The first time he dreamed of the place he never imagined that, in time, it would become an obsession. After all, it had been one of those light, condensed dreams, the kind that leave you with a pleasant aftertaste when you wake up because you remember them so completely and then, a few seconds later, forget them just as completely. That morning he opened his eyes and closed them again, stretched, and then, when he was in the bathroom, beneath the cool spray of the shower, recalled everything. He’d been driving an old car, it was white, and he was on a fast-moving road, full of traffic. In the distance, beyond some parched hills, was a cluster of clouds tinged purple and scarlet. Beyond that there was only that sharp yellow light so characteristic of winter. As he sped along he tried to turn on the radio, to pass the time, but after several attempts he realized it didn’t work. Then, bored, searching for some sort of distraction, he decided to watch the other motorists. All of them, even the children, were staring straight ahead, towards the end of the road, as if it were salvation, or a prize. But their focus seemed resigned, not hopeful. That explained, most likely, why nobody realized that, as the road got steeper and dusk’s colors more intense, an exit came into view. There was no road sign announcing it, nor any indication of its name at the intersection. It was just a little two-lane road with crumbling pavement on which traveled a few other cars as rusty as his own, a bunch of dogs, even a couple of burros. The quadrupeds’ presence forced him to slow down and glance constantly in his rear- and side-view mirrors. He didn’t want to run anyone over. And proceeding thus, with great care, with uncharacteristic precaution, he realized he was there; this was the place. It wasn’t a beautiful place, wasn’t even special. In fact, it seemed perfectly at home amid the chaos and ugliness that a lack of city planning had led to. The layout of the streets and range of architectural styles made it clear that no experts had been employed to oversee the urbanization process. You could tell, by the puddles that dogs lapped from and the string of carts parked on one side of the sidewalk, that public ordinances were few and far between and that the police rarely handed out fines. Soon, dusk’s shadows made it hard for him to see much more. He turned on his headlights and kept creeping along at the same speed until he pulled to a stop in front of a building with vague colonial influences, with a tiled roof and whitewashed walls. When he pulled on the hand break he realized that before him stood the purpose of his trip. For rent. The hand-painted sign offered no further information. When he opened the car door, the outside heat almost forced him to turn back. He did not. Instead, he took off his cashmere sweater, rolled up his shirtsleeves, picked up the briefcase sitting on the passenger’s seat and, with a wry smile, thought to himself that those drastic temperature changes only ever occurred in dreams. The possibility of being in one caused him to feel singularly elated, strangely sure of himself.

“I’m here about the apartment,” he said to a woman of indeterminate age who barely looked up from the clothes she was scrubbing in a stone washbasin when she heard his voice. The woman made no reply. Silently, she pulled a key from one of the pockets on her blue flowered apron and handed it to him.

“It’s on the third floor,” she said. “Go on up and have a look.”

The staircase was painted red, as were the window and doorframes. The contrast between the red and the almost iridescent whitewash was only slightly diminished by the terracotta floor tiles. Wrought-iron banisters gave an air of reality to a building that otherwise seemed to be there against its will.

“What are you doing here?” a woman with a child in her arms asked the moment he opened the door to apartment 303. Surprised at the woman’s presence and disturbed by her empty gaze and the washed-out look of her freckled skin, he didn’t know how to respond. Standing stock still, mouth agape, he simply stood there in the doorway without taking his hand from the knob. Once, as a boy, he’d done something similar. He’d stood there motionless, staring at something that surprised him, something he could no longer recall. His stiffness, however, was not caused by fear. Something told him that, if he moved, the moment, that second, would pass.

“That Doña Elvira,” the woman finally said. “She always forgets she already rented the apartment and lets all kinds of strangers into my house.”

Before she’d even finished the sentence her right hand was pushing one side of the door and unceremoniously closing it on him, forcing him out.

“I didn’t mean to…” he said, aware of the fact that in some dreams, women with more than four children could never be in good moods.

When he got back down to the building’s central patio, Doña Elvira was gone. In her place was a dog, licking the scrubbing stone as if it were his last supper. Hearing the rasping sound of the dog’s tongue on the stone and the murmurs of those about to have dinner, he couldn’t help but feel grateful that the apartment was already rented. He wouldn’t have wanted to live in a building with so much red on display. Besides, he was sure he’d find something better soon. When he got back to his car, he thought about how lucky he was: he’d found the way off the road and could come back whenever he wanted. Then, right before he turned on the engine, he turned to look out at the night. Starlight pierced the dense black sky, and an orange-tinged halo surrounded the pale, round yet blurry moon. The sound of the engine woke him up. He opened and closed his eyes almost simultaneously, stretched, smiled. Then, once in the bathroom, beneath the shower’s spray, recalled the dream and realized why he was in a good mood. Later, over the course of the day, he forgot it.