Divorce Is in the Air: A Novel (36 page)

“Why didn’t you love her?” I asked.

Rupert hadn’t given his deposed son-in-law a single line in his script, so my reply cracked the scene he’d anticipated and we were left to improvise: two people born in different decades, thousands of kilometers apart, whose trajectories would never have coincided were it not for the fact that men engender daughters in the bodies of women, and other men fall in love with those daughters, and that fluke muddles the expectations of the present into an unknowable future.

I think they came squealing out of the forest: three piggy Zeppelins. They skirted the pool like greased lightning and crossed the terrace toppling chairs in their wake. The pursuing gang of waiters struggled with them on the grass until they finally got the animals tied up. They dragged the pigs away through the pines along a hidden path.

“They’re females. Males are too big to be held down by two people. Smart animals. I owe them a lot.”

I tuned out. I wasn’t there to listen to the melancholic doddering of an old man whose only known skills were driving vans, taking care of Beryl (he of the model planes), and shredding his daughter’s nerves. But
Daddy
kept going.

“One of their species donated tissue for my transplant.”

I’d heard something about that before, how the human heart’s fragile fibers can be propped up by the pig’s tough cells. Of course, in those days, maladies that required surgery sounded like distant music to me. It’s only now that I’ve started to worry about whether the influx of porcine molecules is mutating us into a hybrid race. Or does it seem normal to you that Rupert was walking around with a hog’s ventricle?

“It’s funny that even after being married to her, you don’t see that my daughter is a little…excessive. A girl in love with her problems, which to be honest have never been all that serious. Helen doesn’t let her wounds heal, she doesn’t forget any reason she has to feel offended and lets them build up day after day; you’re always beholden to her. Behind her low self-esteem is a hidden, unspeakable pride, and not much more. I gave her affection, an education, and we never abandoned her, not even when she left behind an unwanted child and took off to gad about on another continent with a man who doesn’t even understand her.”

He said all this in English, not even looking at me. To him I was like an isolated element in a solved equation that no longer offered any intellectual stimulation. It was only as I watched him hobble away that responses, accusations, and reproaches came bubbling up from I don’t know what depths of my mind, accumulating behind my forehead. I could chase him, I could force him to come back and listen to me (I still had strength on my side), but I did none of that; I stayed sitting there quietly, with my English handkerchief and my silk scarf. I raised my hand but no waiter appeared, the light fell in raw columns between cracks in the atmosphere; I cooled off and realized I was sick of arguing. How fast adult life moves: I never saw Helen again, they no longer give me a basket and ball to measure my good fortune, it’s never about winning or losing anymore.

I had three more days ahead of me. I could leave, what was keeping me? But the wasted money hurt. I didn’t want to flee like a rat, I wanted to spend the hours ahead forgetting myself in the wave pool. Rupert’s reprimand had been like a refreshing shower. I missed having someone put me in my place. If not for the dismal prospect of moving to Montana, I would have let Daddy adopt me.

I went to bed early. I fell asleep plowing through foggy torrents of alcohol, wondering if sons are still sons once they’re orphaned, so I was startled when the phone in my room started ringing at four in the morning. It didn’t help that I confused the ringing with the fire alarm; Cataluña is prone to summer wildfires, and we were boxed in a shallow valley, so it’s understandable (and forgivable) that I was relieved when I understood that the cavernous voice was referring to Rupert. “Your father-in-law” was the repeated subject of a riot of predicate nouns: “serious collapse,” “coronary attack,” “muscular paralysis.” I got dressed freestyle without considering colors or fabrics (I went out in mismatched socks, in scuffed shoes), everything reflecting my state of mind, still sticky with sleep, and when I entered room 601 I remembered that, according to the civil laws of the City of Madrid, I was the only relative Rupert had on the peninsula.

The doctor (a gorgeous, ruddy-cheeked rural specimen, with lines on his forehead from rolling up his
barretina
cap) brought me up to speed on the series of heart attacks during the night that had left Rupert disoriented and with just enough strength to call for help. He needed oxygen and saline, and it wasn’t out of the question that the macrophages, overflowing with lipids, fat, and cholesterol, would block another vein. It was best to transport him to the local hospital and start sawing him up (he didn’t use that verb) to unclog the veins, because Dr. Capri didn’t have the resources at the spa—the center’s first aid and medical facility were a bit of a joke. I’m not one of those weirdos who see words in colors, but the doctor’s next sentence flashed golden as it was projected in my imagination:

“I need you to authorize his hospitalization.”

“I need to be alone with him.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“It’ll just be a moment, I only need a moment.”

The Joan-Marc with his health compromised by trail mix and potato chips saturated in corrosive fats would have felt solidarity with that Rupert who was unable to support the weight of his own body: it strikes me, too, that it was a real mistake to make an organ as important as the heart unable to store oxygen for when the need arises, so its demand is continuous. But what I experienced that day, once I was alone with that man into whose nostrils they’d stuck thick tubes like organic tentacles, was an invigorating power, an extra dose of manliness. The strength he’d had during our conversation, not to mention the touch of aggression, had vanished. The bird that watched me from that damp bed was just a scared old man with a rubber tube between his lips, which his tongue and uvula palpated shamelessly.

And don’t get the idea I planned to strangle him. I wouldn’t have had the nerve. All I did was pull the sheet off him; he smelled of dust, wax, and something else. The skin of his feet was hard like a rind, his blood had congealed in several dark spots of livid ink. He had the same hard and spongy calluses as Dad. My next step was to dig around in his suitcase—he tried to stop me from burgling him with some utterly impotent mutterings. Anyway, I had the medical establishment on my side, as well as a long history of abusive legal precedents against the wishes of defenseless patients. I took his wallet, a mobile phone, his pillbox, and an envelope holding three letters. It was a lot like having your rival’s guts in your hands. Then I signed all the papers they put in front of me—as far as I was concerned, they could steal his organs.

In the ambulance I entertained myself by going through Rupert’s phone, which of course wasn’t the kind of pocket computer we haul around with us these days, but it did have a little camera. I looked through the photos and I found his grandson and Helen, shots of the house and of license plates (every man has his photographic perversions). His wife must not have known how to work the thing, because Rupert had also saved photos of a plump and uninhibited blonde a bit older than me, who wore jeans that the word “tight” was a little baggy on. Rupert smiled in front of urban backgrounds (Boston, Seattle, the San Francisco Bay) or landscapes that could be anywhere (cacti, sand, bald patches of earth), and the sequence of little poses culminated in an orthopedic kiss in front of a replica Statue of Liberty. The blurry quality of the pictures lowered those occasions to the category of half-developed memories, ones that have neither dissolved entirely nor been integrated into the series of shining moments that constitute the public profiles of our lives.

They untied him, propped him up in a wheelchair, stuck him in a room. They took off his clothes, shaved him, tied him down again so he wouldn’t be tempted to fall off, and told him that in half an hour they would sedate him. Rupert, though, was only babbling away in fragments of German left over from God knows what remote period of his life.

If you think about what he was going through, Rupert’s gaze was pretty calm. His composure reminded me of my father’s levelheadedness when he was alive (because when he hanged himself his eyes had gone crooked): they both belonged to a generation that didn’t deal with problems by shouting, men constrained by modesty, no chicken feathers on them. I should have hated him, but hate is hard to muster when your enemy is swelling up like a drowned corpse. I’d actually been feeling friendly toward the old coot—call it fellow feeling, or masculine solidarity if you prefer. Maybe Helen’s parents had also intended to fix their relationship with a trip to that resort, give it another shot before heading off to the grave. It must be sad to grow bitter when there’s so little time before they’re spreading your ashes over a field of violets. Daddy had opted for his wife, and he saved the photos only out of pride, or nostalgia, the kind of complacent contradiction you’ll find circulating in the brains of the living.

I was already getting overly solemn when Rupert started emitting that teakettle sound. An invisible force was racking him like he was a cardboard doll, you could almost hear him crunch; Daddy was truly battling death. An aroma of reheated resin and flannel suits wafted in. I dialed Helen’s number but she still didn’t answer, convinced that a Spanish prefix could only portend her Latin rapist. Dad had also been alone when he climbed up onto the stool with the cable (I hadn’t told you that part—he looped half a meter of antenna cable around his neck: copper sheathed in rubber). I called the doctors in and they took him to emergency, on the floor for coronary patients, and somehow we ended up on a ward for the terminally ill. In the room with us were other crustaceans, in whose eyes you could still see a sliver of spirit, the last flash of conscious activity. For years I had silently given thanks (fighting to evade regrets, to dry them out in the sun of new events before they permeated me) that my father had saved me the horror of watching him ebb away slowly in a synthetic bed, perforated like a voodoo doll. In spite of all the hours I’d lived alongside him, not to mention my familiarity with his intestinal rhythms, the ordeal of accompanying him into that unknown would have been too much for me to bear.

I took Rupert’s pulse, and the smell on his arm was Chypre cologne, Dad’s favorite. Of course, I wasn’t fooling myself; the heart has its doubts but there are lessons we must learn: when we come into the world our parents are there to teach us how to live, but then they die before we learn the painful reverse birth by which we leave the earth. I wouldn’t be spared; I was inside death’s magnetic field again. In the light of that emotional impotence, the antagonism between the old horse and the pony, between the father and his son-in-law, was blunted. That I was keeping him company during his final earthly hours as a symbolic payback for having been spared Dad’s sufferings stopped being a crazy idea. It was just a difficult one, the kind we’ve grown used to after so many unforeseen events, coincidences, and randomness.

So it was Dad, using the transitory body of old
Daddy
Rupert (with his flowery Bermudas in the suitcase, his network of dirty veins, and the harshness with which a nurse with absurd hips removed the oxygen mask to brush his teeth), who taught me how life’s dynamics humiliate us, how our cells vanish one after another, how no one leaves this world alive.

I leaned over Rupert’s body and I spoke to Dad. That gaping mouth now could only be a tube whose other end opened onto the Great Beyond. And I told him (though I’ll deny it if ever anyone hints I could think something like this) that when he left that financial mess sandwiched in a file he had behaved like a pig. To love someone is to want them to go on being, and that tawdry suicide made it very clear that he wiped his ass with our love.

“You showed your true colors, Dad!”

Rupert started to gasp. Only it wasn’t Rupert, it was Dad’s shade trying to answer me, to communicate a message, to respond to my words. But the language of the dead is cold and hard to understand, it’s articulated in broken syntax, and I couldn’t decipher what Dad was trying to say to me in that suffocated murmur. The temperature of the deceased, everything they’ve lost, is pitiful, so I buried my reproaches down deep.

I wondered what good could come to Rupert from taking leave of life in the company of a son-in-law who detested him and who didn’t understand a word of his incoherent German, but I had to set aside those charitable thoughts when the third attack began. Since I didn’t know what people die of—how could I know? with so many pig cells, maybe he was growing a snout—I started shouting for the nurses. And while Rupert’s throat was filling with blood, he looked at me and in his two little eyes shone something dense and indefinable: the point of lucidity that struggles against the end. I felt so sorry for him that I hugged him and shouted:

“Rudolf, it’s Beryl, your brother! You won’t die alone!”

I took the road to the resort for the last time, intending to retrieve the luggage. The floor was covered in streamers and confetti, but the old folks must have been off stretching their carcasses or moving their arms in the pool. I challenged some of the minibar charges, knowing full well I wasn’t in the right, and I cast a last look at the water in the pool, a blue hide wrinkled by the same wind that had dispersed the clouds to spread above me an open sky, dumb and maliciously yellow. Four more documents in the separation process and I would have been free of the Thrushes. I turned off toward the farm. The yard around the pigs wasn’t in good shape: the grass curved drily, the ground didn’t give it enough water, a white fuzz was growing on the tree trunks. The greenery over near the road looked hard and contemptuous, but I was moved at the sight of a majestic tree covered in white flowers that defied the season: the buds were so open that the wind swirled them in small eddies as it pulled them off. I was young, and the timid minutes dancing before me would open into spacious years, a wide and shining time in my life that would be fresh and good.