had its own entrance from the main hall, leading to a spacious area in the wall. Inside, rows of mannequins displayed pajamas samples, and a couple of comfy chairs sat outside the changing room. At the back, a tall black curtain extended from the ceiling to the floor, acting as a screen to hide the tailor’s private workshop.
Margaret sat in one of the chairs, and Jonny remained standing while Wagner circled around him, just like someone inspecting a used car, looking at him closely and not holding back on the comments.
“Fantastic build, Mr. Napper! Do you play sports?”
“A bit,” Jonny replied.
“May I inquire which sport?”
“Boxing.”
“Boxing? Admirable. A bold choice for a young man in this day and age.”
Wagner deftly removed the measuring tape from his neck, applied it to Jonny’s shoulders with a professional movement, and made notes in his notebook.
“Do you compete in tournaments?”
“So far, only in city competitions.”
“And how are you doing?” Wagner continued to question while making notes. “Please raise your left hand.”
“This year, I took the second place in the under sixty-three category.” He would have taken first place if it wasn’t for Ben Joy. Throughout all three rounds, Joy intentionally stepped on his feet and the referee didn’t see Joy hitting Jonny below the belt at every opportunity. The defeat was bitter, undeserved, and completely unfair.
“Now, the right one. Second place, you say? Second place is like being the first among the losers, isn’t it? Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Jonny smiled. Mr. Wagner was incredibly charming and gallant.
“Please raise your knee, like this. Excellent,” the tailor murmured to himself, taking one measurement after another. “The height is five feet and five inches—that’s how we’ll record it. Well, young man, now I’ll ask you to sit next to your charming relative, and we’ll choose the fabric and discuss the details of our, I won’t hesitate to use this word, magical pajamas.”
Wagner passionately played the leading role in a two-person show. From behind a mannequin, he rolled out a table with drawers on wheels. Taking center stage, he ceremoniously opened the drawers, retrieved their contents, and laid out sets of pajamas on top of the table.
“Let’s start with the fabric. The classic ‘Nappers’ pajamas are made from two materials: shahtush and vicuña. To make shahtush, we use the wool of antelopes specially raised by monks in the high mountains of Tibet. Vicuña, on the other hand, comes from the camel family and its wool is sourced by nomads in the plains of the Andes. Vicuña is considered the warmest and thinnest fabric in the world, so we make the pants of our pajamas from this exclusive material. When it comes to the upper part of the outfit, we prefer shahtush fabric.”
Wagner swiftly picked up small manicure scissors from the table. With his free hand, he expertly unfolded the folded pajama pants and, threading both pant legs through one of the scissor rings, effortlessly extended them to the middle. He repeated this with the adjacent ring and the pajama jacket.
Jonny’s eyes widened in amazement, and his mouth fell open.
“Nappers pajamas,” Wagner continued as if nothing unusual was happening, “are all about quality that has been cared for over centuries. Take a look.” He handed Jonny the scissors with the threaded pajamas. “Our pajamas have no seams. Or, to be more precise, take a look at the seams—there are no threads in them,” he said, adding an element of intrigue to his show.
Jonny was surprised by the pajamas’ weightlessness as he held the scissors. He had handled “Nappers” pajamas before, but today they seemed exceptionally light to him. Wagner’s storytelling about the nuances and secrets of their production only increased his desire to own a set. Jonny was hearing the story about the seams for the first time, and he leaned over the sample, closely examining the areas where the garment’s details were joined by a dotted line of stitching.
“Take the magnifying glass, please.” Wagner theatrically extended a magnifying glass with a comfortable wooden handle.
“That’s crazy!” Jonny exclaimed, passing the magnifying glass back.
“The secret of these invisible threads sets our product apart from any other and makes it unrivaled,” Wagner proudly declared. He pulled the pajamas out of the rings and began folding them neatly into a rectangle. “All that’s left is to choose the color,” he added, “but allow me to do that personally based on my own experience. I’d like to surprise you.”
Margaret, who had been sitting silently all this time, nodded approvingly, catching her grandson’s inquisitive glance. Mr. Wagner graciously bowed, as all respectable artists do at the end of their performance.
Margaret stood up from her chair. “Thank you, Mr. Wagner, for giving us your precious time.”
“Tha-a-ank you, Walter,” Jonny added with genuine admiration, following his grandmother.
“Always call me Walter, Jonny.” Wagner extended his hand for a farewell and respectfully nodded. “And for any questions about pajamas, feel free to contact me personally.” A signature smile appeared on his face. “Have a great evening.”
It was almost five minutes to five on the clock. Jonny settled into a neat sofa in his grandmother’s office, curiously flipping through a book of testimonials while Margaret typed something on her computer, seated at her antique secretary desk.
“The King of Singapore, captain of the England rugby team, the Dalai Lama… illegible, Abramovich. I have just one question: do all these people really sleep in our pajamas?” Jonny asked.
“What surprises you?” Margaret shrugged. “We’ve been making pajamas since 1703. There’s no other store in the world that’s been selling pajamas for over three hundred years. You can buy a yacht, a plane, triple tourbillon watches, a diamond-encrusted phone, and a pet panda, but until you have Nappers pajamas, you can’t confidently say that life has been a success. Even a baby in the mother’s womb feels less comfortable than our customers sleeping in the pajamas tailored for them.”
“That sounds quite self-assured,” Jonny replied.
“Not without reason.” Margaret smiled. “But you’ll soon see for yourself when Wagner finishes his work.” She changed the subject. “Usually, I finish work at five and leave, while the store remains open until eight. The girls have keys to lock all the doors. But today, we have an important meeting with a privileged client.”
At that moment, someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Margaret called out loudly and got up from her desk, gesturing for Jonny to follow her.
A man’s head, with tousled light hair, appeared at the door, asking, “May I come in?”
“Of course.” Margaret stepped forward to greet the guest. “Please, come in, Mr.—”
“Please, call me Boris,” he interrupted before she could finish. “None of my friends call me by my last name. I emphasize it, and I’ll insist if necessary: none of my friends.”
“No need to insist,” Margaret assured with a wide smile, allowing the guest to take her hand with both of his, demonstrating the warmest form of greeting acceptable in etiquette.
“Boris, meet my grandson, Jonny Napper,” Margaret said.
“The one who’s going to inherit the Napper business?” Boris asked as he shook Jonny’s hand.
Jonny smiled modestly, following a piece of advice he’d heard: The more you stay quiet, the smarter people think you are.
“Boris, please, have a seat on the couch,” Margaret said. “Jonny, grab that chair and sit with us. We need to talk about a very special order. Also, take a notepad and pen from my desk to write down notes.” Margaret shifted her attention to their guest. “Today is Jonny’s first day of learning with us, if you’re okay with that.”
“Let’s give it a try.” The man shrugged indifferently, getting comfortable on the couch, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
“Jonny, could you roll over my chair, please?” Margaret requested.
“Notebook, chair, pen, stool,” Jonny repeated to himself, fearing he might forget while following his grandma’s requests.
Once everyone was finally settled, a smiling Margaret, with her hands on her knees and her back as straight as a ship’s mast, said, as if it were something entirely ordinary: “So, Boris, please tell us, step by step, without missing any details or tiny aspects, what dream you would like to see?”
Jonny couldn’t believe his ears. “What dream you would like to see?!” he repeated quietly to himself in astonishment.
He looked at his grandmother with a puzzled expression, but she didn’t take her eyes off Boris, who seemed to react as if he had just been asked to undress and take a selfie.
“Boris,” said Margaret kindly, sensing the inner conflict their guest faced. “Napper’s Emporium has been selling dreams since 1703, and throughout all times, the privacy of each of our customers has been and will always be our top priority. You’re not the first important customer we’ve had, and keeping our relationship with you a secret is a reliable guarantee that you won’t be the last.”
“Since I was a child, I’ve been in love with Marilyn,” Boris confessed, blushing and shifting on the couch.
“The very one?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Do you want to see her in a dream?”
“Not only.”
“Not only her?”
“Not just to see.”
“Ah.” Margaret brightened and leaned forward ever so slightly. “A date with Marilyn? Is that your dream?
Boris nodded frantically, clutching the tip of his tie.
“Dinner in a candlelit restaurant…”
He nodded incessantly.
“Jonny, are you taking notes?” Margaret asked, not turning her head toward her grandson.
Jonny snapped out of the stupor induced by his discovery of the underground dream store and began feverishly jotting down the conversation, abbreviating words and paying no attention to spelling.
“What kind of cuisine do you prefer?” Margaret continued.
“Mediterranean.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No, not at all. It’s very harmful.”
“Well, Marilyn doesn’t think so. In connection with this, a question: what Marilyn would you like to see? With a slender cigarette in a long holder, or with a Havana cigar, or—”
“Non-smoking,” Boris blurted out.
“A non-smoking Marilyn, with bright red seductive lipstick, in a white lace dress, and a three-carat diamond ring that you’ll give her over dinner. Excellent choice, Boris.” Margaret smiled.
Boris audibly swallowed, then whispered: “Yes!” His eyes lit up like a child unwrapping birthday presents, and the corners of his mouth stretched into a genuine smile of anticipation.
“Simultaneously modest and provocative Marilyn. Miss Unpredictability competing with Miss Serenity?”
“Yes, yes!”
“We are all adults here,” Margaret said, “and we understand that dinner with a lady by candlelight and the sparkle of diamonds doesn’t end with lobsters, oysters, and a glass of Cristal.”
She squinted, elegantly bit her lower lip, and seductively glanced at Boris, who was burning with shame but unable to stop his own imagination.
“Yeees,” he almost moaned, captivated by the picture she had painted.
“How about a slow dance in Times Square? Well, forget Times Square, with its crowds of tourists. You’ll walk out of the restaurant onto the beach of an uninhabited island in the Maltese archipelago: a brightly shining moon in the sky, the song of cicadas, and pristine white sand that hasn’t cooled down after the sunset… But maybe…”
“No-no,” Boris pleaded. “Please, leave the sand, moon, beach, and cicadas… I couldn’t think of a better scenario. Your touch is that of a master. You’re a genius!”
“Thank you.” Margaret nodded graciously. “Anything else?”
“Well…”
“Please, don’t be shy.”
“Can I?” Boris hesitated a bit. “Request a private audience?”
“Only for you, Boris.” Margaret turned halfway to her interlocutor and held her index finger to her ear.
Boris, rising from the couch, leaned over the coffee table that separated them, whispered something, and sat back down.
“Very, very unusual,” she said, unable to contain her surprise.
“I’m just asking you…” Boris began, pressing his hands to his chest.
“Con-fi-den-ti-al-ity,” Margaret sang, reminding him of the terms discussed at the beginning of the meeting. “Mister…” She quickly corrected herself. “Boris, I have no more questions for you. When we fulfill your order, you will receive an envelope with a paperclip and an instruction letter by mail.”
“Thank you.” Boris’s eyes sparkled.
“Well, I no longer have the right to keep such an important person as you within the walls of our store.” Margaret got up from her chair, indicating that the conversation was over.
“Stop, stop,” Boris repeated, smiling bashfully as he headed for the door. “No flattery and excessive courtesy among friends, I beg you.”
The moment the office door lock clicked behind Boris, Jonny was already standing, his hands on his hips, with a look that demanded an explanation.
“Mrs. Napper,” he began in an official tone, “would you be so kind as to explain to your grandson how it’s possible to trade in dreams?”
“O-o-o, trading in dreams is very simple,” Margaret remarked sarcastically. “Because there’s no one on Earth who wouldn’t want to have a dream on demand.”
“But how? How is it possible to create a dream on demand?”
She smiled.
“To do that, you have to be at least a Napper,” she proudly declared. “And since you’re old enough, I think it’s time for us to visit the night office of our store.”
“Does the store have a night office?”
“Oh, yes!” Margaret said mysteriously. “And what an office it is!”
The title of the book was the main reason that I was drawn to read and review it. It has been a while since I've seen a book with a title that straightforwardly introduces the main character and the main premise of the book. I find these titles very captivating and this one was no exception.
Jonny Napper and the Dreamworld is about a fifteen year old boy named Jonny who is destined to one day take over the curious store where his grandmother has long provided its customers with various accessories that help them achieve their most desired "dreams". As someone who is very fascinated and curious to imagine what happens when we sleep, I found this concept quite intriguing.
The most captivating aspect of the book that drew me in was the immaculate world-building. The Dreamworld is presented in such a rich, intricately detailed and visual way that it almost feels like watching a movie. Especially when the reader is walking alongside Jonny as he learns the ropes of his future position, the story takes you on an immersive experience that is quite delightful. For readers who appreciate well-structured world-building, Jonny Napper would not disappoint.
However, this strength could potentially be its drawback as well. From the very first chapter the book throws the readers into this intricate world, rapid firing information from early on. While I loved reading these scenes, the sheer amount of information sometimes made it difficult to follow the story. Spacing out such details throughout the first few chapters might have made it easier to engage.
Another aspect I struggled with was connecting to Jonny as the main character. He is very quickly thrusted into various adventures and while those encounters and how he deals with them provide the readers with some knowledge about who Jonny is but it still left a lot to be desired. I assume this is the first book in a series, so perhaps the future books will flesh him out more as a character.
That said, Jonny Napper and The Dreamworld is a well-written, imaginative and charming book with unique premise. It certainly offers an immersive experience for those readers who like elaborate world-building. Despite its minor flaws, I enjoyed this book and look forward to read what comes next in the series.