the dream, his car is red and some of the bodywork is missing. You can see part of the motor and one of the doors is gone, but all of the brokenness is on purpose, like clothing that’s intentionally ripped when you buy it. Inside the car there’s a boy and his father. The father is driving, the boy is riding in the passenger seat. The boy asks Ricardo, who is next to me, where he got the car. Before Ricardo can say anything, I interrupt him. I talk to Ricardo as if the boy can’t hear me: tell him it’s a fake car. Tell him I gave it to you, that my beloved’s life is in danger. Meanwhile, we drive away from the party down a night-time street.
I’ll find all kinds of meaning in the dream, but I don’t study it deeply. It’s enough that I’d had a dream in which Brenda didn’t appear, and that I’d had the resolve to get up and write it down. I’ll want to protect the energy that comes from this small success.
I’m going to dream again on the night of 30th January, again about a party, a kind of carnival I attend with a young girl who looks a lot like Natalia Oreiro. It’s in the grounds of a school, with tables and chairs and benches. My brother Marcos is lying in the grass, talking to an Asian guy I’ve never seen, but they seem to have been friends for a long time. They don’t see me, but I can hear them talking about my dream journal. The Asian guy says scornfully that he can only understand a person keeping a dream journal if he’s writing about real dreams, not just any old dreams. It’s growing dark and I lose sight of the girl I came with, and I find myself with a much older woman sitting on a swing. I sit beside her on the other swing. She’s cold and I kiss her, and then I’m in a bathroom with showers; the woman from the swing gets in the shower with me. Meanwhile, I know that the girl is looking for me. She’s a dancer and her show is about to start, and now her voice reaches me from somewhere, asking where I am. A security guard comes running into the bathroom, and as soon as he sees me, I’ve disappeared, I’m eating a sandwich in the middle of the playground, my hair dry, as if nothing had happened. It seems that I’m a famous actor, and people turn to look at me when I go into a warehouse set up for the show that features the girl I’ve come with. There’s a net hanging halfway up to the ceiling, a tubular net like the ones they use to display balls at sporting goods stores, and a crowd of bodies squirm in it like worms; dancers walk over the bodies on their way to join them at the still empty end of the net. I can’t find the girl, but some of the other dancers frown disapprovingly when they realise I’m looking for her. I go to a section of the stage that’s like a house of mirrors where a thousand things are happening at once, and when I turn the corner I see her, or at least that’s what my face expresses in the mirror; for a moment, that’s the only thing I see – my face in the mirror. I turn the corner and see my profile, my actor’s profile, my shoulders bare, and when I see the girl I smile in a way that tells me she still hasn’t seen me.
In the dream I have on the night of 3rd February, I’m at my brother Marcos’s wedding and everything goes badly. With a song by Creedence Clearwater Revival playing in the background, two naked men emerge from a pool, their dicks hard, and they stand there looking around at everyone and pointing their erections at us. My cousins and maternal uncles are disguised as Egyptians, apparently at my suggestion. My mother gets angry and some of them crouch down in the hallway, hiding their heads. Then I see Bernardo, who used to be my PE teacher in secondary school, and I avoid him by pretending I’m sleepwalking. There’s an Indian actor who shoots at some glass walls that don’t shatter when the bullets hit them. The rumour spreads that one of the guests at the party is a thief and is planning to steal something, but no one knows who it is or what he wants to steal, and we’re all on guard. The Indian actor is leading the investigation and at a certain point he captures a young couple, who fight back. He wraps them in a kind of blue nylon bag that grows on its own and closes over the length of their bodies, like a cocoon.
The night of 8th February, a few hours before Alejandro returns to the nothing from whence he came, we’ll have a long and wide-ranging conversation about survival – my dad, Marcos, Maca, Mariela, and Mauro. After ploughing through an order of mozzarella and farinata, we’ll take our coffee out to the porch while Mum makes up the beds in what used to be my room. It might seem like a coincidence that we’d choose this very subject on the night Ale was going to die on us, but the truth is we always talked about survival when we got together, if my father was there: survival, the annihilation of the human race and the stupidity of the human species.
At first, it had always been Dad who insisted on starting those conversations. We ascribed it in part to the start of the new millennium, but especially to the fact that Dad was becoming a generic old man, seeing destruction and conspiracy everywhere he looked. Little by little, though, it seemed the world had decided to prove him right. After a while there was no need for anyone to even mention some disaster pulled from the pages of the news; we’d just launch straight into a rant against the Rockefellers and the Rothschilds and all the rest of the world’s pricks. Bankers, masons, politicians, Zionists – no one was safe.
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