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 …
Lito
Mum calls again. I guess she’s missing us a lot. We’ve spoken three times today already. When we got up. When we stopped for lunch at Santa María de la Reina. And now we’re arriving at Salto Grande with the delivery. I miss her as well. But not when she asks me. Funny, that.
Oh my angel, Mum says, no, nothing, are you all right?, are you having a good time?, are you eating some fruit?, what about dad?, hasn’t he driven enough for today?, why doesn’t he take a nap?, how much further is it?, is the weather still nice?, do you know how much I love you, honey?, do you?
Mum makes noises like she’s blowing her nose. Ma, I say, are you crying?
Me? she answers laughing, no, son, what makes you think that!, it’s just a silly cold, all this air-conditioning!, well, no, nothing, I was just calling to, I saw the time and thought, bah, you’d be there already, where’s the delivery again?, in Santa María de la?, wait, no, that was at noon, well, I just wanted, how about salads? (yes, almost every day, I lie), well, all right, but it should be every day, okay? (of course, Mum, I answer), anyway, when you eat hamburgers and things like that at night you don’t sleep so well, they’re very hard to digest, do you understand, my love?, that’s why, do you know what the best thing would be?, if you ordered at most (we overtake a black VW and return to our lane, the VW accelerates, overtakes us, and pulls back in front of Pedro, Dad swears under his breath, brakes and puts the indicator on again to overtake), is something wrong, angel?, what’s wrong? (nothing, Mum, nothing, I say), are you sure, honey? (I swear, I answer), well, as I was saying, I don’t want to be a pain, really I don’t, but I’d prefer it if for dessert you (we overtake the black Volkswagen again, and this time Dad stays in the other lane and accelerates, he accelerates a lot, until the Volkswagen grows small in the mirror and disappears, wow!, awesome!, Pedro’s super fast even though he’s big!, and suddenly the clouds start moving, they’re going away, it must be because we’re driving much faster now), sounds good, my love?, do you promise? (I promise, Mum, I say, I love you tons).
Mum asks me to pass her over to Dad. He slows down and takes the phone. He’s holding the wheel with one hand. I don’t understand why he never plugs the phone into Pedro’s speaker. That’s what Uncle Juanjo does. Why do Mum and Dad really like doing the things they tell me people shouldn’t do? Dad only says, yes, no, well, aha, I see, later. It’s hard to tell what they’re talking about. I hope they’re not fighting.
I straighten my cap in the mirror. It’s a bit big for my head. But it looks awesome. The magician said I’d changed. And it’s true with the cap on I look different. More like I’m ten or more. Maybe that was the trick. One thing’s for sure. This cap is special. I wish I could’ve asked the magician where he got it. It’s a lot like the one Stallone wears in, what’s that movie called? The one on TV at the motel the other day? In that movie Stallone is a trucker like Uncle Juanjo. Well, not like Uncle Juanjo. Driving a truck is much more exciting in the movie. In real life it’s okay. But sometimes you get bored. Or your back hurts. Stallone’s back never hurt. Of course he trains all the time. And his back muscles are super strong. In the movie he stops to arm wrestle fat guys with moustaches. And he beats all of them. That’s what I like about Stallone. He always beats bigger and taller guys. And he teaches his son. At first you think he’s a sissy. But in the end he learns. I wish I had a Dad like that. I mean, my Dad’s awesome. But I wish he’d teach me how to arm wrestle the jerks at school. I don’t think he can now. He gets more tired because of the virus. Stallone doesn’t get ill. But Dad still has loads of str
ength. Totally. I tried to lift his backpack yesterday. Oof. No way.
I imagine we’re in the school gym. I’m arm wrestling the jerks and I’m wearing my cap. I twist their arms. Lift them up in the air. I make them look ridiculous. Lying on the floor. Crying like wimps. And my friends all clap like crazy. I try to imagine it and I can’t. The images go all fuzzy. My mind goes blank in the middle of the arm wrestle. Or else suddenly I see they’re winning and they’re bending my arm back and making fun of me. This image is really clear. Them making fun of me. Kicking me. Spitting at me. Then I imagine something else. I imagine a huge truck honking its horn loud. It smashes through the school fence. Destroys the gym. Drives over everybody. Squashing their heads. One by one. Crack. Crack. Crack. And I feel better. And I look in the mirror. Hey, says Dad, aren’t you going to take off that horrible cap?
The delivery takes forever. I thought when we got there, we unloaded and that was it. The guy Dad knows isn’t at the warehouse. It’s a different guy. And he complains about how late we are. Dad raises his voice. The other guy threatens to make him come back tomorrow. And to send a complaint or something. Dad gets furious. He looks like he might hit the guy even. I’d love that. Then he calms down. He tells me to wait in the truck. And he gets out. I wait for a bit. Dad takes ages. This bit of the warehouse is dark. I can hardly see anything from up here. Just piles and piles of crates wrapped in plastic. I look for the phone to play mini-golf. Too bad. I think Dad’s taken it. Oof. I’m bored. I press the horn. Two workmen look at me from a freight lift. They keep going up. And they disappear. The freight lift sounds like a normal lift. It makes more noise when it goes up than when it comes down. The workmen go down again. After that, I don’t know. Suddenly I hear the truck door. I open my eyes. I see Dad arranging some papers. I stretch my arms. Everything okay? I ask. Bah, he sighs, money talks.
It’s getting late. We drive past industrial units. We can see Salto Grande in the distance. Sometimes we pass other trucks. We say hello turning Pedro’s headlights on and off. There’s a ton of machinery. Cranes. Bulldozers. Diggers. Just like the ones on TV only dirtier. We stop at a traffic light. I can see a crane hook inside the sun. It’s like a claw on a sticker. If they lower the crane it’ll get dark all of a sudden. Dad’s phone rings. He doesn’t answer. We speed up.
We circle the outskirts of the town. Dad asks me if we should look for a motel or start driving home. What if we go in for a bit? I say. In where? he asks, the town? Best not, son, there are too many hills. So what? I say. So nothing, he answers, I’m a bit tired that’s all. But it’s right in front of us! I complain, what if I never come back? Dad stays silent. He stares at the road. He blows air through his nose. He crinkles his face. I think he’s going to say yes.
It was time we got out of that cab! The town is awesome. White. Totally white. With tons of shadows. Full of tiny streets and steps. It’s like a maze in 3-D. Sometimes you don’t know if you’re going up or down. Dad’s lazy today. He doesn’t want to lose another race so he suggests we play the step game. These are the rules. When we pass some steps I have to guess how many there are. Run and count them as quickly as I can. And come back and tell Dad exactly how many. If I’m right to within ten steps I get a point. If not, he gets a point. The first to get ten points wins. It must be really cool living here. I run. Count steps. Go up. Come down. I’ve already got seven points. It’s not so easy. Sometimes I cheat. Not much. Just a bit. I leave out two or three steps. Never more. The walls are very pretty, they turn red. Orange. Pink. It’s quite windy now. Dad calls me from the bottom of the steps. I can’t hear him properly. I go up, and down. I run, I count. I try not to trip over. I’ve got nine points so far.
We sit down at some plastic tables. There are old people and kids with dogs in the square. I’m pouring with sweat but super happy. Dad coughs. I order a Coke with a slice of lemon. He asks for a bottle of mineral water. And he takes an allergy pill. I drink my Coke in one go. I ask Dad if I can order another. I’m sure he’ll say no. He doesn’t like me having too many fizzy drinks. But this time he says yes. Mum would be angry. Dad keeps coughing. He tells me the air in Salto Grande is full of pollen. I tip my glass. The ice cubes bounce off my nose. I imagine I’m a spaceship and they’re meteorites crashing into me. Is there ice in space? Or is space made of ice? I saw a documentary about glaciers the other day. But if so, then how do spaceships fly? Or maybe they drill through space as they fly? My tummy is full of bubbles. My tummy could do with a drill. I burp and laugh. I ask if we’re leaving yet. Dad says he prefers to stay here a bit longer. I fold my arms. I’m starting to feel bored. I look around. I see a poster with the Internet sign. I ask if I can go. Dad can’t see the poster I’m pointing to very well. He looks at all the people around us. He hesitates. He tells me on no account to go off anywhere else. He’ll be watching the door. And he gives me a few coins. Cool! He’s soft today.
I go into my e-mail. There’s a message from Mum in the inbox. Another from Edu with photos. And a ton of spam. I delete the spam and read the messages. I reply to Mum. I look for Edu in chat. He’s not there. I look for Pablo. For Rafa and Josema. They’re not there either. I guess they’re all on holiday. I think of trying to find Marina. I like Marina. And she’s almost got tits. She loves writing in chat. She says our classmates are all stupid and don’t even know how to say hello properly. I should practise first. I’ll try another day. I sign out of e-mail. I start listening to stuff on YouTube. The sound sucks. I get up and ask for some headphones. They tell me they’re all in use. I sit down again. What do I do now? Suddenly I remember the movie. What was it called? I type: stallone + truck. It comes up almost straight away. I find out something totally weird. In some countries it’s called Falcon. In others I am the Falcon. And in English it’s called Over the Top. Not that I know much English. But top definitely isn’t falcon. And over isn’t either. What have falcons to do with trucks? Maybe Stallone transported birds in his truck. I don’t think so. Actually you never know what he transports. The only thing he takes with him is his cap. And his sissy of a son. I go into Google Translate. I type: ober the, no, over the top. Two results. Sobre la tapa and por encima. The truth is the English title doesn’t make much sense either. Even though I’ve seen it several times. Who decides what movies are called?
Polyglot lizard, I hear as someone pulls my cap over my eyes, time to go? I push my cap up. I turn round. I ask Dad: What’s a polyglot? He gives me a kiss and says: Search.
Elena
The 15th at 19.50h.
The 15th, 7:50 p.m.
The fifteenth at ten to eight.
Do these numbers mean anything?
Do I understand what has happened if I say “the 15th” or “19.50h”? Was reality different at 19.49h? Did the world change during that minute? Why do I reread these figures over and over, I read “the 15th”, I read “19.50h” and I still don’t understand what they mean?
I was going to write, but didn’t.
No desire to read.
Not today either.
It happened like this.
I had just had a shower. I was dressing to go to spend the night at the hospital, when the phone rang. It was Juanjo. He spoke quickly or I understood slowly. The monitor. The serum. The oxygen. The two nurses who had just come in. He couldn’t get his words out. He was having great difficulty breathing.
I hung up. I’ll never be able to forgive myself for the first thing that entered my head.
I thought about finishing drying my hair.
My hair. My head.
I ordered a cab. It didn’t come. I didn’t wait. I walked out of the house. I crossed in the wrong place. I thrust myself between a lady and a cab for hire. The lady ticked me off. I took umbrage. I muttered something about artificial respiration. I climbed into the car. It drove off. There was traffic everywhere. We were going slowly. Sometimes no faster than the pedestrians. I saw the numbers changing on the taximeter. Suddenly I got out. I got out of the car and I ran. My phone ra
ng. I nearly passed out. I answered terrified. It wasn’t Juanjo. It was the cab company. They wanted to know where I was. The driver had been waiting for me for some time outside my house. I yelled at the woman from the cab company. I kept yelling at her as I ran. I poured abuse on her. People stared at me. The woman hung up. I kept running. I was dripping with sweat. My legs were stinging. My entire body was throbbing. A mix of burning and cold rose up my throat. I thought I was about to spit out a lump of something. Something that rattled. As I ran I thought about Mario. At last. Completely. Only about him. His mouth. His nose. His breath. His breathing. I tried to help him. I tried to breathe with him. I choked. We choked. I imagined my mouth on his mouth. My lungs and his. I imagined I was blowing. Blowing hard enough to raise him off the bed, to propel me to the hospital.
In the end I arrived in time.
We never arrive in time.
That is what happened on the day of the fifteenth before ten to eight. The night was worse.
Someone had to call the funeral home to buy the coffin. And the newspapers to dictate the death notice. Two simple, inconceivable tasks. So intimate, so remote. Buying the coffin and dictating the death notice. No one teaches you these things. How to get sick, care for, declare terminally ill, say goodbye, hold a wake, bury, cremate. I wonder what the hell they do teach us.
Talking to Ourselves: A Novel Page 8