At three o'clock we parted in order to accompany Neruda to his sacred siesta, which we took at our house, following a number of solemn preparatory rituals that, for some reason, reminded me of the Japanese tea ceremony. Windows had to be opened, others closed - an exact temperature was essential - an only a certain kind of light from only a certain direction could be tolerated. And then: an absolute silence. Neruda fell asleep at once, waking ten minutes later, like children do, when we expected it least. He appeared in the living-room, refreshed, the monogram of the pillow pressed against his cheek.
'I dreamt of that woman who dreams,' he said
Matilda asked him to tell us about the dream.
'I dreamt she was dreaming of me,' he said.
'That sounds like Borges,' I said.
He looked at me, crestfallen. 'Has he already written it?'
Excerpt: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 'Dreams For Hire'. pp. 76 Granta Publication #41 Biography, 1992.
play the version:
