Talking to Ourselves: A Novel (15 page)

I threw them into the air, they came back.

As they flew into my face, there was some kind of fulfilment. A, does this make sense?, funereal joy. I felt the current
encircling
me, and at the same time warning me of a boundary. The
sun dipped to the edge. The light fell like a towel. Like the sky was sliding: that was the impression I had. I carried on emptying the urn. I imagined I was sowing the sea.

It wasn’t sad. I scattered his ashes and pieced myself together.

Now he can swim, I thought as I left the water.

… in Puerto del Este, I remember the esplanade, I remember the yachts, how they caught your attention, rich people always catch the attention, right?, whenever I see a yacht I think about who cleans the bathroom, and I remember the sun, the bicycles, I remember the people strolling in their swimming costumes, surrounded by light, happy, happy, like they weren’t going to die, you ran through them, I remember.

For me the last day of our trip was, how can I explain, sad and at the same time a relief, do you understand?, we’d done it, no one could take that away from us, or could they, you’ll think I’m crazy, but I got so nervous while you were swimming, I was watching you from the beach and thinking: what if he gets a cramp?, what if suddenly we lose this memory?, I swear, each time you put your head under the water, I swear, I stopped breathing, I looked at the men closest to me, I saw which ones were strongest, the ones I’d ask for help, because, you see, son, I can’t swim, I was always too ashamed to tell you, and then your head bobbed up once more and I could breathe again, of course nothing happened to you, nothing could’ve happened, you were fearless.

The rest of the journey was more or less okay, we were late, your mother started calling and then there was that storm, what a downpour, right?, I was worried we’d miss dinner, and that dinner was important, in the end, I admit, I drove too fast, and, to make matters worse, on a wet road, risk is a strange thing, you think you’re being careful, that you’re protecting the things you most care about, and then you accelerate knowing you shouldn’t, and then you regret it, and the next time you accelerate again, I was soaked when we arrived, out of breath, my head was pounding, but I made it, we made it, I think your Mum had had her doubts, she almost looked surprised, her face as she greeted us, she was crying, laughing, she kept hugging us, and yes, she had to heat up the joint, and the three of us made a toast, do you remember?, you even had some wine, and we told your Mum lots of stories, you elaborated everything, it was great, and you
gobbled
down a superhuman helping of ice cream, what’s in your stomach, shark-in-a-cap?, and you went to bed, and we stayed up talking, and I smoked for the first time in months, and Mum didn’t say anything, and then I just fell asleep, like I’d passed out, and as far as I know I didn’t dream.

And what else? well, nothing, I got sicker and here I am, it was very soon after you left, do you remember how we said goodbye?, the two of us were in the garage, what a place for a ceremony, huh?, Mum was taking you to your grandparents, she sat in the car, she didn’t get out, she preferred to leave us on our own, the drive would take three hours, and I asked you the time, and you looked at your watch proudly, and then I gave you a hug, a long hug, and I told you not to forget to fasten your seatbelt, that was it, that was all, all I was capable of saying was fasten your
seatbelt
, I’d even thought up an animal for you, a sea animal I guess, but I totally forgot, I’d imagined this scene so many times, I
suppose
this is what real goodbyes are like, right?, out of place, clumsy.

What I haven’t forgotten, you see, is hugging you, I don’t know what you felt, bah, I mean, whether you felt anything, I’m not sure I did right then either, what I know is what I feel now, when I look back, I remember so clearly the heat from your head, the smell of shampoo, the downy hair on the nape of your neck, that vertebra that sticks out more than the others, your pointy shoulders, and remembering these things, experiencing them all over again, is like untying myself, you understand?, and all of a sudden I stop envying healthy people, well, I’m lying, I still envy them, but I also pity them, do you know what the mother of a sick girl told me the other day?, that everyone had, what was it she said?, four dimensions, that we were born whole, and that—come in, yes, come in.

What was I going to?, oh yes, the four-dimensional thing, so this woman was telling me that we were already whole, that from the beginning our lives contained our birth and death, and that we only saw ourselves grow up or grow old because we perceived ourselves bit by bit, can you believe it?, but that actually the child and the old person exist simultaneously, or something like that, it sounded crazy to me, her daughter is dying and she tries to, to resign herself, you know?, to experience it as something natural, I’d understand much better, I don’t know, if she went round kicking in monitors, pulling out cables, punching the doctors, I think it’s, my forehead’s a bit, I’m going to ask for a thermometer.

Your mum didn’t want to leave, I had to insist, bah, to force her to, I’ve been thinking, you know?, about what I told you yesterday, about that poor woman, the thing that used to scare me most, was dying young, I was obsessed with reaching old age, I
felt entitled, what a fool, right?, what’s strange is to live the way I did when I was healthy, time is never long enough, it always, so to speak, falls short, they say the perfect way to die is in your sleep, without even noticing, I’m not so sure, I think I’d rather feel it, I want to live my death, it’s all I have left, I don’t want it taken away from me, when you reach my age, more or less, perhaps you’ll start to feel protective, and you’re not going to have a father to look after, there’ll be no father to enable you to be that son, I’ll be a lost opportunity, and so now, well, now comes the advice, I feel a bit ridiculous, the ideal thing would be for you to observe me half your life and think: all right, let’s salvage this and this from the misguided man who is my father, and let the devil take the rest, too bad, we can’t, we can’t.

Enjoy life, do you hear?, it’s hard work enjoying life, and have patience, not too much, and look after yourself as if you knew you won’t always be young, even though you won’t know it and that’s okay, and have plenty of sex, son, do it for your sake and mine and even your mother’s, lots of sex, and if you have children, have them late, and go to the beach in winter, in winter it’s better, you’ll see, my head hurts yet I feel good, it’s hard to explain, and go travelling on your own once in a while, and try not to fall in love all the time, and care about your looks, do you hear me?, men who don’t care about their looks are afraid of being queer, and if you are queer, be a man, in short, advice isn’t much use, if you disagree with it you don’t listen, and if you already agree you don’t need it, never trust advice, son, travel agents advise you to go places they’ve never been, you’ll love me more when you’re old, I thought of my father the moment we got down from the truck, our true love for our parents is posthumous, forgive me for that, I’m already proud of the things you’re going to do, I love the way you count the time on your fingers when you set the alarm clock, or do you think I don’t see?, you do it secretly, under
the covers, so I won’t know you have difficulty working it out, I’m going to ask you a favour, whatever happens, whatever age you are, don’t stop counting the time on your fingers, promise me, octopus.

It’s getting dark there, in the window, your mum will be here soon, I’ll go on tomorrow, I’m hungry, I’m sleepy, there’s a new nurse who looks a lot like your mother when she was young, her name is Alicia, she’s very kind, she’s going to get me some pasta even though chicken’s on the menu, Alicia is a good name for a girl, don’t you think?

I open my eyes. The sun is in my face. Dad is taking the strips of plastic off the windows. I close my eyes again. I remember I was dreaming something really weird. We were going to the seaside. We who? Actually I think I was alone. I went down to the shore. And I started tearing strips off the water. Like it was an animal’s skin. Below the sea the sun was buried. The more strips I tore, the more light I discovered. Then a fisherman appeared. Or somebody with a sort of tow truck. And he started taking away the bits of sea. Then Dad took the plastic off.

Good morning, meddlesome marmot, Dad says holding a piece of bread in one hand, ham or cheese? No tomato? I ask. There’s none left, he answers. I lift my body off the mattress. I stretch. Ham and cheese, thanks, I say yawning. Hey, Dad, doesn’t your back hurt? Mine, he answers, I don’t have a back anymore.

We pass a sign that says: Valdemancha. This last day of our trip feels like the shortest. We’ve got the radio blaring. I follow the rhythm of the music with my legs. Dad hardly talks at all. I start counting every car we pass. Suddenly I have an idea. Dad, I say, can we go see the sea? He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he’s
heard me. He doesn’t even blink. But then all of a sudden he says: Yes we can. And he changes lane. And he takes the first exit.

We have lunch in Tres Torres. Dad tells me the town is called that because it used to have three castles. But now there’s only one. So why don’t they change the name, I ask. Meddlesome marmot, he answers. Dad spreads a map out on the table in the bar. He shows the detour we’re making. He marks with a pencil the route we were going to take. And in red ink the one we’re taking. He works out how long each bit should take. He writes a time next to each place. The red line zigzags along the coast. Dad seems excited now. This way, he says, we won’t see the same things we saw on the way here, right? Yes, I say smiling. I love making plans with Dad.

Now we’re on our way to the sea I concentrate really hard. I stare at Pedro’s windscreen. The moment I see a cloud I look at the wipers and imagine them brushing it away. So far I’m doing okay because the sky is still blue. This road has tons of cars on it. We keep having to dodge them. Too bad Dad doesn’t like video games. He’d beat my score if he wanted to. Or he’d equal it at least.

The smell is different. We don’t even need to open the
windows
. The sea gets in anyway. I’m not sure how. But it does. I see it appear and disappear between bends. It’s really shiny. Like millions of screens. It isn’t blue. Or green. It’s, I don’t know. Sea colour.

At last! At last we arrive in Puerto del Este. I can see the harbour and sailboats. There are tons of people. And kids eating ice creams. I think Dad is checking out the girls. Mum doesn’t look like that in a bikini. Some cyclists go by as well. Racing bikes are awesome. Especially if you have a helmet and stuff. I’m going to ask for one when I’m eleven. We’re moving slowly. There’s
nowhere to park Pedro. We drive away from the harbour. I can see a campsite. And volleyball nets. We drive round and round. We stop at a piece of wasteland opposite the beach. As soon as Dad opens the doors, I jump out.

My skin is all cold and salty. My legs stick to the seat. Lito, Dad says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Dry your hair well. Or you’ll catch a cold. But it’s hot in here, I answer. Dad insists. I groan. Anyway, he’s the one who’s always getting colds. That’s why he didn’t go in the sea. I unstick my legs. Ouch! I reach out and grab the towel from the back seat. I rub my head. Good and hard. Until all of a sudden my heart jumps. My head! My cap! I search everywhere. I rummage through the swimming things. Through our bags. In the glove box. Under the seat. I can’t believe it. I can’t have lost the magician’s cap. But how?, where?, what a dummy (What’s wrong, son? Dad says), I’m the biggest dummy on the planet, I’ll never find another one like it, there are zillions of baseball caps, of course, but this one, this exact one (Do you need something, son? Dad asks) is impossible to buy, maybe I lost it on the beach?, wasn’t I wearing it in the truck?, then it has to be here (Put your seatbelt back on, Dad says, right now, Lito, okay, thank you), or was I stupid enough to wear it in the sea?, it could be, because I ran straight in, or maybe it fell off while I was running?, I can’t believe it, I hate myself, I hate myself, and on top of that, what a sissy (Lito, what’s wrong? Dad says slowing down, come on, no, don’t cry), it isn’t just the cap, I’m also crying because there’s no way, no way Dad can
understand
how special that cap was (Hey, son, come here, he says reaching out and putting his arm around me), I cling to him, I hide my face in his shirt (I’m so sorry, he says stroking me, so sorry), and suddenly Dad seems like he’s going to start crying about my cap too.

I sit up. I wipe my nose. And I tell him about it. Even though
I’m ashamed. Dad agrees it must have blown away on the beach. He tries to cheer me up by playing the fool. Maybe it really was a magic cap, he says, and it flew off by itself. I get annoyed. I laugh a bit. I cry some more. And I calm down. Dad accelerates again. I slide my hand toward his head. I touch his neck. His ears. His shaved head. Suddenly I feel like having the same haircut as him. Dad, I say, how about if I shave my head this
summer
? He pulls his head away. We’ll think about it, he answers, we’ll think about it.

We have a snack in a café full of mirrors. It has a super long bar. It looks even longer in the mirrors. I’m not sure where we are. There are trucks like ours opposite the entrance. So I guess we’re back on our road again. I order a glass of hot milk, jam on toast, and a chocolate croissant. Dad orders a black coffee. A few days ago I was getting a bit fed up with travelling. Sometimes I thought about going home. Seeing Mum. Having my toys again. Now I’m sad the trip is almost over. Dad gets up to make a call. I watch him move along the mirrors. He signals to me to stay here. I hope he doesn’t take long. It’s so boring waiting for him. I finish my snack. I look round. Everyone else seems to be doing something. Except me. There’s a shop at the far end selling cheese, newspapers, CDs, and other stuff. I’d like to go and see it. I order another glass of milk. Suddenly Dad is in the shop. Like he’d appeared through one of the mirrors. After a while he comes back. He pays. And he asks me to go.

I stare at the lines on the road trying not to blink. They look like they’re moving. I imagine somebody’s firing rays at us. A tank filled with avenger soldiers. A racing car with a laser gun. I don’t say these things to Dad anymore. He’s always telling me about the victims of war and stuff like that. Dad’s a real bore that way now. Before it was Mum who gave me lectures about peace. And Dad would say: It’s okay, Elena, best let him get it
out of his system. But now Dad gives me Mum’s lectures. (Lito.) And she gets less worried. (Lito.) She’s got more used to it. (Lito, my love.) Except about food. (Son, I’m talking to you.) Maybe Dad’s this way because we’re travelling. We’ll see at home. (Hey! Are you listening to me?)

Yes, yes, I answer. Dad smiles. Pass my shades, will you? he says. No, the other ones, yes those, thanks. I give him his shades. He is still looking at me. Didn’t you notice anything? he asks. Where? I say. In the glove box, son, in the glove box, he
answers
. There’s loads of stuff in there. Papers. Files. Cables. Tools. CDs. Open it again, says Dad. Oof. I open it again. And among all the stuff I see a small package. A small package wrapped in gift paper. I don’t wait for Dad to say anything else. I start tearing off the wrapping paper. I nearly break the box. And at last I manage to open it. And I see it, I see it, I see it. And I take it out of the box and hold it up and look at it closely and put it on. I can’t believe I’m wearing a Lewis Valentino. A submersible. With a light. And the date. And everything. Then I remember to hug Dad.

I recognize these rocks. The dry ground. Tucumancha. The edges of the highway are very close. Dad asks what time it is. Aha! I turn my wrist slowly. I stare at the hands of my watch. Just to be sure I press the little knob for the light. And I tell him the exact time. With minutes and seconds. Dad says: It’s late. And he accelerates. To tell the truth, I’m in no hurry.

There are trees again at the sides. And fields. And animals. The highway is wider. Pedro is going super fast. Dad’s phone beeps. He says: Tell her we’re almost there. And that I’ll call her in a bit.

I read:

Angel how many more miles? I
(Dad accelerates some more and turns on the headlights)
can’t wait to see you.
How’s Daddy? I’ve cooked
(we drive fast round the bends, my body flops to one side)
a yummy homecoming meal! I
(the grass changes colour, the faster we go the more yellow, or brown it is)
love you to pieces
(I open the window so I can see better, I stick my head out and Dad closes it).

I type:

We pass Pampatoro. It starts getting dark. There’s still a tiny bit of sun. Like it has steam in it. I can see shadows of trees. We pass other headlights. The animals almost don’t have heads.

Suddenly I see a raindrop on the window. And another. And another. A line of them. Several lines. A stream of raindrops. It’s weird. Really weird. I was super happy. I concentrate on the windscreen wipers. I imagine they’re sweeping the sky. Hitting the clouds like tennis balls. And the clouds are falling on the other side of the fields. Miles away. The windscreen wipers start to move. Small puddles form on the window then break up. I don’t believe this. I try to think about funny things. I remember jokes. I force myself to smile until my cheeks ache. I sing. I whistle. I try to imagine a round moon. Like a big clean plate. The sky grows dark. The clouds have spots all over them. Pedro’s roof makes more noise. The windscreen is flooded. The wipers are moving faster and faster. I don’t believe this. I ask Dad why it’s raining so much. He touches my fringe. The window is blurred.

Suddenly I get it.
Peter–bilt!