RIVERHEAD BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Samanta Schweblin
English translation copyright © 2017 by Megan McDowell
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Ebook ISBN: 9780399184611
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Schweblin, Samanta, date. | McDowell, Megan, translator.
Title: Fever dream : a novel / Samanta Schweblin ; translated by Megan McDowell.
Other titles: Núcleo del disturbio. English
Description: New York : Riverhead Books, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016026585 | ISBN 9780399184598 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Families—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Psychological. | FICTION / Horror. | GSAFD: Psychological fiction.
Classification: LCC PQ7798.29.C5388 N8313 2017 | DDC 863/.64—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016026585
p. cm.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For my sister, Pamela
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
FEVER DREAM
About the Author
About the Translator
For the first time in a long while, he looked down and saw his hands. If you have had this experience, you’ll know just what I mean.
—JESSE BALL, The Curfew
They’re like worms.
What kind of worms?
Like worms, all over.
It’s the boy who’s talking, murmuring into my ear. I am the one asking questions.
Worms in the body?
Yes, in the body.
Earthworms?
No, another kind of worms.
It’s dark and I can’t see. The sheets are rough, they bunch up under my body. I can’t move, but I’m talking.
It’s the worms. You have to be patient and wait. And while we wait, we have to find the exact moment when the worms come into being.
Why?
Because it’s important, it’s very important for us all.
I try to nod, but my body doesn’t respond.
What else is happening in the yard outside the house? Am I in the yard?
No, you’re not, but Carla, your mother, is. I met her a few days ago, when we first got to the vacation house.
What is Carla doing?
She finishes her coffee and leaves the mug in the grass, next to her lounge chair.
What else?
She gets up and walks away. She’s forgetting her sandals, which are a few feet away on the pool steps, but I don’t say anything.
Why not?
Because I want to wait and see what she does.
And what does she do?
She slings her purse over her shoulder and walks toward the car in her gold bikini. There’s something like mutual fascination between us, and also at times, brief moments of repulsion; I can feel them in very specific situations. Are you sure these kinds of comments are necessary? Do we have time for this?
Your observations are very important. Why are you in the yard?
Because we’ve just gotten back from the lake, and your mother doesn’t want to come into my house.
She wants to save you any trouble.
What kind of trouble? I have to go inside anyway, first for some iced tea with lemon, then for the sunscreen. That doesn’t seem like she’s saving me any trouble.
Why did you go to the lake?
She wanted me to teach her how to drive, she said she’d always wanted to learn. But once we were at the lake, neither of us had the patience for it.
What is she doing now, in the yard?
She opens the door of my car, gets into the driver’s seat, and digs around in her purse for a while. I swing my legs down off the lounge chair and wait. It’s so hot. Then Carla gets tired of rummaging around, and she grips the steering wheel with both hands. She stays like that for a moment, looking toward the gate, or maybe toward her own house, far beyond the gate.
What else? Why are you quiet?
It’s just, I’m stuck. I can see the story perfectly, but sometimes it’s hard to move forward. Is it because of the nurses’ injections?
No.
But I’m going to die in a few hours. That’s going to happen, isn’t it? It’s strange how calm I am. Because even though you haven’t told me, I know. And still, it’s an impossible thing to tell yourself.
None of this is important. We’re wasting time.
But it’s true, right? That I’m going to die.
What else is happening in the yard?
Carla leans her forehead against the steering wheel and her shoulders start to shake a little; she’s crying. Do you think we could be close to the exact moment when the worms are born?
Keep going, don’t forget the details.
Carla doesn’t make any noise, but she gets me to stand up and walk over to her. I liked her from the start, from the day I saw her walking in the sun and carrying two large plastic buckets. She had her red hair pulled back in a big bun and she was wearing denim overalls. I hadn’t seen anyone wear those since I was a teenager. I was the one who insisted on iced tea, and I invited her over for mate the next morning, and the next one, and the next one, too. Are these the important details?
We’ll know the exact moment from a detail, you have to be observant.
I cross the yard. When I skirt the pool, I look in the window toward the dining room to be sure that my daughter, Nina, is still asleep, hugging her big stuffed mole. I get into the car on the passenger side. I sit, but I leave the door open and roll the window down, because it’s very hot. Carla’s big bun is drooping a little, coming undone on one side. She leans against the backrest, aware that I’m there now, beside her once again, and she looks at me.
“If I tell you,” she says, “you won’t want me to visit anymore.”
I think about what to say, something like “Now Carla, come on, don’t be silly,” but instead I look at her toes, tense on the brakes, her long legs, her thin but strong arms. I’m disconcerted that a woman ten years older than me is so much more beautiful.
“If I tell you,” she says, “you won’t want him to play with Nina.”
“But Carla, come on, how could I not want that.”
“You won’t, Amanda,” she says, and her eyes fill with tears.
“What’s his name?”
“David.”
“Is he yours? Is he your son?”
She nods. That son is you, David.
I know. Go on.
She wipes away her tears with her knuckles, and her gold bracelets jangle. I had never seen you, but when I’d mentioned to Mr. Geser, the caretaker of our rental house, that I’d made friends with Carla, he asked right away if I’d met you yet. Th
en Carla says:
“He was mine. Not anymore.”
I look at her, confused.
“He doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
“Carla, children are forever.”
“No, dear,” she says. She has long nails, and she points at me, her finger level with my eyes.
Then I remember my husband’s cigarettes, and I open the glove compartment and hand them to her with a lighter. She practically snatches them from my hand, and the perfume of her sunscreen wafts between us.
“When David was born, he was the light of my life, he was my sun.”
“Of course he was,” I say, and I realize I need to be quiet now.
“The first time they put him in my arms, I was so anxious. I was convinced he was missing a finger.” She holds the cigarette between her lips, smiling at the memory, and she lights it. “The nurse said sometimes that happens with the anesthesia, it can make you a little paranoid. I swear, until I counted all ten of his fingers twice, I wasn’t convinced everything had turned out all right. What I wouldn’t give now for David to simply be missing a finger.”
“What’s wrong with David?”
“But back then he was a delight, Amanda, I’m telling you: my moon and stars. He smiled all day long. His favorite thing was to be outside. He was crazy about the playground, even when he was tiny. You see how around here you can’t go for a walk with a stroller. In town you can, but from here to the playground you have to go between the big estates and the shanties along the train tracks. It’s a mess with all the mud, but he liked going so much that until he was three I’d carry him there, all twelve blocks. When he caught sight of the slide he’d start to shout. Where’s the ashtray in this car?”
It’s under the dashboard. I pull out the base and hand it to her.
“Then David got sick, when he was that age, more or less, about six years ago. It was a difficult time. I’d started working at Sotomayor’s farm. It was the first job I’d worked in my life. I did the accounting, which really wasn’t anything like accounting. I just filed papers and helped him add, but it kept me entertained. I went around town on errands, all dressed up. It’s different for you, coming from the capital, but around here you need an excuse for a little glamour, and the job was the perfect pretext.”
“What about your husband?”
“Omar bred horses. Yes, that’s right. He was a different guy back then, Omar.”
“I think I saw him yesterday when Nina and I were out walking. He drove by in the pickup, but when we waved he didn’t wave back.”
“Yes, that’s Omar these days,” says Carla, shaking her head. “When I met him he still smiled, and he bred racehorses. He kept them on the other side of town, past the lake, but when I got pregnant he moved everything to where we are now. Our house used to be my parents’. Omar said that when he hit it big, we’d be loaded and we could redo everything. I wanted to carpet the floors. Yes, it’s crazy living where I do, but oh, I really wanted it. Omar had two spectacular mares that had given birth to a couple of big winners. They’d been sold and were running races—still do—at Palermo and San Isidro. Later, two more fillies were born, and a colt; I don’t remember any of their names. To do well in that business you have to have a good stallion, and Omar got hold of the best. He fenced in part of the land for the mares, built a corral behind it for the foals, planted alfalfa, and then he could take his time building the stable. The deal was that Omar would borrow the stallion for two or three days, and later, when the foals were sold, a fourth of the money went to the stallion’s owner. That’s a lot of money, because if the stallion is good and the foals are well taken care of, each of them goes for between 200,000 and 250,000 pesos. Anyway, one time we had that precious horse with us. Omar watched him all day long, followed him around like a zombie to keep track of how many times he mounted each mare. He wouldn’t leave the house until I got back from Sotomayor’s, and then it was my turn, though I would just take a look out the kitchen window at him every once in a while, as you can imagine. So one afternoon I’m washing the dishes and I realize I haven’t seen the stallion in a while. I go to the other window, then to another that looks out behind the house, and nothing: the mares are there, but no sign of the stallion. I pick David up, who by then had taken his first steps and had been following me around the house that whole time, and I go outside. There’s only so much searching you can do, either a horse is there or it’s not. Evidently, for some reason he’d jumped the fence. It’s rare, but it happens. I went to the stable praying to God he’d be there, but he wasn’t. Then my eyes fell on the stream and I felt a spark of hope; it’s small but it runs in a hollow, a horse could be drinking water and you wouldn’t even see it from the house. I remember David asking what was happening. I was still carrying him, he was hugging my neck and his voice was clipped by the long strides I was taking, bouncing him side to side. ‘There, Mom!’ said David. And there was the stallion, drinking water from the stream. David doesn’t call me Mom anymore. We went toward it, and David wanted me to put him down. I told him not to go near the horse, and I went toward the animal, taking short little steps. Sometimes he moved away, but I was patient, and after a while he started to trust me. I managed to get hold of the reins. It was such a relief, I remember it perfectly, I sighed and said out loud, ‘If I lost you, I’d lose the house too, you jerk.’ See, Amanda, this is like the finger I’d thought David was missing. You say, ‘Losing the house would be the worst,’ and later there are worse things and you would give the house and even your life just to go back to that moment and let go of the damned animal’s reins.”
I hear the slam of the screen door from the living room and both of us turn toward the house. Nina is in the doorway, hugging her stuffed mole. She’s sleepy, so sleepy it doesn’t even scare her when she doesn’t see us anywhere. She takes a few steps, and without letting go of the stuffed animal she grabs the railing and concentrates on going down the three porch steps until she’s on the grass. Carla leans back in the seat and watches her in the rearview mirror, silent. Nina looks down at her feet. She has a new habit since we got here, and she’s doing it now: pulling up the grass by clenching it between her toes.
“David had knelt down in the stream, his shoes were soaked. He’d put his hands in the water and was sucking on his fingers. Then I saw the dead bird. It was very close to David, just a step away. I got scared and yelled at him, and then he got scared, too. He jumped up and fell backward onto his bottom from the fear. My poor David. I went over to him dragging the horse, who neighed and didn’t want to follow me, and somehow I picked him up with just one hand and I fought with both of them until we made it back up the hill. I didn’t tell Omar about any of it. What for? The screwup was over and done with, fixed. But the next morning the horse was lying down. ‘He’s not there,’ said Omar. ‘He escaped,’ and I was about to tell him that he’d already escaped once, but then he saw the horse lying in the pasture. ‘Shit,’ he said. The stallion’s eyelids were so swollen you couldn’t see his eyes. His lips, nostrils, and his whole mouth were so puffy he looked like a different animal, a monstrosity. He barely had the strength to whinny in pain, and Omar said his heart was pounding like a locomotive. He made an urgent call to the vet. Some neighbors came over, everyone was worried and running back and forth, but I went into the house, desperate, and I picked up David, who was still sleeping in his crib, and I locked myself in my room, in bed with him in my arms, to pray. To pray like a crazy woman, pray like I’d never prayed in my life. You’ll be wondering why I didn’t run to the clinic instead of locking myself in the bedroom, but sometimes there’s not enough time to confirm the disaster at hand. Whatever the horse had drunk my David had drunk too, and if the horse was dying then David didn’t have a chance. I knew it with utter clarity, because I had already heard and seen too many things in this town: I had a few hours, or maybe minutes, to find a solution that wasn’t waiting half an hour for some rural doctor wh
o wouldn’t even make it to the clinic in time. I needed someone to save my son’s life, whatever the cost.”
I steal another look at Nina, who is now taking a few steps toward the pool.
“It’s just that sometimes the eyes you have aren’t enough, Amanda. I don’t know how I didn’t see it—why the hell was I worrying about a goddamn horse instead of my son?”
I’m wondering whether what happened to Carla could happen to me. I always imagine the worst-case scenario. Right now, for instance, I’m calculating how long it would take me to jump out of the car and reach Nina if she suddenly ran and leapt into the pool. I call it the “rescue distance”: that’s what I’ve named the variable distance separating me from my daughter, and I spend half the day calculating it, though I always risk more than I should.
“Once I decided what I would do there was no going back. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like the only possible way out. I picked up David, who was crying because he could sense my fear, and I left the house. Omar was standing over the horse and arguing with two men, and every once in a while he clutched his head. Two more neighbors were watching from the lot behind us and sometimes jumped into the conversation, shouting opinions from their field to ours. No one noticed when I left. I went out to the street,” said Carla, pointing toward the end of my yard and beyond the gate, “and I went to the green house.”
“What green house?”
The last ash of her cigarette falls between her breasts and she brushes it away, blowing a little, and then she sighs. I’m going to have to clean the car tomorrow, my husband is very meticulous about these things.
“The people who live around here go there sometimes, because we know that those doctors they call in to the clinic always take hours to arrive, and they don’t know anything and can’t do anything. If it’s serious, we go to the woman in the green house,” says Carla.
Nina leaves her stuffed mole on my lounge chair, on the beach towel. She takes some more steps toward the pool, and I sit up, alert, in my seat. Carla looks too, but the situation doesn’t seem to worry her. Nina crouches down, sits on the edge of the pool, and puts her feet into the water.
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