The Sickness

by Alberto Barrera Tyszka

  “Could I speak to you for a moment?” he asks, and his voice is neither cold nor hot, but he looks straight into Dr. Miranda’s eyes.

  “The fact is . . .”

  “It will only take a minute. Please.”

  Karina is beside herself with nerves. She doesn’t dare look at either for them for very long. She lowers her eyes and lets her gaze wander from her shoes to Dr. Miranda’s shoes, elegant in brown leather, and from there to Ernesto Durán’s shoes, also leather, but older and cheaper, and black, with no laces and with rather pointed toes.

  Only when she feels the doctor’s hand on her shoulder does she realize that she has drifted off, escaped from the moment. She looks up, and when she becomes aware of Durán’s eyes on her, she immediately feels a wave of heat inside her. She hopes she doesn’t blush. She hopes she doesn’t do anything. She tries to appear as normal as possible.

  “Can you go on ahead and give these results to Dr. Sananes?”

  She says she will, of course, naturally, she nods, takes the pieces of paper, again says, yes, of course, drops the papers, again says yes, while all three of them bend down to pick up the wretched results. She feels closer to the shoes now. And it seems to her absurd to think such a thing. It bothers her, irritates her. Almost as much as it does to find herself in this ridiculous situation. As she moves off, her pulse is ahead of her, beating much faster than she can walk. When she turns a corner in the corridor, she stops to catch her breath, to try and calm herself, to think. She peers round the corner and watches the two men in the distance. Ernesto Durán is wearing blue pants and a white cotton shirt. He’s the one doing the talking. He is making small gestures with his hands. What on earth can he be saying? Karina senses that it will all end in disaster. The idea that everything will finally be revealed, the fear of being discovered, weighs on her far more than knowing that Ernesto Durán is alive and well. What will happen now?

  In Chekhov’s story “Ward 6,” the doctor says to the patient: “There is neither morality nor logic in my being a doctor and your being a mental patient, there is nothing more to it than idle chance.” Perhaps Karina is thinking something not dissimilar as she watches them. Perhaps she even believes that she is the “idle chance” that has brought these two men together as doctor and patient. Shouldn’t she go over and explain everything to them right now? Shouldn’t she go and tell them that she alone is the hinge that allows them to look at each other and share in the same movement? But Karina is paralyzed, frozen. She cannot even breathe very deeply. She stands there, stunned, watching Durán and Miranda. This only lasts a moment though.

  What’s going on? As soon as they’re alone, Ernesto Durán makes a brief gesture in the air as if he were giving a turn to an invisible screw. He attempts a smile too.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  And then he looks at the doctor and gives him a knowing nod. Andrés Miranda just stares at him, perplexed, still waiting.

  “It’s been a long time, eh?” Durán adds, after a pause.

  Andrés is growing more bewildered by the minute. Durán finds this attitude rather intimidating. Or so it would seem. He was apparently expecting something else, some other reaction. He had probably imagined this meeting quite differently.

  “If you say so.”

  Ernesto Durán nods more energetically this time, like someone obliged to get to the point and to stop beating about the bush. He clears his throat, then looks straight into Andrés’s eyes:

  “The illness, doctor,” he says gravely. “It’s killing me.”

  Andrés feels that something inside him is deflating. He suddenly has no idea what he’s doing here with this man he doesn’t know. There must be some mistake, some terrible mistake, this morning, in the middle of a hospital corridor, some ghastly error, some absurd misunderstanding. Andrés looks behind him, looks around, instinctively repeating the gestures of someone who feels he has been mistaken for someone else.

  “I’m serious . . .”

  Serious? He’s serious. The illness is killing him. For a moment, Andrés considers brushing him off with a curt response, for example: “Well, it’s the same for us all, isn’t it?” Yes, he could say something like that, then just turn and leave. He could also slap him on the back and cheer him up a little: “Don’t be so solemn about it, it’s not so bad. That’s why we live, in order to get ill.” He would accompany him a little way down the corridor and then escape to his office. Another possibility would be to talk to him about his father. To show him the latest test results. To say to this stranger what he finds so hard to say to his own father. To tell him that he’s terrified. That he doesn’t know how to get through the next moment. That he can’t imagine himself alone, so alone, when Javier Miranda is no longer Javier Miranda, when he no longer exists. The illness is killing us.

  “I’m sorry,” he says at last, trying to control his voice as he speaks. “I think there’s been some mistake. I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

  The man then moves his head twice from side to side, as if he had water in his ears.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Andrés?” he asks suddenly, looking at him hard and addressing him by his first name.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve even met.”

  “I’m Ernesto Durán.”

  Andrés Miranda moistens his lips with his tongue. For a few seconds, he seems to be thinking hard. Ernesto follows with his eyes that imaginary journey, that invisible search.

  “I’m sorry,” Andrés says again after a pause.

  Then he makes a gesture intended to bring the conversation to a close.

  “Wait.” Ernesto stops him. He squeezes his arm hard. “The letters.”

  “What letters?” Andrés asks in bewilderment.

  “The e-mails we’ve written to each other.”

  “I’m sorry, but now I know you’re mistaken.”

  “But . . .”

  “I don’t use e-mail. I don’t think I’ve ever replied to an e-mail in my life. You’re mistaking me for someone else. If you look in the directory, you’ll see that there’s a gastroenterologist who has a surname similar to mine, perhaps that’s what happened.”

  And before Ernesto can say or do anything else, Andrés has walked off, hurriedly, without turning around, without even saying goodbye, as if the meeting had been a slip, a blunder, to be dismissed with cordial excuses, in the middle of a hospital corridor.

  When Mariana sees the three drops of blood on the floor, she realizes the moment has come. She’s known for days now that this is a symptom that could appear at any time. It’s not a symptom but the symptom, the one they’ve all been expecting. She immediately regrets that it should have happened on a Wednesday, at four in the afternoon, when her father-in-law has come to spend a few hours with his grandchildren in their apartment. Andrés has gone out. Relations between them grow sourer every day; he’s permanently in the blackest of moods, which Mariana can understand, but she simply can’t bear it anymore. She, too, wishes it would just end once and for all.

  The three drops form a little triangle on the floor. Mariana looks at them and then goes in search of more drops, until she finds a longer trail, a path.

  “Javier!” she calls.

  She goes along the corridor toward the room where the children are slaughtering small galactic monsters on the TV screen.

  “Children!” she shouts. “Is Grandpa with you?”

  She walks on, her head bent lower to the floor. She bumps into a small table. Something falls off.

  “Javier! Children!”

  Finally, ashen-faced, she reaches the room: the volume on the TV is deafening. Her children are alone. Without asking or saying anything, Mariana immediately turns and hurries to the bathroom, where she knocks twice on the door.

  “Grandpa!” she says, still trying to appear calm.

  No answer. She sighs, hesitates, looks at the floor. Another blood stain. She doesn’t knock this time, she grips the handle and pushes. T
he door won’t open. It bumps against the unconscious body of Javier Miranda. Mariana pushes harder, crying now and desperate. One of her children says something to her as he comes down the corridor.

  “Don’t come near. Go away!”

  The boy freezes. Mariana tries to slip a hand through the crack and push her father-in-law’s body out of the way.

  “Phone your dad!” screams Mariana. “Phone your dad! Now!”

  Andrés has turned off his cell phone and, still undecided, is once more standing outside Inés Pacheco’s apartment. Overwhelmed as he is by a sense of powerlessness, he feels that perhaps this is something he can do for his father: although he does not know her, this woman is his father’s other love, the one other experience of love that’s left to him. Why isn’t she with him now of all times? Why isn’t she there for him? Why will neither of them talk to him? Andrés thinks that perhaps this is a gift he could give his father: a visit from Inés Pacheco. But all he has is that vague presentiment. He rings the bell.

  After a matter of moments, he again hears that shadowy whisper and then the door opens. It’s her. However, this time, when she sees him, she immediately tenses up. She looks uncomfortable and stares at him with a kind of impotent melancholy.

  “Why have you come back?” she asks.

  “Forgive me,” Andrés says, feeling nervous and awkward. “May I come in?”

  “No,” says the woman, glancing behind her and leaning against the doorframe.

  “It’s important.”

  Andrés looks at her almost pleadingly. Her discomfort grows. But she says nothing.

  “He’s very ill,” Andrés explains. “My father is dying.”

  The woman takes in a great gulp of air, lowers her head, and when she raises it again, her eyes are bright with tears.

  “Did you know?”

  She doesn’t answer. She just gazes at him in utter desperation. Andrés doesn’t know how to contain his own anxiety. He wishes he could simply spirit her away. Then, just when she seems about to say something, a voice comes from inside.

  “Inés.”

  A tall, gray-haired man appears; he’s rather frail-looking, but has a pleasant, kindly face.

  “Who is it?” he asks, joining them at the door.

  “This young man is looking for . . .” Inés stops, uncertain how to continue. “He’s looking for someone.” Then she, with a particularly emphatic gesture, explains: “This is my husband.”

  The man remains at her side, studying Andrés with curious eyes. He smiles politely.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Oh, no one,” stammers Andrés. “I was given the wrong information. I’m so sorry. But thank you, thank you very much,” he says.

  “That’s alright.”

  The door closes almost noiselessly. The voices of the man and the woman linger on the other side. The man asks something. The woman answers. Then all is silence.

  When Andrés turns on his cell phone again, all he hears is a howl. The ambulance siren is already opening up a wound of sound in the late afternoon.

  Dear Ernesto,

  How can I begin to explain everything that I have to explain to you now? Where to begin? I had better begin with my name: Karina Sánchez. I’m Dr. Andrés Miranda’s secretary. I don’t know if you remember me, we’ve met occasionally at the consulting room, and we’ve spoken on the phone as well. We only ever talked about appointments, as part of my work, nothing else. And yet, although you may not believe it, we know each other far better than that, we have had much closer dealings.

  Let me explain: among the tasks Dr. Miranda assigned to me is that of dealing with any correspondence sent to his e-mail address, which he uses to receive social invitations, promotional material from pharmaceutical companies, and as a place to divert messages from certain patients, patients like you. Forgive my frankness, but when I decided to write to you this morning, I was determined to be completely honest with you, to tell you the whole truth, whatever the cost to myself.

  Your first letter came to this address. I read it, told the doctor about it and he gave me instructions not to reply. When the second letter arrived, I said nothing. I assumed that the order he had given still held, no matter how many e-mails you sent. However, when I read your e-mail saying that you were following the doctor, I felt frightened. It seemed to me that things were getting serious, even dangerous. That was when, on the bad advice of a friend, I decided to reply to your letters myself.

  Now in the midst of your surprise and indignation, you may find it hard to understand why I did that. I ask myself the same question all the time. At first, I thought it would be an innocent, amusing game, but gradually came to realize that I was wrong. You may not believe me, but I swear that it was you and what you said, the sincerity with which you wrote, that revealed to me the monstrous nature of what I was doing. I know my actions are unforgivable, because I now feel that what I did wasn’t just an error, it was a crime. I stole the doctor’s identity, I passed myself off as him, and, worst of all, I deceived you, I used and abused your privacy without your permission.

  I can assure you that I will quite understand if, from now on, you hate and despise me. It will be painful to me, but I know that you would be absolutely within your rights to do so and I will try to accept it. I have no excuses.

  I must confess one other thing. You changed my life, Señor Durán. I now understand perfectly what you feel, I know what it is to feel as you do, to experience those same symptoms. In some way you infected me. You and your words. And so, when you stopped writing, I began to grow anxious, to feel worse and worse. I’m not saying this to flatter you or to excuse my errors. I’m saying it because it’s true.

  In the hope that this finds you well and that you will, one day, feel able to forgive me, I remain,

  Yours sincerely,

  Karina Sánchez

  He’s in room 508. The emergency room treated him and cleaned him up, but decided there was no point in sending him to intensive care. There wasn’t much more they could do. He was weak and in terrible pain. They’ve put him on a saline drip. They’re keeping an eye on his blood pressure and his pulse. He’s been given morphine.

  Mariana is outside in the corridor with the kids. Andrés has just arrived. He goes over to the bed and looks at his father. He’s rapidly becoming just a bony structure, as if his skin were also slowly bidding farewell and clinging to the bone; as if the clear outline of the skeleton were rising to the surface. Andrés bends over and kisses him on the forehead. His father opens his eyes. They look at each other and exchange sadly knowing smiles: there’s no need for any fuss, they both know perfectly well what’s happening.

  “What a shame I was at your apartment,” murmurs Javier. “I hope the kids weren’t upset.”

  “Don’t worry. If it had been at your place, you would have been all alone.”

  Javier Miranda thinks about this for a second. He tries to speak, but it’s very hard. Everything is getting harder and harder, everything is an effort.

  “You shouldn’t have let Merny take all that time off to go to Mérida.”

  “It was a deal we made,” he murmurs.

  Andrés nods. His father closes his eyes again. He’s breathing with difficulty. Andrés looks for something to do: he checks the flow of saline solution, checks the information on the medical records left on the bedside table. None of those facts and figures mean much now. Every patient writes his own history. The stories told by illnesses each follow a different order, a different rhythm. They never repeat themselves, even though all have the same ending.

  Andrés goes back to his father’s side. He takes his pulse, places his other hand on his forehead. The cold is edging nearer. Andrés wishes he could lie down beside him as he had before, embrace him and weep. His father again tries to say something, but can’t; he opens his mouth, clears his throat, attempts a sound and can manage only silence; his tongue is dry; the words he can no longer speak, that he no longer has, hurt him.


  “Don’t try to speak,” Andrés says. “Don’t say anything.”

  He feels tears burning beneath his eyelids. They sting. He doesn’t know what to do. He once more places his hand on his father’s forehead. Suddenly they look at each other. Andrés sees that his father is quietly crying too. He kisses him again and squeezes his hand.

  “Everything changed,” Andrés sobs. “Ever since I told you that you were ill. Ever since we knew.”

  His father shakes his head, as if to stop him speaking. Andrés won’t be silenced.

  “No, it’s true, we both changed. We didn’t know how to handle it. We got angry, it freaked us out . . . We should have talked more—I don’t know—tried to have a better time together.”

  His father looks at him and smiles fondly. He swallows hard and makes as if to touch his son’s face, but that feeble gesture quickly fades. Andrés wipes the tears from his father’s cheek.

  “This isn’t something you can rehearse for,” his father murmurs, jokingly, as if trying to make light of the situation. “No one told us it would be like this.”

  Three floors up, in the office, Karina is still phoning relatives and friends, as Mariana had asked her to do. Call the people closest to him and explain the situation. The inevitable has happened. She has done this, feeling rather awkward and nervous. She doesn’t quite know how to explain. What can she say? That the inevitable has happened and they should come quickly because his life is nearly at an end? Just as she’s about to make another call, a little icon appears on her screen: a new e-mail has arrived in her inbox. She immediately puts the phone down and turns to the computer. She feels even more excited when she sees the name of the sender: Ernesto Durán.