Talking to Ourselves: A Novel (10 page)

Knowing what will happen, how and where, every gesture contains an element of deception. I bring him newspapers, films, sweets. We call Lito, we chat with Mario’s brothers, we speak of
happy memories. I smile at him, I caress him, I make jokes. I feel as if I were part of a conspiracy. As if we all were forcing a dying man to pretend he isn’t dying.

I have the impression that families, and doctors, too, perhaps, soothe the sick in order to protect themselves from their agony. As a buffer against the excessive, unbearable disorder which the ugliness of another’s death creates in the midst of one’s own life.

“Writing about illness,” I underlined last night in an essay by Roberto Bolaño, “especially if one is seriously ill oneself, can be an ordeal. But it is also a liberating act,” I hope this applies to us carers too, “exercising the tyranny of illness,” this is something we never talk about, and it is true: the oppressed need to oppress, the threatened want to threaten, the sick yearn to disrupt the health of others, “it is a diabolical temptation,” we carers also have temptations, especially of the diabolical variety.

“What did Mallarmé mean when he said the flesh was sad and that he had read all the books? That he was sated with
reading
and sated with fucking? That, beyond a certain moment, every book and every act of carnal knowledge is a repetition?” I very much doubt it, that moment could only be marriage, “I believe Mallarmé is speaking of illness, of the battle it unleashes against health, two totalitarian states or powers,” illness not only takes control of everything, it also rereads everything, makes things speak to us of it. “The image that Mallarmé constructs speaks of illness as a resignation to living. And to turn around this defeat he unsuccessfully opposes reading and sex.” What else could we oppose?

The two of us lie on our backs in his bed, shoulder to shoulder, covered in sweat, catching our breath, floating in that fleeting moment of oblivion. I tried to go from my body to the idea. I think better after I have felt my entire body.

I asked him whether, beyond genetics, he believed
psychological
factors were at work in illnesses such as Mario’s.
According
to some theories, Ezequiel replied, we become ill in order to find out whether we are loved.

I dressed and slammed the door.

I called my mother in tears. She told me I was right to get it off my chest. Immediately, as if through telepathy, my sister called me. She asked me how Mario was and told me about some flights she had just found.

When I contemplate him, skinny and white as any sheet, I sometimes think: This isn’t Mario. It can’t be him. My Mario was different, not like this at all.

Yet at other times I wonder: What if this is the real Mario? And rather than having lost his essence, what remains is the
essential
part of him? Like a distillation? What if we are
misinterpreting
our loved ones’ bodies?

I have just said goodbye to Ezequiel from the door of our house, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, as if we had no neighbours, after talking to him, arguing with him, having two sessions in bed with him, in our marriage bed.

It all started with a coffee. I sent him a text message and he replied instantly. He was thinking about me a lot today. And I
needed a bit of company, he said. And he wasn’t far from my place. And we could at least have a coffee. And, and.

I think he came here with this in mind. The idea of going this far excited him. Well: there it is. There is nothing more for us to defile.

For God’s sake.
He
came here with this in mind?

I’m going to take a couple of pills. It’s not as if there is much in me that can be fixed.

“In bed, at night,” I underlined in a Justo Navarro novel, “I was crushed by the horror of things being exactly the same as when I was alive although I wasn’t,” I know Mario is scared to death of dying in his sleep, which is why he doesn’t sleep, “and so I counted my teeth with the tip of my tongue to rid myself of the fear of being dead, and I fell asleep counting my teeth. And I woke up: the fear was greater right before opening my eyes,” every night I try to make him fall asleep and I am alarmed every time he does, I do my best to make him rest and then pray silently this won’t be his final rest. Some waiting is like a slow death. It is stifling waiting for a death in order to start my own life again, knowing full well that, when it happens, I will be incapable of doing so.

Last night I dreamt Ezequiel was examining my husband, he could hear something in his skin, he performed an emergency operation and extracted tiny foetuses from him.

… like we were having a coffee together the day after tomorrow, right?, I rest for a while after lunch, and as soon as I open my eyes the words come to me, sometimes I even dream what I’m going to say to you, and then, when I say it, I feel like I’m repeating myself, actually we wouldn’t be able to have a decent cup of coffee here, okay, so they give you some black, or dark brown stuff, a sort of baby poo, thank God your mum gets it from the machine downstairs, she always rushes back up, poor thing, so it doesn’t go cold, how about a green tea?, the nurses sometimes ask me, you don’t want a green tea?, listen, I tell them, do you think this calls for tea?

What was the name of that café in Comala de la Vega?, La …?, what was it called again?, La Dama?, no, well, you know the one I mean, I threw up there more than anywhere else on the trip, I’m afraid I’m always going on about bodily functions, right?, hospital turns you into a body, the thing is we stopped too often that day, and it was so late there was no choice but to end up there, in Región, I was starting to see double, my legs felt shaky, I hated the idea of taking you to that dump, I was worried
about you and I was worried about Pedro, to be on the safe side I tipped the security guard, a ridiculous amount, I gave him, enough for him to change the upholstery for us, and as we were going in I, ah, one other thing, the Internet at the motel did work, there was a gizmo behind reception, but, how can I put it, I was worried it would suddenly open up a load of porn pages, stupid, huh?, I sound like my mother, as if you weren’t able to watch anything you like at home, do you watch porn already, son?, and will you like the same things as me?, the weird thing is that right there, in the bar in that dump, I know you and I had a memorable moment, it was, I was paying, right?, you still hadn’t finished your dessert, and I could see, Lito, that you didn’t want to, or to go to bed, or anything, and while I was waiting for the change I started looking round at the guys in the bar, some of them were really young, and suddenly it struck me I would never see you that way, at that age, leaning on a bar, and then I had, I don’t know, a sort of attack from the future and I thought: Well, if I can’t wait, then why not now, and I went over and asked if you wanted a drink, I swear I would have let you have anything, whisky, tequila, vodka, anything, and you ordered a Fanta, and it was fantastic, maybe this was why we made the trip, to have a Fanta in a motel with prostitutes, and then everything was worth it, until that disturbed man came over, that phony magician.

Look, I had to, I have to tell you what that man was after, I know it annoyed you us walking off like that, which is why I’m telling you this, even if it makes me want to throw up again, anyway, maybe you remember, who did he speak to first?, or rather, who did he touch first?, it was you, Lito, he fondled your arm, just a little, not much, and afterward he spoke to me, playing the joker, typical, I don’t think he realized I was your father to start with, I dread to imagine what he thought then, that’s why I said out loud: come along,
son
, but it was no good, the son
of a bitch didn’t stop, he went on talking to you, like he didn’t believe me, or worse, like I, look, I swear, I was about to smash the guy’s face in right there, to stamp on his ribs and crack his head open, I could see it, I tell you, I had it all worked out,
exactly
where I’d ram my fist, how to grab the chair and which part of his body I’d slam the chair legs into, everything, everything, I was a split second away, and then I realized I couldn’t do that in front of you, I’m always telling you not to fight, poor kid, but to outsmart your schoolmates if one of them picks on you, so how the hell was I going to explain this?, well, there it is, now I’ve told you.

Ah, and another thing, next time someone picks on you at school, smash his face in for me, understood?, because on top of all that, the next morning the guy, it’s unbelievable, I don’t know if you noticed, when we went down to—.

They come in, they go out, they adjust this, they adjust that, I’ve no idea what they’re giving me, I don’t even ask anymore, it’s humiliating, all that’s left is for them to put me in nappies, I didn’t want this, why doesn’t your mum come and take me out of here?, why don’t the visitors look me in the eye?, the worst of it is that I’ve learnt nothing from all this, what I feel is bitterness, before, how can I put it, I thought suffering was of some use, like a set of scales, if you follow me, a bit of suffering in exchange for a conclusion, weakness in exchange for some knowledge, crap, it’s all crap, and besides, how vain can you be?, as if pain could be organized, no, pain is pure, it has no purpose, if there’s one thing I can tell you for sure, son, it’s this, don’t teach yourself how to suffer, don’t ever learn, look, from the moment they diagnose you, the world immediately splits into two, the camp of the living and the camp of those who are soon going to die, everyone starts treating you like you’re no longer a member of their club, you belong to the other club now, as soon as I realized this I
didn’t want to say anything to anyone, I didn’t want pity, I just wanted some time, at work, for example, if you talk about it at work, your colleagues stop telling you their problems, they stop asking you to do things even though you are still able to, they stop telling you about their plans for next year, in short, they erase you from the club’s topics, it’s not just the illness, the others take your future away from you, too, even your family, you know?, they don’t consult you about anything, you’re no longer a relative, you’re just a shared problem, and in a hospital, well, what can I say?, it’s even more obvious in here, the living watch the dying, son, that’s basically what happens in this fucking place, I want to leave here, I want to piss myself in my own home, the living watch the dying, yes, or now that I think of it, there’s a third club in here, a club whose members believe they can be saved, there’s a narrow bridge between the other two, right?, and that bridge is filled with people in gowns, arms outstretched, arses bare.

When you’re bedridden, you watch visitors come and go like in a play, a lousy play, right?, they all come over, act with you for a while, say goodbye, and then make their exits, and you, the supposed main character, are left wondering where they go to, what they do, what they talk about among themselves, and
although
you clearly remember that normal life isn’t like this, you picture their days filled with fascinating activities, and so you envy them, loathe them, you want to see them in your shoes, to do them harm, infect them, until the door into the room opens again and you feel grateful, it’s truly unbearable to feel thankful to people you know you will never be able to do any favours for, after chatting with your visitors, having a laugh with them, once they’ve all gone, you notice for a moment that you feel relieved, you were almost yearning for this, yearning to relax, to adopt your true face, right?, the face of a condemned man, but you don’t want to be alone for too long either, and so after a while you start to miss
the daily performance, and the light begins to fade, and the
corridor
grows still, and unless you’re lucky and you sleep all right, you start counting how many hours it is until you hear the breakfast noises, understand?, at night I stare into space, and your mother watches me very intently, as if she were trying, I don’t know, to guess what lofty thoughts I’m having, it isn’t so easy to think in here, you don’t always feel strong enough, so, for instance, I often reflect about taking a dump, but I don’t tell your mum that, I don’t say to her: I was reflecting about taking a little dump, I tell her I’m not reflecting about anything, it sounds better, although, to be honest, it shouldn’t, because when you’re in here, taking a dump is more important than almost anything else, and how itchy your back is, damn it, lying in these beds, you realize the depth of the body, the soul, or whatever, is completely secondary, you put it on hold straight away, your physical reality is the most pressing, complex thing, full of mysteries even for the doctors, I understand less and less about what’s down there, below the sheets, I look at it as if it were someone else’s, and that other thing, I mean, that, it doesn’t seem like it’s mine either, or maybe it does, I still notice it occasionally, but I can’t even bring myself to touch it, I don’t want to touch anything that’s part of my body, everything in my body is my enemy now, this is what it is to be dead.

I think I’m about to contradict myself, let’s see, no, because you can’t imagine how much time I have to reflect now that my time is running out, somehow I never stop reflecting even when I’m asleep, yes, I’m contradicting myself, there, in my head,
everything
goes very fast, one minute is a luxury for the mind, at least when your back isn’t itching, your mum just called, she’s on her way, she’s a bit late, our marriage hasn’t been perfect, I expect you’re already aware of that, knowing I’m going to die makes me love her more, I discovered love when I got sick, it’s like I’m a
hundred and twenty, I’m still young, a youth of a hundred and twenty, and shall I tell you something?, I don’t deserve this love, because before I knew I was going to die, I didn’t appreciate how to feel it, sometimes I think illness is a punishment, and the more your mother looks after me the more indebted to her I feel, and I’m not going to be able to repay that debt, she keeps telling me no, what nonsense, we do these things out of love, but debts of love also exist, anyone who denies that is fooling themselves, and such debts never go away, at most we conceal them, like I am now.

Electronic kangaroo, on the phone today you told me about your football match with the neighbours, about the cool trainers your granddad bought you, the concert you went to with grandma, how you beat the record in I don’t know what, do you know what your granddad did when I started dating his little girl?, he bought me a pair of slippers, silk slippers, he explained very courteously, for when I wanted to sleep at his house, great, hurrah, the problem is that the damn slippers were his size, not mine, they were tiny on me, it was impossible for me to wear them, there’s
liberals
for you, I’m so glad you’re having fun, I’ve told you how busy I am, how great I feel now I’m over the flu, about all the
deliveries
I’m making for Uncle Juanjo while he’s on holiday, I tell you about trips I’m not taking, places I’m not seeing, roads I’m not driving on, one of these days I’m going to have an accident, and that accident is going to separate us cleanly, Lito, I want you to remember us like this, travelling together, now all the memories, even the silliest ones, give off a light, like those little screens you’re so …