The Amnesia Clinic

by James Scudamore

  I remember the bright sunshine of the car park outside the hospital and the breathtaking heat of the car as I sat in it for the first time. I remember the silence as we pulled on to the blinding highway. For the early part of the journey, I tried to keep my eyes open and watch the scenery outside. But this didn’t last: in the eye of every roadside mule or bored bus passenger, even in the expression of a nun speeding along in a beaten-up old Cadillac, I saw him – as if, by the power of guilt, Fabián had insinuated himself into every living thing in my path.

  I remember next to nothing about the rest of the journey north. I know that under no circumstances could it ever have been as exciting as Fabián’s and my journey south had been. My parents were possessed of an efficiency in the world, a mastery of adult tools that came into its own at times of crisis. In their hands, the great voyage upon which we had embarked a few days earlier was reduced to nothing more than a few hours in an air-conditioned people-carrier. I kept my eyes shut for as much of the rest of the journey as I could, in order to preserve the version in my head, and avoid all of those recriminatory eyes.

  Within a week, I had left the country, never to return. At my mother’s instruction, I was removed from the country as promptly as possible, like an airlifted hostage. The decision that I would not attend Fabián’s funeral was also made for me. In view of what had happened, I was to be left out of the decision-making business for a while. And that suited me just fine. I wanted decisions to be made on my behalf for the rest of my life.

  According to my parents, it was likely that the authorities would record a verdict of accidental death. But in spite of this, one more thing was to be asked of me when we got back to Quito. At his own personal request, and in the company of my mother and father, I was required to go to his house and explain to Suarez how his nephew had died.

  EIGHTEEN

  A meeting between Suarez and my parents, with Suarez’s house as the venue: it would have been a surreal clash of cultures even without the colossal fact of Fabián’s death. With it, dangling away above us all like a puppeteer’s hand, the visit was unbearable. From the moment the security gates parted to admit the three of us in my father’s people-carrier, I felt a rising sense of panic, a sense that wrong things were being allowed to happen. This wasn’t the way it was meant to be: these gates were a portal to pleasure, through which one was ferried, crying with laughter, in the back of a bullet-proof Mercedes. That day, it felt more like being led to an execution. My unease continued to build even with the appearance of a friendly face: Eulalia opened the door clad in black mourning dress, and gave only a muted greeting before she showed us into the library. No cooking smells enticed from the kitchen. No music blasted from the jukebox. No dogs cascaded down the stairs to greet us. The accumulated effects were that even before Suarez set foot in the room, I felt hot and uncomfortable, as if the guilt were somehow scalding me, and that by the time he came in, I was positively poaching in it.

  As we waited, my parents attempted with false nonchalance to familiarise themselves with Suarez’s habitat. My mother stalked up and down the bookshelves with an affectedly knitted brow; my father stood over the jukebox with his hands on his hips. I felt affronted on Suarez’s behalf by their presence, and in particular by their crude appraisal of a place so familiar to, and treasured by, me. I fought an urge to run from the library, through Byron’s exotic flowerbeds and away down the Pan-Americana, kicking the red mud from my shoes as I sprinted away to the south.

  ‘What an awful encyclopaedia,’ said my mother to no one in particular, pulling a volume from the shelf. ‘It looks as if it were written for a child.’

  ‘It is my experience that the books we prize as children can be our most formative influences,’ said a voice from the doorway.

  The authority and confidence carried by that familiar accent provoked in me an automatic surge of anticipation, an incongruous burst of joy and excitement. In spite of the circumstances, and in the certain knowledge that no great story could possibly be on its way, my imagination salivated at the prospect all the same, like an idiotic Pavlovian dog.

  But the man who followed the sound into the room was a reduced, desiccated version of the Suarez I knew. His voice bore the same sting, but the man … It was as if one of his beloved Shuar Indians had cursed him, performed some ayahuasca-fuelled rite intended to drive away his soul and rip out his inner strength. His shoulders were slumped loosely inside his jacket, his hair seemed greyer and thinner, and he had removed his moustache, which gave his face a naked, defenceless appearance. Suddenly, he was an old man.

  I realised that I, knowing everyone in the room, was expected to take the initiative with the introductions. It was the first time I had ever introduced my parents to anyone by name. The formality felt preposterous. With a courtly bow, as if he wanted to compound the absurdity, Suarez kissed my mother on the hand. She shot my father a sideways glance.

  Eulalia set down a white dish of fat green olives, with a second, smaller compartment within it for the stones. She also brought in an opened bottle of red wine and some glasses on a tray. When Suarez raised the bottle over my glass I shook my head and asked for juice. I caught a distant flare of the old mischief in his eye, and even a twitch in the corner of his mouth, before he turned his head away from me. When he uttered the word ‘juice’ to Eulalia it was with a trace of mockery which only I could possibly have discerned. As for the olives, their smell has induced nausea in me ever since.

  Some preliminary small-talk ensued as drinks were distributed and chairs assigned. My parents offered their condolences to Suarez, and said how much they had enjoyed Fabián’s company when he’d come to stay with us at weekends. Suarez reciprocated with a few choice compliments about me. He said I had been “a delight and an inspiration” to have around. I was beginning to think that the conversation would proceed for ever at this brutally ponderous pace until, finally, when the four of us were settled round the table – that same table which had seen so much enchantment in the past, and at which, mere days before, Fabián and I had been merrily necking shots of tequila – there was silence. Suarez put down his glass and wiped his lips, though they hadn’t yet touched the wine.

  ‘Thank you all for agreeing to come here,’ he said. ‘Let me start by saying to you, Anti, that I know this loss will be every bit as painful to you as it will be to me. I know what close friends you and Fabián were. I want to say also that I hope you won’t feel at any stage that you are being blamed for what has happened. I know what a headstrong boy my nephew could be, and I am fully prepared for the fact that this terrible accident is likely to have come about as a result of his own hot-headed nature.’

  Suarez lifted his wineglass again before continuing. The liquid inside it caught the light from a lamp above his head, acting like a ruby filter. I thought of the too-red blood of Hammer horror films.

  ‘And so, Anti, you needn’t withhold anything when you tell us what happened. There’s no question at all in my mind of pressing charges against anybody, or of taking the thing to trial.’

  The remark operated on my confidence precisely as Suarez had intended it to: on the surface, as a reassuring tonic; in reality, as a powerful corrosive. The idea that anybody might want or even be in a position to press charges had never occurred to me. I picked up the glass of naranjilla in front of me to give my hands something to do, and hoped that the fear and surprise I felt were not written all over my face.

  ‘But we do need to know what happened,’ said Suarez. ‘Whatever it was, whatever you both did, you have to tell us. And you have to tell us everything. Do you understand?’

  I cleared my throat, but said nothing.

  ‘Come on. Don’t be nervous,’ said my mother. ‘Sr Suarez is being exceptionally understanding.’

  I was tongue-tied. In an unthinkable situation, I was facing two people – Suarez and my mother – to whom I would offer opposing versions of what I’d had for breakfast, let alone what had happened in Pedrascada. Stil
l more unsettling was that Suarez, with his mention of charges and trials, had made it clear that I couldn’t necessarily rely on him to be on my side.

  ‘Why not start by telling us why you decided to go to this place … Pedrascada?’ my mother suggested.

  Suarez agreed. ‘Yes. What happened?’ he said. ‘What made you both lie to me in that way?’

  ‘To all of us,’ my mother reminded him.

  ‘Quite,’ said Suarez.

  ‘I’m sorry, Suarez,’ I said. ‘We—’

  ‘Anti, I told you. There will be no recrimination today. That will be the last time you apologise. Just tell us the truth.’

  I sipped my drink but could hardly swallow. The liquid trickled slowly over the back of my throat. The sensation made me want to retch.

  ‘I suppose the truth is that we just wanted some sort of adventure. I knew that I was leaving the country soon, and Fabián and I had always said that one day we’d get out of the city and explore some of the country together. I guess you could say that I just wanted something … big to happen before I went. Something a bit less safe. So Fabián and I decided to go away for the weekend. On a sort of farewell expedition.’

  Suarez nodded at me in a way that suggested full understanding. I glanced at my parents. My father radiated goodwill and sympathy, while my mother wore her most terrifying look of full concentration. Any second now, I expected her to get out a notepad.

  ‘That’s not all,’ I continued. ‘Something was wrong with Fabián. He was more agitated about his parents than I’d ever seen him. I thought it would be good for him to get away and stop thinking about them for a while. He’d started telling me stuff about them that couldn’t possibly be true. About how he’d seen a vision of his mother at the Easter parade, and how his father had been killed in a bullfight, and how his mother wasn’t dead, she was wandering around in the mountains with amnesia. Crazy stuff. I didn’t know what to do about it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Suarez, frowning.

  I turned to him. ‘I should have told you. That night when we got drunk, I should have told you all of it then. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I told you: no apologies.’

  ‘You got drunk?’ said my mother. ‘When was this?’

  Suarez ignored her. ‘You didn’t want to give him away. I understand.’ Then he said to my parents, ‘I don’t expect Anti ever told you of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of my sister and her husband – Fabián’s mother and father.’

  My parents confirmed that I had not.

  ‘It’s understandable. I believe Anti only found out the truth himself comparatively recently. What happened was a very unfortunate car accident, around six years ago now. Their car came off the road high in the cordillera, and neither of them survived.’

  My mother made suitably sympathetic remarks.

  ‘Anti and I had a revealing chat a few weeks ago, during which it emerged that Fabián believed that his mother might be alive somewhere because her body was never recovered from the wreckage. And now it seems that he had been concocting glamorous stories for some time to explain her disappearance – to fill in the gaps left by what we knew. How very sad.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I added, in an ineffectual, distant voice.

  Suarez took no notice. ‘For some reason I have never been able to fathom, I think that Fabián blamed himself for the loss of his parents. It seems these stories were his way of avoiding the truth.’

  ‘You knew about this?’ said my mother, turning her gaze on me. ‘You knew how deluded he was, and you told no one?’

  ‘He was my friend.’

  My father was thinking. ‘That’s all very well. But it doesn’t explain why you chose that place in particular. It’s miles away. You could have gone on your adventure anywhere, much nearer to Quito.’

  My father. The one person in the room I thought I could rely on. Disappointing.

  ‘It’s a good question. Why Pedrascada in particular?’ said Suarez.

  ‘Yes, why?’ my mother asked.

  The ridiculous thing is that, at this point, I could have looked up at the bookshelf, pointed out the encyclopaedia, shown them the entry in it relating to Pedrascada and told them that’s where I got the idea. And it wouldn’t even have been a lie. But I wasn’t thinking straight at all. I was at a crossroads, but I hadn’t seen it coming: I was too busy looking behind me. When I should have been considering which road to take with maximum care, I shot blindly through the junction, panicking, desperate to save my skin and get away. I condemned myself without giving it a moment’s thought.

  ‘We went to look for the Amnesia Clinic,’ I mumbled.

  My father sat bolt upright. ‘What?’

  It tumbled out of me. ‘Fabián and I had found this newspaper clipping, all about a clinic in Pedrascada where people who had lost their memory could stay and be treated until they remembered stuff.’

  My father gulped at his wine. ‘What are you talking about, Anti?’

  ‘It was a stupid idea, I know. But that’s why we went there.’

  ‘I see,’ said Suarez. ‘And this was the latest explanation Fabián had latched on to to explain where his mother might be? Is that right?’

  ‘That’s why you went to Pedrascada? To look for the Amnesia Clinic?’ said my father. He was desperately trying to establish some sort of communication with me without giving too much away. But I was very far from being reachable. ‘Come on, mate. That can’t be right.’

  Suarez suddenly appeared very interested in what my father had to say. ‘You’ve heard of it?’ he said. ‘You have heard of this … Amnesia Clinic?’

  My father set his glass down on the table awkwardly. I felt sorry for him. He wanted so badly to stay on my side, but the circumstances were making it very difficult.

  ‘Anti and I talked hypothetically about the idea once,’ he said. ‘That’s all. It was just something we made up. I doubt anywhere like it really exists.’

  ‘As do I,’ said Suarez. ‘And yet Anti appears to be telling us that it was to get to this … hypothetical place that he and Fabián decided to go to Pedrascada.’

  ‘It’s a preposterous idea, of course,’ said my mother. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, Anti.’

  I saw a window and leapt for it. I was panicking.

  ‘I know it’s crazy. It was just another one of Fabián’s lunatic ideas to try and keep his mother alive. He decided that Pedrascada was where it would be, this clinic. And I didn’t know how to tell him it wasn’t. That was stupid. I know that now.’

  Suarez was staring at me with an ominous, mocking expression as my words tailed off. I stared at him, mystified. If it hadn’t been out of the question, I would have said he was enjoying himself.

  He sat comfortably back in his chair, letting me stew for a while in my lies. Then he took out his chunky gold lighter and lit a Dunhill International. He sucked in a great blue mouthful of smoke and then turned the packet in my direction with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Cigarette, Anti? No? Okay then.’ He exhaled through pursed lips, then blew a thick, perfect smoke-ring, gazing at the ancient disco-lighting on the wall behind my mother’s head. Then he said, ‘Speaking as a doctor, I am fascinated by this idea of a treatment centre entirely dedicated to amnesiacs.’

  He laid his cigarette in the ashtray. I watched as his hand hovered momentarily over the white dish on the table before selecting and picking up a plump green olive. He threw it to the back of his mouth and munched down on it with the right-hand side of his face, chewing it with relish before palming the stone discreetly and dropping it into the relevant compartment in front of him. He was looking straight at me as he swallowed.

  ‘The thing is,’ I spluttered, ‘it was just a stupid—’

  He raised a hand to shut me up. It was the faintest of gestures, but he might as well have struck me across the face. His mouth squirmed sardonically as he went through the final, laborious stages of consuming the olive. He picked up his cigarette again a
nd took another long, slow drag. The silence felt like the hush over a bullring before the coup de grâce. And then he struck.

  ‘It may surprise you to know that, as a matter of fact, I have heard of your Amnesia Clinic.’

  My stomach lurched. The black and white squares of Suarez’s chequerboard library floor swam and multiplied before me, and I feared I might soon be following Fabián’s example in emptying my guts all over them.

  ‘I was looking around in Fabián’s room yesterday, trying to work out how to start clearing it out – such a heartbreaking task – when I happened upon a newspaper clipping that my nephew had left tucked into the front of my road atlas, which was for some reason hidden under his bed.’

  He reached into an inside pocket of his tweed jacket, took out the cutting, unfolded it and smoothed it down on the table in front of him.

  The air swarmed with unspoken forces. Silent, breathless panic from me, and speechless confusion from my parents. From Suarez, a barely concealed, burning triumph, bordering on mania.

  ‘It’s a curious piece. And one of the first things that struck me as odd about it was the date. It purports to have been printed on the 29th of February 1989. Now, I am an old man. My memory may be failing. But unless I am very much mistaken, 29 February 1989 is a date that never existed. 1989 was not a leap year.’ He swallowed a mouthful of wine and smiled. ‘Would anyone like an olive? They are very good.’

  My mother cast desperately around the room for help. ‘Does anyone know what this man is talking about?’ The question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, but at a point in space somewhere just above the jukebox. If she’d clocked the ashen look on my face she might have found her answer.