Dialogue - Dream

- Seems like you enjoy the night.

- Yes. When everyone else sleeps, I can think. It's my time; I feel comfortable.

- It's cold. Don't you want me to close the window?

- I'm fine.

- I can't sleep. I put the kettle on. What are you doing?

- Trying to write.

- And if I play some music? Would it bother you if I turn on the TV?

- A little. I need to write.

- My father is dead.

- What?

- They called me a few days ago. He died last week. No one told me until after the funeral had already happened. I couldn’t have gone anyway—it was far away, and I don't have time. There's nothing on TV.

- Is that why you can't sleep?

- That's not it. Last night he came to see me. My father came to see me yesterday, and he died last week.

- Do you expect me to believe you? You've had a nightmare.

- No. It was him. Dead, but alive. He smelled of damp, freshly turned earth. He told me he didn't like his funeral. He had hoped for something simple, with few people, but all the aunts and cousins from my grandmother's side came—and there are many of them. Everyone cried and brought flower wreaths. They cried as if it had been a great loss for everyone, but we know that’s not true. My father wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn't remarkable in any way.

- And what else did he say?

- That he was a bit afraid. That I should carry on with the store's work, take care of his belongings, and not let Aunt Lobelia or anyone from that side take them. He said he didn’t expect much from me, that I should stay calm and that I couldn't fail him anymore.

- The kettle seems to be whistling.

- He told me not to make promises I couldn’t keep, that I'm already a grown man and need to be responsible for him, the business, and the family.

- I'm going to have tea.

- I had already disappointed him, you see? I failed him. I failed at being his son, and now that he's dead, he comes to tell me so. He also said that now that he's dead, things seem easier, that he’d met someone who had also died, and they were thinking about moving in together. He seemed happy.

- Are you waiting for him? There are three cups in the kitchen.

- No. Maybe. I don’t know; I put it out just in case. It’s not very normal to wait for someone who’s dead.

- Maybe he's coming with the dead woman—there’s a cup missing.

- Stop it; don’t be like that. We’re talking about my father. I hope he comes alone; I’m not ready to receive anyone else tonight. I’ll close the window; I’m cold.

- Did you ask him what he wanted? Or did he only come to tell you this?

- No, I didn’t.

- Maybe that's what you need to do if he comes again—ask him what he wants. Maybe that’s what you should ask me. You’ve disappointed me too, you failed me, and now I’m dead.

Raúl woke up in his bed. He was sweating and had the sheets tangled around his legs. He touched his forehead—it was burning. The sun was rising, with a few rays shining through the curtains. He got up, put on his pants, and left the room.

In the dining room, someone was sitting there. An older man, wearing glasses and slightly gray-haired—it was his father.

- You’re awake already? Want some coffee?

- And Hortensia?

- She’s gone. She left days ago; remember? You helped her move, and before she left, she gave you her keys and her new address and phone number in case she'd forgotten anything.

- Are you dead?

- A man my age shouldn’t be asked such things. Now finish your coffee and eat something; we’ve got to pick up some boxes before opening the store. And don’t even think about calling Hortensia; we need to leave.

- I wasn’t planning on calling her. Are you sure you're not dead? You came to see me.

- Of course, I came to see you—several times. You’ve been suffering for days because of the separation and haven’t been able to get up or go to work on your own until now.

- Are you happy? Now that you’re dead...

- Stop it already. I’m not dead yet, and that makes me very happy, so yes. I am happy.

- Anything you want to tell me? I had a dream last night.