Talking to Ourselves: A Novel (7 page)

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:

I reply:

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 sawed 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.

Before turning off the light, I put the magic cap on again. For God’s sake take that thing off, Dad says from his bed, don’t be stupid. I need to know if it’s true, I say. That guy, he complains, was crazy. We’ll see, I answer, turning off the light.

We wake up late. The first thing I do as soon as I get up is look in the mirror. Very closely. I don’t notice anything. I put the cap in my backpack. Dad gives me a kiss. We get dressed quickly. We wash our faces in the hallway. We go down to breakfast. The magician is sitting at one of the tables. He nods at us. He has bags under his eyes. Maybe he never sleeps. I go over to him and
say: I’m the same, you see? The magician looks me up and down and answers: No. You’re not the same. You’ll soon see.

We drive the first few miles in silence. Dad, I say suddenly, do I look different to you? Of course! he answers, you’ve changed into a raccoon golfer.

It’s morning again. Nothing begins.

Impossible to sleep. Perhaps because Mario and Lito are
finally
home. Or from mixing pills. Or because yesterday I told Ezequiel that I’m not going to see him any more.

As I write, Mario is snoring louder than ever. As though, by breathing in, he’s trying to find all the strength he has lost. This racket doesn’t bother me today. It tells me he is alive.

He has shadows under his eyes, drawn features, no belly. There is a paleness about him that doesn’t seem to come from a lack of sunshine, but from somewhere deeper. A sort of white glow
beneath
the skin. There, between his ribs.

When Mario opened the door, I was shocked. I’m not sure whether he had really come back so diminished, or whether I had been expecting the robust figure who only exists in my
memory
now. He seemed in good spirits. He smiled as before. He had the look of a mission accomplished. As soon as I kissed him I felt like crying, running away. I had to switch quickly to Lito, hug him very tight, focus on his soft cheeks, his supple hands, and his agile body, in order to regain some composure.

Because they were late and I was becoming increasingly anxious, I had been unable to stifle the urge to call Ezequiel. It was then, almost at the end of the conversation, that I told him it was impossible to go on. That being alone these past weeks had
deranged
me. And that now I had to go back to my normal routine and my family duties. He agreed with everything I said. He told me he expected no less of me. That my decision was the right one. That he understood, really he did. And then, without altering the tone of his voice, he started describing what he would do to me when I next went to his house. I became incensed. He laughed and went on talking filth to me, and I started insulting him, and the rage of my insults turned into a desire to hit him, humiliate him, mount him. He started groaning into the
mouthpiece
, and I began to touch myself. Then I heard the sounds of the lock.

While I was heating up the dinner, I studied the inside of the oven and thought of Sylvia Plath. I uncorked the wine. I lit some candles. During the meal, I started to feel better. Lito kept telling me stories about their trip, he was so excited. Mario nodded, with a gleam in his eyes. If the evening had ended at that precise moment, if, let’s say, the ceiling had suddenly caved in on me, I would have closed my eyes believing I was happy.

Before dessert the three of us made a toast, laughing like any normal family, and Mario poured half a glass of wine for Lito. I couldn’t help wondering if he had done the same during the trip. I didn’t dare ask. We drank. We joked. We enjoyed our dessert. We put Lito to bed. The two of us sat down together. We held hands. And we stayed up talking until a glimmer began filtering through the curtains. Then all of a sudden Mario seemed to shut down.

Now he is snoring. I am watching him.

I fan him, feed him, bathe him, listen to him, try to guess what he is feeling. And I don’t know, I don’t know what else to do.

These blasts of pain throughout his body. They have no
precise
location, they meander. I go mad trying to discover where it hurts. As though his affliction were another skin.

He no longer leaves the house. Lito asks what’s the matter with him. I explain that Dad is exhausted after the trip and has a bad case of the flu. I’m not sure he believes me. He looks thoughtful. Occasionally he talks to me about a cap.

The pills aren’t enough. For him or for me.

My brothers-in-law arrive tomorrow. They give their opinions a lot, especially over the phone. But they are less keen on coming here and looking Mario in the eye. They barely touch their brother when they visit him. As if his body were radioactive.

Lito will be thrilled. He loves his uncles. He and Juanjo talk about cars and watch action movies. Those Stallone horrors. Juanjo’s taste in movies is rather peculiar. Stallone’s only
noteworthy
performance was in a porn movie, I seem to recall. Lito and his youngest uncle shut themselves in his room and listen to music online. My son is twenty years his junior, yet they have the same mental age. He sees much less of his other uncle, who has hundreds of children and dresses them all identically.

Of course Mario is happy about their visit, too. But
happiness
in him has become muddied. You need to dig down to see it. All of a sudden it appears, from beneath his hostile looks.

Juanjo is going to stay for a few days. And nights.

I make beds, make infusions, make food, make assumptions. Whenever I am on my own, I turn my phone off.

Mario’s brothers are coming in a few hours. And so is all the rest. What’s coming is That. Everything is descending on me. From time to time I leave the bedroom to take a cold shower.

I’ve just turned my phone on.

I couldn’t. Resist.

Full stop. Pointless to justify myself.

He was understanding. He let me hit him. Then we talked about movies.

He penetrated me only at the very end, all at once. It was like being healed.

I got hold of a colleague who asked no questions. She agreed to ring me at home at a prearranged time and, following my
instructions
, asked to speak to me. Pretending I was busy with something else, I let my brothers-in-law pick up the phone. The moment they passed me the receiver, my colleague hung up as agreed. I carried on talking to myself and concocted a meeting at her place to prepare the school exams. I was surprised by her willingness. I thought she was more prudish. She has three
children
.

That’s what we talked about, movies. Ezequiel doesn’t like classic movies at all. He makes fun of my taste, thinks they are pedantic. He says I consider any old nonsense in black and white a gem or the predecessor of something. He says today’s movies can’t hide behind these excuses. They are either good or bad. Full
stop. I have started using that stupid expression of his,
full stop
. That’s his approach to life. And to movies. If the characters
suffer
, he’s interested. If they have fun, he’s bored.

Ezequiel told me he had just seen a film starring Kate
Winslet
. He’s crazy about Kate Winslet. He says she’s as beautiful as a plain woman can be, or as thin as a fat woman can be. Winslet’s lover is a premature ejaculator (in other words, he’s a man) and after a fuck, she reproaches him: It’s not about you! Ezequiel explained that at the beginning he thought this was a good
expression
. But that later he had realized it was a lie. A piece of pseudofeminist demagoguery, he said. I was immediately on my guard, tried to gainsay him, but he continued undaunted. He said the premature ejaculator’s problem is the exact opposite. The poor guy is incapable of feeling any pleasure. He has no idea how to get any. He has to begin by enhancing his own pleasure. Making it more complex. Only in this way can men pleasure women as well. “We have to be good in bed out of pure selfishness. A useful selfishness.” That is what he told me. “And then the others thank you. The same as in medicine.”

He rarely gets out of bed, he feels sick, and when he does get out of bed he feels worse. It’s as if he is walking along the top of a wall. His voice quavers. It doesn’t matter how much he eats, he continues losing weight. His muscles, his bones, his veins ache. We can’t keep up the deception that this is the flu. He still goes on pretending. Every time Lito goes near him he grins like a dummy, takes out the thermometer, cracks jokes that make me want to weep. I sometimes think that deceiving his son brings him a measure of relief. Within these fictions, he is still not critically ill.

I change sheets, cook, keep quiet. I come and go like a
sleepwalker
. I think things I don’t want to think.

I have just left Lito at my parents’ house. He is going to stay with them until school starts. I prefer to spare him this memory. If they take him to the beach house, even better. Childhood always seemed easy there. My sister says she is looking for flights.