the eternal dream

Garbancito, the Witch's Nephew, arrived every morning at the "Eternal Slumber" funeral home with his wooden briefcase, the same one as always, worn by the years but firm in his grip. He walked slowly, with the unhurried pace of someone who is in no rush to get anywhere he doesn't already know by heart. His large figure contrasted with the warm dimness of the building.

He crossed the main door, and the air changed. Outside remained the city's bustle and the hesitant morning; inside awaited him the padded silence and the green twilight filtered through the art deco stained-glass windows of the lobby. The black and white marble floor, polished to a mirror, echoed the faint sound of his steps with almost impious fidelity. He did not stop at the reception desk, where the register book lay open like an endless vigil. He only nodded towards the attendant, a woman with a kind face and eyes that had seen too many goodbyes, and continued on his way down the side hallway. His fingers, accustomed to the route, brushed against the sandstone wall as he turned towards the private staff area.

There, at the back, the metal lockers were lined up in a niche illuminated by a dim light that seemed in no hurry to dispel the shadows. His was the third from the left. He recognized it without looking at the number: a small notch on the frame, made who knows when, and a fine layer of dust on top that no cleaning lady dared to remove, as if that small oversight were already part of the sacred order of things.

He turned the combination with the deliberation of one performing a ritual. The mechanism yielded with a dry click, and the steel door opened with a contained sigh. Inside, hanging from a polished wooden hanger, waited his gown. It was no ordinary gown: the cotton, thick and dense, had been starched until it formed a soft armor, and on the left pocket, close to the heart, someone had embroidered his name in gray thread.

He removed his wool jacket with slow, almost ceremonial movements, and hung it next to the wooden briefcase, where his food for his break waited, which he placed at the bottom of the locker. Then he took the gown. The fabric rustled as he spread it out, a clean sound that reminded him of freshly laundered sheets from childhood. He put it on carefully, adjusting the cuffs one by one, and fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons from the collar to the waist with a precision that allowed no haste.

Before closing the locker, his hand instinctively sought the small bottle of orange blossom essence he kept on the top shelf. He moistened his temples with a drop, barely a whisper of perfume that would accompany him for the hours to come.

He closed the metal door gently, checked twice that it was properly sealed, and headed towards the viewing room. Each button on his gown glowed faintly under the dim light. Garbancito now walked with the confidence of someone who, having left the profane behind, is ready to fulfill the only thing that matters: to care for those who have embarked on the journey with no return for their final farewell.

If there was no service, he was not seen wandering the rooms or bothering his colleagues. He simply sat in his wicker chair, the one no one else occupied out of respect or habit, by the window overlooking the garden. There, with his newspaper unfolded on his lap, he let the dead hours pass while the light filtered through the sheer curtains drew soft shadows across his face.

But his job was not just about being present. Garbancito was a craftsman of final appearances, a man who had made posthumous dignity his trade. He knew the tricks like others know the secrets of the earth or the vices of the city. He knew, for example, that not all the deceased deserved the same suit.

—If he was a farmer —he would say with a half-smile while smoothing a lapel with his fingertips—, don't dress him too elegantly. You put him in a suit and he looks like he's going to a wedding, and then he gets upset, you can see it in his expression. For a country man, a corduroy jacket and a shirt without a tie. Let him go as he was, not as others wanted him to be.

He also mastered the subtle art of erasing the passage of time. With the tips of his fingers moistened in a special cream, he would undo those deep wrinkles that worry had carved during life. It wasn't about making them look younger, but about giving back the peace they perhaps never had. As if by smoothing the forehead he was reminding them that it was all over now.

And then there was the secret of the hands. That was the hardest part. The hands, he said, are the last thing to be given up. If they weren't treated well, they ended up like claws, rigid and accusatory. Garbancito would massage them patiently, finger by finger, until he managed to have them rest naturally on the chest, as if they could still caress or hold something.

But Garbancito had an ace up his sleeve that no one knew about. While others were in a hurry, he would sit for a while with the mourners, offer them a peppermint candy he always carried in his pocket, and listen. He listened to their memories, their anecdotes, their silences. But what no one knew was that at night, Garbancito spoke with the deceased. They would appear to him in dreams and tell him what they had never said in life.

—I liked to get up early, but my wife would get angry if I made noise —a gentleman once confessed to him in a dream.

And Garbancito, the next day, gave him a slight tilt towards the window where the morning sun entered. Another night he dreamed of an old woman who always carried her ring of keys, which she kept in her apron pocket like a treasure. And when preparing her, he placed one hand near the pocket, as if she were still caressing her keys. Subtle things, almost imperceptible, but which families noticed.

—But he looks like he smells of freshly brewed coffee —the children of that early riser would say.

Or: —Look, she still seems to be holding the keys of the cupboard, where she kept the chocolate —the lady's grandchildren would whisper.

And they would cry, but with emotion, because in those small gestures they recognized their relative, the real one, the one they loved.

One day, a complicated request came. A young man, very serious, with a neatly trimmed mustache and expensive suit, wanted his father, Don Eleuterio, a former fairground worker, to be presentable, but without exaggeration. No forced smiles or strange poses.

—My father was serious, a man of few words —said the son, running a finger over his mustache while looking impatiently at his watch.

Garbancito nodded. He said nothing, but as the son walked away, he stood for a moment looking at Don Eleuterio's face. *We'll talk later*, he thought.

That night, Garbancito dreamed of fairs. Of shooting galleries and wafer vendors, of laughing children and mothers buying balloons. And in the middle of it all, sitting on a small folding chair, was Don Eleuterio. He said nothing. He just folded paper napkins with infinite patience. He made birds, he made flowers, he made fans. And when he finished, he gave them to the children who passed by. The children smiled. Don Eleuterio did not. But his hands did.

The next morning, Garbancito arrived at the funeral home before anyone else. When the son arrived to see the result, his father was dressed in an impeccable dark suit, with his hands crossed and a neutral, almost stern expression. The son nodded, satisfied. He was about to give his thanks when, suddenly, he noticed a detail. From the breast pocket of the jacket peeked the edge of something white, folded into the shape of a small flower.

The son frowned.

—My father never wore a handkerchief —he said, and stepped closer.

Garbancito, who was watching him from the door, approached slowly.

—Forgive me, young man —he said in a low voice—. That's not a handkerchief.

—What?

—They're paper napkins.

The son leaned in. Indeed, it wasn't fabric, but three white napkins folded masterfully to imitate a carnation.

—Napkins? —he asked, bewildered—. Why?

Garbancito smiled gently.

—You said your father was serious, a man of few words. And that's true. But last night I saw him. And in the dream, your father was at a fair, leaning against a booth, folding napkins. He made flowers, birds, fans… He gave them to the children. He spent fifty years at fairs, and when he took a break at the stall, that's what he did. Fold napkins. His secret joy.

The son fell silent. He looked at his father, then at the napkin flower in his pocket. His eyes grew moist.

—But… how can you know that? —he managed to ask.

—The dead, young man —said Garbancito— come close to tell us things from the beyond, while we sleep.

The son didn't know what to say. He just looked at the paper flower and, for the first time, it seemed to him that his father, that serious man of few words, was smiling.

When the family entered the room, Garbancito stepped aside for a moment and observed his work in silence. He nodded once, satisfied, and tucked his hands into the pockets of his gown.

Then he returned inside the building to go back to his wicker chair by the window. He adjusted his glasses, and there, with the newspaper once again on his lap, he let the daylight slowly fade away. Like everything else.

   mvf