Man, in sleep and in waking, considered the responses of his ghosts
Jorge Luis Borges
The writer wakes up in a sweat. Once again he dreams of the same scene: in the image of a distant city, the couple lingered in his mind like a raw sore. The dream was recurrent, a curse that had been tormenting him for days. He supposed it was an omen, a premonition. Someday he would have to travel to that city and confront the mysterious couple.
The writer was a lonely man, his stories were his only company. He wrote to live, to avoid falling into madness, to be able to breathe in a world that was getting darker every day. His works would be his legacy, his afterlife.
In the dream, he always ended the lecture exhausted, his words flowing like a rushing river in the middle of a desert. The audience would applaud him, but he knew that didn't matter. At the end of the lecture, in the dream, he is left talking to a trio of colleagues about banal matters. He doesn't see her, but he senses a presence approaching from behind. Even he can look at himself, at least his back, from the eyes of that entity. He sees himself turning his head. He now looks at the entity's eyes from his own eyes. He jumps the unfolding and corroborates in the figure a young woman greeting him with a paper in her hand. It is not usual to be asked for autographs, but sometimes it happens. Next to the woman, he notices now, is a man. He presumes unusual interest from the woman. She hasn't said a word. But the writer foreshadows it. In the solidarity of a man condemned to misfortune, he prefers to greet the man; which ends the woman's smile. With her head down, mute, she refuses to hold his gaze. The writer believes he has overcome temptation. He has condemned promiscuity to failure. He wakes up. He looks at the time: 3:35 am. The conference is in three days. The dream has been repeated for the last six. What does it mean?
In the next dream, just as the couple is leaving the venue, he turns around to continue the talk with colleagues, but can still be seen as a reflection from another perspective. The black coat, the straight hair on his forehead, the turn of his head. The hands in his trouser pockets. The curve of the knees. The recomposition of his figure in front of his colleagues. He doesn't know how he can look at himself from afar and behind his back while his gaze is fixed on the colleague who is just now telling his anecdote in the subway. It is an anecdote they all know, but they still insist on laughing. He thinks he remembers this anecdote as a note in his notebook for a future story that will never be elaborated. But it can't be because at that moment Gabriel, his colleague, refers to it. How could Gabriel have traced his anecdote? Then he says to himself that it must be a dream.
When she dreamed again, as always, at the most unexpected moment, she appeared. A dark-haired girl, pale and laughing, with a beauty that defied description. He looked at her in awe, like a man waking from a nightmare to find himself in a paradise. But always, in the dream, something kept him from asking her name, from asking her out, from telling her how he felt. It was as if there was an invisible force that tied him to the ground, that left him paralyzed.
When he was already in the city, in the dream of the night before the conference, something changed. The lecture had been a success, the audience had enjoyed his every word. But at the end, she approached him, with a smile that made him feel like a child who had just received his first toy.
-My name is Ana," she said, holding out her hand.
The writer took it, feeling her soft, warm skin. But before he could say anything, she anticipated him.
-This is my brother, Jorge," she said, pointing to the man accompanying her.
The writer looked at the man, surprised. He had seen his face in the dream, but he had not known who he was.
-A pleasure," said the writer, feeling that something had changed in him.
The night was soon over, but the writer knew that something had begun. Ana and Jorge said goodbye to him with a smile, and he stayed at the hotel, trying to process everything that had happened. Now he knew he had a new story to tell.
In that story, he imagined the scene: at the end of the conference, he got up from the podium and picked up his papers. He looked around for some way out and met the girl's gaze. She approached him and held out her hand.
-Thank you for coming," said the writer, trying to sound friendly.
-It was an interesting lecture," she replied, smiling.
-I'm glad you liked it.
-Aren't you going to buy me a drink? -she asked with a mischievous look.
The writer felt surprised and a little uncomfortable. He didn't know how to answer.
-I'm sorry, I have to go," he said, trying to hide his discomfort.
-Never mind, maybe another time," said the girl with a smile, as she walked away with her brother.
The writer just stood there, watching them walk away. He knew he had missed an opportunity, but he couldn't help feeling confused and a little scared. How was it possible that she knew what he had been dreaming about?
As he goes to the lobby, an employee approaches him and hands him a note.
-Who is it from? -asked the writer.
-It's from a lady named Ana, sir," replied the clerk.
The writer opened the note and read: "We met in my dreams, but now it is reality. "Why do you think I always appear in your dreams?"
The writer was surprised, but excited.
-Where can I find she? -he asked.
-I don't know," replied the clerk.
The writer took the note with a smile on his face, knowing that he would finally have a chance to meet Ana in real life. As he walked away from the counter, he paused for a moment and turned to the hotel clerk.
-Do you know what the strangest thing is? -asked the writer. This dream always ended just before he could ask her out.
The clerk looked at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.
-Dream? -he repeated. I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean.
The writer blinked and shook his head, feeling a twinge of confusion inside. Had it all been a dream? But it couldn't be, he had Ana's note in his hand. Putting his doubts aside, the writer headed for the hotel door, hoping to find Ana and her brother outside. As he walked, he wondered if this dream would repeat itself once again, or if it had finally come true. On his way out, he stood still for a few moments, not knowing what to say. Then, with trembling hands, he took the note and put it in his jacket pocket. As he said goodbye to the hotel clerk, he again felt that strange sense of familiarity in the air. As he walked towards the street, he wondered if he could ever escape from that recurring dream or if he would continue to be haunted by the pale, laughing face of that unknown woman.
