She says, “It’s so awful,” and insists on trying to determine whether it’s some dark omen.

I tell her that it isn’t, I can still recall some vague notions from Freud: the child’s fear of being eaten alive in the cradle, the father’s cannibalism as a symbol of authority and power, the totem, I believe, something having to do with incest. But all of it, in any case, seems more rigorously applicable to the male than to the female.

Julia remains the same, as if I hadn’t explained anything. I’m aware of this but add, nevertheless, “If I were to have the same dream, it would, with far greater certainty, have this meaning: That I’m afraid my father might devour, castrate, or kill me.”

“Your father died,” she reminds me.

All the same he can lead me to my death, he can kill me, if he persists in my memory and draws me to him. That’s what I think.

Julia remains lost in thought, while I reflect that what I’ve just said shouldn’t be renewed cause for concern because I can also understand it as a conjecture made with regard to something impersonal that doesn’t affect me.

Julia is disturbed now and it shows. “There’s more,” she admits, downcast.

The dream went on. The animal turned back into an animal, a wild boar that charged at her in silence. Julia defended herself by flinging mud at it, the mud they both were wallowing in. The struggle was endless; at every second, Julia could have been torn apart by its tusks. There was no respite, no way out, no possibility the dream could end.

I say it sounds like a corner of hell.

Julia looks at me and puts her arms around me in despair.

She repeats that it’s horrible. Worse, she thinks it must be, for her, a condemnation, a punishment.

I ask why. She says the wild boar was me.

•

I take The Drowned World to bed with me—I make it to page 40—and also The World Below, which I don’t even open.

What will help me erase this day?

It won’t be erased. Julia’s dream keeps coming back. The boar. Papá: the totem that comes for you, that eats you.

We still dream “the old-fashioned way.” Our nightmares are straight out of The Divine Comedy. Ugolino.

When the new generations reach the age of suffering and start being persecuted by their dreams, will their nights be filled with medieval witches or sci-fi clones?

I set the books aside, to sleep.

If my father persists, and draws me to him . . . I look at the calendar on the wall. If only I could dream of an aquarium, please God!

But what I dream is that I’m walking around naked.

•

Bibi brings me word: Blanca has news. We’ll see her tomorrow night.

Julia broke down during class and resigned from her job at the school.