I was leaving the newspaper building in Lisbon. I just recorded a podcast and was late to my book launch.
Once the taxi arrived, I asked if I could sit in the front seat, so I could use the car mirror to apply makeup as we navigated traffic, which was slow that day.
The taxi driver agreed. I sat down. I lowered the mirror. In my lap, I opened my makeup bag full of makeup and sandwich paper that I also intended to take on the way.
As I chewed, applied mascara, and talked to my editor—all at the same time—I noticed him watching me. When I hung up, he asked me if I was famous. I said no. I’m a writer, and writers aren’t famous. But he disagreed, citing Fernando Pessoa and Saramago. You said he was right, that this duo was really popular.
Then he told me that he loved Saramago’s sayings. That, sometimes, when he was between sleep and wakefulness, he also thought of expressions of this kind, flashes full of wisdom, but because he never wrote them down, he ended up being forgotten – a genius lost for want of pens, he himself joked, and we laughed.
I asked him if he had ever dreamed of these phrases. He replied no. Who dreamed of other things. That he had a recurring dream, which recurred in exactly the same way.
I left the lipstick aside. For the first time I looked at him properly. He must be around 60 years old, with light eyes. “It’s a terrible dream,” he continued. Is this correct? I asked, feeling like he wanted to say more.
He pointed to the street and said that he was dreaming of a cold-hearted man. Just the man’s torso on the sidewalk, bleeding from below, and one of his arms calling for help. He tried to help him, but he never could, there was always something stopping him from getting there.
Always from the torso up? I said, intrigued. Always stressed. What did he think that meant? The taxi driver said he checked the Internet and found a lot of things – what does it mean to dream of water, snakes or even death – but not that picture.
Are you healthy? I dared to ask. He told me that he was fine, even though he was sad. A little over a year ago, he lost his sister. She said she had bowel cancer and had to have part of her digestive system amputated, and her torso touched. Only then did he seem to realize it. As if talking to himself, he stammered: She needs me, but I can’t help her.
After a short silence, I told him that I too had had a recurring dream. I dreamed of returning to the city where I lived in my youth for more than ten years. I went to see my friends, but I never got to meet them. She was always running, running out of time, distressed, disturbed: she had left before she saw them. The taxi driver looked at my lap, the toiletry bag open, the sandwich half-eaten, the cell phone tucked among my makeup.
I smiled, embarrassed, and realized, for the first time, the obvious—why can we see so many things, but not what’s in front of us?
After a while, we arrived at the bookstore. I opened the taxi door and didn’t know what to say. We shared the greatest intimacy: the nakedness of dreams.
“I hope everything is going well for you,” he said. I looked into your eyes: I hope everything is going well for you too.
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