I dreamt that I was tidying my study when I heard my mother calling my name from a distance. “Ranko!” she yelled only once. I got up from my drawing table and headed for her quarters through several interconnected buildings. Wearing thick pajamas, a long bathrobe, and slippers, I went up and down many stairs and through long corridors. I found her half-dressed in front of her bathroom. “You called,” I said as she was putting on her bathrobe in haste. In my dream, she was in her sixties, but my father was already dead. Behind her, there was a huge and poorly lit bedroom crammed with bulky furniture. Sitting in an armchair in his pajamas, there was a small and gaunt man I had seen never before. His suntanned face was heavily creased. Seeing me at the door, he got up, climbed into a huge bed, leaned his back against a massive backboard, and covered himself up to his waist with a bedcover. Without even looking at me, my mother walked to the bed and propped herself up on her elbows next to the man. “Who’s he?” he whispered. “He’s my son,” she whispered back as I stood there totally confused. I realized that something like this had actually happened to me only when I woke up. The man was my father, though. A few years before his death, quite demented already, he asked my mother who I was. They were next door, but I heard them whispering clearly enough. “But that’s our son!” she whispered back as calmly as she could.