I'm in the room of a modest hotel with Roberto Bolaño. We're talking about literature. Closer: I'm talking and he's listening. I get the sense that for some reason I've happily been going on and on and on. Awake, I find it hard to imagine monopolizing the conversation but this is a dream and that's how it goes, I'm afraid. Soon he indicates, with an understandable hint of weariness, that it's time for him to leave. I walk him downstairs. He's dressed casually, all in black. He's shorter and frailer than I'd pictured him, based on his writings. We stop in the lobby to say goodbye. I hug him. Normally I'm neutral on hugs. I don't resist them when they happen but I don't initiate them, either. Maybe I'm worried for him. Or maybe I fear I'll never see him again. For his part, Bolaño seems startled. I apologize. He says: No, no, it's all right. As we speak, we're still hugging. Behind us, in a room adjoining the lobby, a group of elderly people sits in a circle, grave and silent. I'm not sure who leads whom but, still in each other's arms, we make our way to the center of the circle. Once there, we separate and begin dancing. First he does a ridiculous dance. Then I try to outdo it. Then he tries to outdo mine. The elderly people sit up and start clapping along. Finally, Bolaño falls on the floor, laughing, I fall on a couch, laughing. An elderly woman sitting nearby tries to say something to me but I'm not listening. She gets mad. She lifts my shirt and pinches me on my lower back.
