I shouldn’t really share Victor’s dreams, but he didn’t explicitly say I couldn’t. Usually he doesn’t dream, or doesn’t remember them. (He’s also one of those supernatural people who only sleeps for four hours a night and wakes up feeling refreshed; he’s a trainee tax lawyer). But recently he’s been having bad dreams, usually about monkeys.
In one of these dreams, the monkey (‘a demonic-looking monkey in a red neck scarf,’ Victor says) sits at a table and eats Victor’s arms off the bone with a pewter knife and fork. Afterwards, he orders a creme brulee and a cup of coffee. Victor sits opposite him – at least his head and torso sit there – and watches. He thinks about what to say: maybe he should ask the monkey how his day was, or if he has a three to five year plan. But he says nothing.
When he’s finished his coffee, the monkey starts grumbling, saying he feels unwell, and complaining about the quality of the food. Victor thinks he’s putting on airs. But then the monkey starts being sick, really sick: he vomits all over the floor. Victor just sits and watches. When the monkey finishes off spitting near his chair leg, Victor realises he’s in a dream, but he isn’t convinced it’s his. Not a chance, he thinks, it must be the monkey’s.
The monkey takes his seat and orders another coffee. He seems to be struggling to contain a bemused laugh, as Victor begins to stir, and wakes in his stuffy room in La Boca. Yes, now he’s awake and he’s not laughing at all. He needs a coffee himself, but there’s none at home, there’s nothing and nobody at home. There’s just a horrible stench coming from the cupboards, which are all wide open…
*
The other monkey dream Victor told me about is a bit less sinister. Or maybe not, let’s see. A monkey (‘Not the same monkey,’ Victor says ‘at least I don’t think so’) is sitting on a park bench in Plaza de Mayo, trying to read yesterday’s edition of Clarín. It’s summer. The dream-Victor, who is sitting on the bench opposite, is aware that the monkey’s winter coat hasn’t shed. The monkey is struggling to sit still. He asks the man sitting next to him, who is reading today’s edition of La Nacion: ‘Do you know anywhere around here I can get a decent haircut?’ ‘As it happens,’ the man says, ‘I’m a barber. I can give you a quick trim now if you like.’ He takes a pair of scissors from his satchel and lays today’s edition of La Nación over the monkey’s chest. The monkey leans back and stares into the sky. ‘I don’t know if you saw the news,’ the barber says, ‘but they’re thinking about changing the currency again.’ The monkey shrugs. He expects to see the ghost of Borges strolling through the sky, swiping away the thin clouds with his cane. But he doesn’t. He also doesn’t see the other monkey sitting next to him, trying to read yesterday’s edition of Clarín, pulling at his bald pink skin. He looks deranged. The dream-Victor waves at him, but realises he’s now a baby in a pram, having his cheek pinched by Eva Perón. She pushes the pram towards the gate, but the wheels keep getting caught in the thickets of dark hair that line the path, and which are covered with ants.
*
Victor’s comment: ‘I have no interest in monkeys whatsoever. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a real monkey in my life, and wouldn’t care to…’
*