I think they shook hands. One of them hugged the other. I tend to imagine more than I see. They must have exchanged some of those common phrases like: "Hello, Borges!"; "How are you, Sabato?"
My duty as a witness is to record the words accurately. But anyone (any writer or artist) has always dreamed of such a moment, and it's better to share feelings, not words.
I know they're coming slowly down the hallway, one arm in the other's. The crutch is swinging in Borges's hand. I see two shadows and behind them two men, and in the shadows and the men, I see love and death, struggle and art—life before my eyes.
I don't care that they didn't welcome me (I can bear the thought that if I had left at that moment, they wouldn't have noticed).
The tape recorder starts playing.