From here, as soon as I open my eyes, I see the sky, as if I were in a plane, a very slow-moving plane, and you know what it looks like?, the dawn, I mean?, an insult, that’s what it looks like to me, when I was young I was a night owl, I liked doing things while everyone was asleep, I felt untouchable, as you get older you become a lark, you start to worry about being late for things, night owls think they’re stealing a march on everything, but the moment they wake up they’re already running late, since I got sick I don’t like the morning so much, it’s, I don’t know, too loaded with expectations, and the silence of the night scares me, I prefer the afternoon now, it’s less demanding, so I’m watching the sun go down, and I start to wonder, you see, where, where the hell does beauty come from?, not from things, that’s for sure, I look at the tea tray, for instance, a grey plastic tray, slightly battered, with that curved edge things that are made to be stacked have, covered in scratches from cutlery, the knife marks, one next to the other, remind me of an electrocardiogram, the clusters of dots from the forks, close up, are like dice pips, and suddenly this tray turns into a thi—hold on, someone’s knocking on the door.
At least this time they knocked, she must be a student nurse, the older ones burst in, as if this were their room, recently I’ve been eating more, I had lost a lot of weight, you saw me, I took some appetite stimulants with me on the trip, they sort of worked, it’s hard to trust food when you keep throwing up, you start to see it as something completely alien to your organism, I don’t know, some kind of invasive substance, I took the appetite stimulants and some other pills with me, none of them to cure me, all to make me feel less, that’s the weird thing about drugs, the ones that supposedly cure you destroy you on the inside, and the ones that supposedly aren’t a cure make you feel like a person again, does that mean you have to stop feeling like a person in order to get better?, maybe that’s why for so many of us it doesn’t work, because we won’t let the poison in completely.
The day of the race at the petrol station I’d been feeling sick all day, I couldn’t catch my breath, it happens sometimes, I don’t know what the hell it depends on, the heat, the humidity, being tired, I’ve no idea, and you can run faster and faster, you train for everything, bullheaded hare, it’s like you had a pair of wheels in your backside, you take after your granddad a little in that way, he always used to say that it was fine to go down fighting, and, just to annoy him, I’d say: what about fighting to lose?, you were determined to beat me, weren’t you, your legs are getting long, and you know the worst thing?, the most shameful thing?, when I saw you were pulling away from me I started to run for real, it upset me for a moment that you were going to win, then I realized I couldn’t do it and I slowed down, I shut myself in the toilet, I waited in there for a while until I got my breath back, when I would insist on stopping for you to take a leak, for instance—no, it’s nothing, hi, it’s nothing.
Last night I watched a movie with your mum, she brought her laptop, good idea, a wonderful comedy with Katharine Hepburn, have you heard of her?, I mean, do people still know who Ms. Hepburn was?, the movie didn’t seem dated, it’s still hilarious and, how was it?, as wicked as intelligence itself, that’s what your mother said last night, so don’t give me the credit, I get distracted when I read, I think about a hundred and one other things, maybe that says something for books, I don’t know, but it doesn’t happen to me with movies, when I’m enjoying a movie, it’s as though I disappear, if you follow me, at first I thought it was a bit frivolous of me, I mean, in my state, to laugh out loud like that, but I soon let myself go, and it worked better than any drug, it was a kind of, which reminds me, my pill.
Actually, well, there was another reason to enjoy the movie, being there, next to your mum, without talking, because what could we say to each other?, laughing at the same gags, the two of us just there, alive, knowing we love each other, and that we’ve hurt one another, that’s the power of movies, right?, you are moved at the same time as others, you can share books as well, of course, that’s what your mother always tells me, but we enjoy them separately, not together, maybe books are for people on their own, I’m going to leave your mum on her own, whenever we both laughed she’d squeeze my hand.
Do you remember sometimes when she called us, there wasn’t much coverage, we told her we’d call her at the next stop, and then we’d forget, and the poor woman kept calling, sick with worry, and I handed you the phone so she’d be less angry, sitting in the truck is like watching a really long movie, right?, your mum got upset, I think, she ended up not always answering her phone, I could tell she was tense, I kept saying we were fine, I don’t know whether she believed me, I had a few dizzy spells, the worst one was on the way there, in Tucumancha, I was even scared I’d let go of the wheel, the road was full of bends, I hadn’t driven that much in years, it was early on in the journey, and I was still telling myself: I can do it, I can do it, I must be able to do it, like you with the weather, right?, we’re both bullheaded, you and I, dizzier and dizzier, and there was nowhere to stop on that stretch of road, and that’s when I got really worried, that’s when I thought your mother was right and the trip had been a crazy idea, and I remembered Uncle Juanjo, who’d suggested I get some practice before setting off, and I remembered your granddad, who did exercises every morning for half an hour, and all of a sudden I thought I was an irresponsible father, I think this was what made me feel the dizziest.
And what about the fan?, the one you said was going to unscrew itself from the ceiling and slice our heads off?, we stopped there because I was lost, son, what a disaster, I turned back three or four times, I couldn’t even understand the instructions on the GPS, the roads weren’t right, they’d changed, I didn’t feel good that day either, it’s strange, for the most part I felt worse on the way there than on the way back, that night what I needed was a comfortable bed, bah, a bed in any case, what a crappy mattress, right?, but what I think about most now, what I most remember, is when we slept next to each other in the truck, on our sides, pretty uncomfortably, and I clasped your chest, I could feel you breathe and I didn’t sleep a wink, I stayed awake all night, euphoric, listening to every sound …
Lito
All the houses in Comala de la Vega are low and the aerials are crooked. I bet whenever it’s windy the TVs change channel. Dad said we had to stop. I didn’t want to take a leak. I think this changed the weather a bit. It looked like rain. And in the end there wasn’t a single drop.
Dad has invented a game. Each time we come to a town I have to guess how many people live there. If I get it more or less right I’m allowed to order another dessert instead of a salad. The day before yesterday I got two towns right and three wrong. Yesterday I got four right and two wrong. So far today is a draw at two all. I don’t think anybody lives in Comala de la Vega. The streets are empty. The only thing moving is Pedro. All the cars look really old. Like they’ve been there for a thousand years. If the traffic lights went off nothing would happen. Who turns the traffic lights on and off? I have to ask Dad, who has just called Mum. I don’t like the way he gets all serious when he talks to her. I’m worried they’re talking about me. We leave Pedro under some trees so he doesn’t get hot. Dad’s still on the phone. The only thing he says is yes yes, no no, I know I know.
We go into a café called La Plata. Amazing. There’s someone in there. Three people. A lady sweeping the floor. A man selling lottery tickets. And the waiter. Dad orders two coffees with milk and goes to the toilet. I follow him. There are a ton of smells in the toilet. The walls have got writing all over them. Most of the words I don’t even understand. They’d fail handwriting at my school. One sentence says: Live and let die. It doesn’t make sense. There are also drawings of willies and boobs. They do make sense. Big willies and round boobs. Suddenly I hear noises coming from the other cubicles. I don’t know if it’s someone groaning or the pipes. I stay quiet for a bit. Nothing. I call out to Dad. There’s no answer. I’m not afraid or anything. But just in
case I run out. Without washing my hands.
Dad is talking to the waiter. When they see me come out they go quiet. I take a sip of coffee. It tastes like mud. The lady sweeping the floor goes past and says to me: Ah, what a cute young man. Dad says: You’re so right, señora. The lottery guy asks: Sure you don’t want a ticket, sir? Dad says: I’d lose. The man says: You never know, sir. Dad asks: How much do I owe you, boss? The lady answers: The young man’s is on the house. Dad looks at me: Aren’t you going to say thank you, Lito? I say: Thanks a lot, señora. The lady shouts: Ah, what a little angel. I leave half my coffee.
By the café’s door there’s a showcase full of watches. Big ones. Gold. With hands. And the day of the week and the date. And a special button for the light. They’re all Lewis Valentinos. They have to be good. I stay looking at the watches. I’ve never had one. Of course I was only nine before. Suddenly Dad’s arm appears. We go outside. It’s a bit cooler now. Dad, I say, what kind of watch do you have? I don’t wear one anymore, son, he tells me. Yes, I say, but when you did. I don’t remember, he says, your mother always gave them to me as presents. And did you ever have a Lewis Valentino? I insist. I don’t know that brand, he says, messing up my fringe. They’re awesome, I explain.
Dad gives me a stick of gum. Raspberry flavoured. I chew it really slowly. With my back teeth. So all the juice comes out. I bought them at the café, says Dad, they had other ones that (on the hillsides I can see a, what do you call it? a herd? a flock? of wind turbines. Over there. So tall. So silent. Actually I don’t know if they’re silent, because they’re miles away. Wind turbines are always miles away. Maybe because actually they’re really noisy. Like aeroplane propellers. I bet if they were pulled out of the ground they’d float. Or do you need two propellers to float?, is that why planes always have two wings?, or are there planes with only one wing? I imagine the wind turbines taking off from the hills and bits dropping off them, like those little white plants when you blow on them, they), huh, Lito, do you want it or not? What? I say, as I stop looking out of the window. The packet, son, the packet, Dad sighs. Oh, thanks, I tell him. I love raspberry gum. Hey, I say, I know how many people live in Comala de la Vega. Go on? Dad says. Three, I tell him. He smiles. Then he looks at the map and writes something down. Well, Dad says, I think we’re going to get there a bit late tonight.
There’s no gum left. I don’t get Dad. Sometimes when I’m not hungry we stop to eat. Other times my stomach makes louder noises than Pedro’s engine and we just keep going. Gum always cheats you. Just when you’re happily chewing, it runs out. All you’re left with is a lump of plastic in your mouth. An eraser. A journey is the opposite of a stick of gum. At first you don’t expect anything. And you always find something.
Mum writes on Dad’s phone:
How are things with you, treasure? Are you happy? Mum made a chocolate cake while you were away, I’m practising for when you get back! Is your Daddy driving a lot? Please make sure he rests. I love you, darling.
I reply:
Hi M Im fine all dy on rd hpe Pdro rsts @ nite! do u no wot brnd D’s wtchs wre pls kp me choc mch xxx msu
Dad looks at me out of the corner of his eye while I text. Why don’t you call her instead? he asks, she prefers to hear your voice. I know, I explain, but the battery’s low. And I haven’t played golf yet. Golf? Dad says. America or Europe? I ask. What? he says, surprised. Just tell me which you prefer, I insist, America or Europe? Oh, Lito, Dad answers, how should I know? Europe? Okay, Europe, I say selecting the championship.
In Región there’s this weird wind blowing. It goes then comes back. Like a boomerang. It pushes you from behind. Goes on for a few yards. Then it blows dust in your face. Is the wind here always like this? I ask, rubbing my eyes. Always, Dad answers, except when it takes an afternoon nap. I can see the wind pushes Dad even harder from the front. He walks slowly taking small steps. We cross the road to the opposite building. There’s a fat guy with a shaven head in the doorway. He’s wearing shades though it’s already dark. He’s dressed in a black suit, a striped T-shirt and sandals. He has huge arms and a really small head. Dad whispers in his ear. He puts something in his jacket pocket. The fat guy nods his head slightly. I bet if he nods any harder, it’ll roll off like a bowling ball.
A girl with a shell necklace and green lipstick greets us. No. It can’t be green. Or can it? The lights are fluorescent! The girl sees me hiding behind Dad and smiles. She has blue teeth. In reception there are mirrors broken on purpose. And plastic flowers in ice-cream glasses. The girl asks us not to open the blinds in the room because they’re stuck. Besides, she winks, with this wind it’s best you don’t even try. After she winks, her top eyelashes come off and get tangled in her bottom eyelashes. I want to tell her but I’m too shy. Dad whispers in my ear: Gorilla from Manila, there’s good news and bad. The good news is they have Internet. The bad news is it isn’t working.
We go upstairs to put our things in our room. The carpet smells of cigarettes. It has holes bigger than my feet. You could play mini-golf on it. Lito, Dad says, looking at the carpet, whatever you do, don’t walk around barefoot. And when you go to bed, take the quilt off first, do you hear? I spot two white towels on a chair. Well, more or less white. I sniff them. Luckily they smell of soap. I open the bathroom door. There are only wire hangers and a safe. What a weird room. Dad goes into the hallway. I hear him talking to himself. This is impossible! he mutters, I told that bitch we wanted en suite! The word bitch always makes me giggle. I like it when Dad says it. It doesn’t sound the same when my friends and I say it. Dad comes back in. He picks up the towels. He says to me: At least there’s hot water in the shower. Bring your clothes, son. And please do as I say, and don’t touch anything, okay?
In the bar I gobble down two cheeseburgers. A plate of chips with tons of hot sauce. And a scoop of ice cream covered in syrup. Dad only eats half his. He says he wants to lose some more weight. He takes an aspirin with a glass of water. Before he got the virus he used to eat loads. And he loved going to restaurants. What? I laugh, my mouth full of ice cream, so you didn’t like your big fat belly? What about you, skinny chops? he teases, are you sure you don’t need another hamburger? I don’t know what time it is. I would if I had a Lewis Valentino. I don’t feel like going to bed yet. Travelling is tiring but it wakes me up.
Dad leaves the table. He goes over to the bar. He pays. He is looking at me. Very hard. I think that as soon as I finish my ice cream we’re going to have to go up to the room. Oof. Dad is coming back. He walks up to me. He lifts my head in his hands. And he suggests we stay and have a drink. A drink! Dad and me! In a bar! After dark! I can’t believe it. It’s totally awesome. I get up. I wipe the syrup off my mouth with my sleeve. I stand up very straight. And we walk together to the bar. Dad orders a whisky. I order a Fanta. With lots and lots of ice.
People start arriving. The music is louder. The girl with the green lips begins serving drinks. I look at her eyelashes. She’s fixed them. I wave to her. She pretends not to see me. Even though I’m sitting on a high stool. I clink glasses with Dad. The ice cubes wobble and get smaller. I remember the lifeboats in Titanic. Leonardo DiCaprio freezing to death in the sea with Kate somebody or other. Wil? Wing? Somebody touches my arm.
I turn round. It’s a man in a baseball cap. He looks at Dad. He points outside and says: A good truck, huh boss? Dad nods. Nothing beats a Peterbilt, huh, boss? says the man in the cap. Dad finishes his drink. Are you a trucker? I ask. No, dear boy, the man in the cap smiles, I’m a magician. Really? I say surprised, you do magic tricks? Not tricks, he says, I make reality, magic is real. But do you do magic tricks or not? I insist. Of course, he says, of course. Suddenly Dad looks like he’s in a bad mood. I’m thrilled. I’ve always wanted to know how to do magic tricks. If they are tricks, that is. Let’s see, I say, how do rabbits appear? Rabbits, the magician answers, appear on their own. They don’t need any help. It’s Mother Nature, you get it? And what about people, I ask, how do they get sawe
d in half? Ah, says the magician, taking a sip of his drink, that’s even more interesting. Only people who want to get sawed in half get cut in half. The others don’t. The others use tricks. And how does the trick work? I ask impatiently. Look, look, the magician says, very serious. He picks up a napkin. He folds it in two. He shows it to me. Then he folds it in two again. And he shows it to me again. You see? he says. I look at the napkin. This napkin is many napkins at once. It’s one. Two. Four. It’s the same with people. Dad says: Come along, son, it’s late. Wait, wait, I say, he’s explaining a trick to me. Son, it’s late, insists Dad. The magician looks him in the eye and says: Calm down, calm down. He looks like he’s going to hypnotize him. Dad leaves a banknote on the bar. He takes my hand and leaves without waiting for the change. Boss, the magician calls out. Dad keeps walking. We’re not being polite. One moment, boss, the magician says again. Dad slows down and squeezes my hand hard. I’ve got a present for Lito, the magician says, guessing my name. Don’t trouble yourself, Dad answers for me. I insist, says the magician. And he takes off his cap. And I put it on. The lights bounce off his forehead. Like a Christmas tree. This cap, he explains, transforms you. It’s yours. Don’t forget that.
Talking to Ourselves: A Novel Page 5