“Are we stuck inside Aesop’s fables, where the cock talks to the fox, and all the animals have intercourse together?”

“If I believed that,” replied the ensign, “I’d be a dumb brute myself—maybe the dumbest—but I’d be even worse if I doubted something that I myself heard and saw. I’ll testify to it under oath, under hypnosis, under any damn thing that might convince even doubt itself to believe. But even supposing I’m kidding myself, and what I took for truth was a dream, and that to insist on it makes no sense—still, wouldn’t you like to read my transcript of what those dogs, or whoever they were, had to say?”

“So long as you’re done pretending that you heard the dogs talk,” replied Peralta, “I’ll gladly hear out your shaggy-dog story. Since it comes from so fine a pen as yours, it has to be good.”

“And another thing,” said Campuzano. “Since I was very attentive, my mind tightly constrained, my memory very retentive (thanks to the restricted diet of prunes and almonds I was on), I got it all out in one piece—writing it down the next day by heart, word for word. I didn’t compress it or build it up to make it more attractive, or try to shape or perfume it. The conversation didn’t happen all at once, either, but over two consecutive nights, though I have only the one here, which tells the life of Berganza. I plan to write up his mat-mate Scipio’s life, which provided the sequel, only if people buy the first one, or at least don’t just write it off. I’ve written it out as dialogue, to avoid the unwieldy repetition of ‘said Scipio,’ or ‘replied Berganza,’ which, for even the best of us, gets old in a hurry.”

And with that, the ensign took a scroll out of his breast pocket and pressed it on Peralta, who—as if to make light of all he had heard—took it with a smile and prepared to review it.

“I’ll recline on this ottoman,” said the ensign, “while you peruse these dreams and delusions. They have only this to recommend them: if you tire of reading, you can always put them down.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Peralta, “and I’ll polish it off in no time.”

The ensign lay down, and the scholar opened the scroll and found it headed this way …

THE DIALOGUE OF THE DOGS SCIPIO AND BERGANZA, A.K.A. THE DOGS OF MAHUDES, AT RESURRECTION HOSPITAL IN THE CITY OF VALLADOLID

Scipio: Berganza my friend, let’s let the hospital look after itself this one night and stretch out in peace on these mats, where we can enjoy unseen—and unheard!—this great gift that heaven has lent us both.

Berganza: Brother Scipio, I hear you speaking, and I know I’m speaking right back, and yet I just can’t believe it, it’s so unnatural.

Scipio: True enough, Berganza—and what’s more, we don’t just speak, we talk, as if we could even think. And yet the power of thought has always been so far beyond us that the main difference between men and animals is: they can think and we can’t.

Berganza: I’m hearing everything you say, Scipio. Your saying it and my hearing it have me fairly gobsmacked. Of course, it’s true that I’ve often heard about our great canine endowments. Some even suspect we have a natural intelligence so supple and sharp that it all but proves we’ve got it in us to think.

Scipio: People go on and on about our strong memories, our sense of gratitude, our great fidelity—so much so that artists sometimes use us as symbols of friendship. If you look, you’ll notice that in those marble crypts where you see statues of the dead buried inside, whenever it’s a husband and wife there’s the figure of a dog at their feet. They mean this to show that their love and fidelity to each other knew no bounds while they were alive.

Berganza: I know of some faithful dogs who’ve hurled themselves into the graves of their dead owners. Others have kept watch above the sepulchres where their masters lie, without rest, without food, until death at last delivers them. I’ve also heard that, for intelligence, the dog enjoys pride of place after the elephant, after us the horse, and finally the ape.

Scipio: Sure, but admit it—you’ve never heard an elephant talk, or a dog, or a horse or a monkey. This talking of ours qualifies as one of those omens that, whenever you see them, you know to expect disaster.

Berganza: If that’s an omen, then so is what I heard a student say a few days ago, passing through the Alcalá de Henares.

Scipio: And what’s that?

Berganza: That out of five thousand students at the university last year, fully two thousand were studying medicine.

Scipio: What’s so ominous about that?

Berganza: That either two thousand doctors had better find patients to cure—which would require quite a plague—or they’ll die of hunger instead.

Scipio: Well, whatever happens, let’s talk. Omen or not, if something’s meant to be, nothing on earth can stop it. There’s no point arguing over how or why all this is possible. But it’ll be better if, so as not to waste a minute, we stay put. And since we have such comfortable mats, and we don’t know how long our luck will hold, it’d be smart to talk all night, without dreams getting in the way of this gift I’ve wanted for so long.

Berganza: I feel the same way. Ever since I could chase a bone I’ve longed to talk, to say all the things I’ve been saving up in memory for so long that either they were growing murky, or I’d forgotten them completely. Now that, without ever daring to hope for it, I’ve got this divine gift of speech, I plan to make the most of it and pour out everything I remember, even if it comes out wrong or confusing. I don’t know when I’ll have to give back this gift, which I still think of as on loan.

Scipio: Here’s how we’ll do it, friend Berganza. Tonight you’ll tell me about your life, and all the sidetracks that brought you here, and tomorrow night, if we can still talk, I’ll tell you mine. Because jawing about our own lives is more fun than poking into anybody else’s.

Berganza: I’ve always considered you a thoughtful friend, Scipio, and now more than ever because you’re a friend who wants to tell me his life and to know mine. This wise idea of divvying up the time in front of us is just like you.