Alberto Barrera Tyszka - The Sickness

“I never trust men with small ears.”

That is how Karina remembers him — neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The first time he visited the doctor, he had struck her as polite and friendly, but nothing more than that. He filled in his medical form and then sat down and waited. Karina was surprised when he didn’t pick up a magazine as most patients do. Indeed, there are some people who only read in waiting rooms.

When he came for his second appointment, he seemed more nervous. Karina remembered clearly how he rested his hands on his knees, sighed, and kept glancing around him, as if he couldn’t control his eyes, or, rather, as if his face were obliged to follow them wherever they went. He also stood up several times and paced around, taking short steps. He went out into the corridor, then came back in, nodding briefly to her when he did. Then the telephone calls began. Ernesto Durán turned into a regular, repetitive irritant. Four or five out of every ten calls would have his voice at the other end. He was always cordial, polite, even affable, but then, one afternoon, Dr. Miranda called her into his office and begged her, yes that was the word he used: “I beg you, please, Karina, not to put through any more calls from that patient,” he said. “Not one. Never again. If he phones, I’m not in.”

It wasn’t easy. Durán was a persistent fellow, obsessed. It didn’t take him long to realize that Karina had become a detour, and that their phone conversations were merely an eternal deferment. One day, he exploded. He felt humiliated, he’d had enough, it was a mockery, who did she think she was, he roared before slamming down the phone. Karina was left shaking. She managed to keep a grip on herself in front of the patients in the waiting room, but immediately got up and walked down the corridor to the restroom. While still managing to remain calm, she was nevertheless aware of the occasional internal shudder: Durán’s shouts, or at least their echo, were in her body, trapped inside. When she looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes filled with tears. She felt ridiculous, furious, stupid. She washed her face, hoping to salvage a little of her pride from that cold water.

The following day, however, she was surprised to find a small box of chocolates and a little note waiting for her. Durán was asking her forgiveness. Half an hour later, he did so again over the phone. Karina treated him rather coolly, with a certain haughtiness in her curt, discreet replies, but it was clear that she was touched by the gesture. Durán, moreover, tried to go a little further, to put his case and explain his sense of urgency. Karina softened her tone somewhat and, in a spirit of camaraderie, explained that there was no point in making any further attempt to contact the doctor. She suggested an alternative strategy: when Dr. Miranda was able to see him again, she herself would phone to arrange an appointment. When they said goodbye, neither of them felt much faith in the other. A whole week passed without a single “Hello” or “Good afternoon” from Ernesto Durán. Karina even came to the conclusion that he must finally have resigned himself to the situation. Then the first e-mail appeared. Then the second. Then the third. She read them all carefully. Although she was reluctant to admit it, she found them rather touching. She showed them to Adelaida, and they both agreed that Durán was clearly desperate and utterly sincere in what he wrote, that he was, in short, a sensitive man in difficulties. Adelaida even remarked that Dr. Miranda’s attitude seemed most unfair.

“Are you going to show him the latest e-mails?”

“Certainly not.”

Karina knew her boss well. He had been absolutely clear on the matter: “If he phones, I’m not in.”

Karina prints out the third e-mail and takes it with her to the small restaurant where the two friends have lunch together at least once a week. As well as the paella — which usually contains more onion and peppers than creatures of the sea — any new snippet of news from Durán always lights up the meal. They had both tried to imagine what life must be like for a man in the grip of such a vast, corrosive, potent fear. The two women felt moved when they read about the terrible sensations that assailed Durán whenever he felt he was about to faint. They also followed with great interest the tale of his failed encounter with the therapist Dr. Miranda had recommended. But they want more. Adelaida wonders what he does for a job.

“He sounds to me like some sort of administrator.”

“No, I don’t think he’s studied at all, he just works for the phone company as some kind of assistant.”

Karina would also like to know more about his family life. When he got married and when he got divorced, for example. She finds it odd that he says nothing about his private life. What really happened with his ex-wife? Does he have a girlfriend now?

On this occasion, however, Karina seems less enthusiastic. She suspects that the new letter will answer none of these questions. Adelaida cannot contain her curiosity. Nor can she understand why the look on Karina’s face has been one of fear and alarm ever since they set off for lunch together, ever since her friend announced the arrival of another e-mail.

“What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“I’m afraid, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Why? What does the letter say?”

“I only read the first sentence.”

“And one sentence was enough to give you a face like that?” asks Adelaida, astonished.

It isn’t just fear that Karina feels, she feels disappointed too. Up until now, Durán has been a gentle mystery, not threatening in the least. He could even be seen as picturesque or slightly eccentric, but never dangerous. The opening sentence of this third e-mail was a wakeup call, alarm bells had suddenly started ringing inside her. She felt unsure now; perhaps everything was far less romantic than she imagined. Perhaps Ernesto Durán wasn’t just a lonely man with a fear of fainting and a desperate need to relate to someone. Perhaps he’s a madman, someone with serious mental problems. Karina takes the letter out of her handbag and shows it to Adelaida.

“Read the opening sentence,” she says, holding it out for her friend to see.

Dr. Miranda,

I have a confession to make: I’m following you.

Andrés ought to go to his father, show him the X-rays, tell him the truth, tell him exactly what’s happening; he should, moreover, explain that further tests are needed, that from now on, his relationship with medicine will become uncomfortably close, so close he’ll grow to loathe it; he should go to his father and tell him that it’s hopeless, that there’s not a thing they can do about it, that he has cancer and doesn’t have much longer to live. How long exactly? Medical calendars tend to be vague: not much longer. Which always means less.

But he doesn’t do any of these things. Postponing duties, especially when those duties are painful ones, is also a temporary way of surviving. The poet William Carlos Williams was also a doctor. He wrote: “Many a time a man must watch the patient’s mind as it watches him, distrusting him. .” Andrés didn’t know how his father would react when he found out the truth. He distrusted both his and his father’s minds because he wasn’t at all sure about himself, about how he would react once he’d told his father the truth. He’d decided to confront the situation, however tragic, head on and talk to his father; but when the moment came, he didn’t know how to, he felt invaded by thousands of tiny fears that raced around in his mind like trapped lizards and always led him to postpone that duty yet again: he should talk to his father, but not just then, later.

This morning, he again manages to distract himself from the task in hand. He has spent whole days using the same method. In order to ease his feelings of guilt, for he knows he doesn’t have much time, he keeps himself busy with matters related to his father’s illness, but which help him to avoid speaking to him directly. Now he’s trying to negotiate with Merny. She’s the woman who cleans Javier Miranda’s apartment twice a week. On Thursdays, she cleans the place thoroughly, and on Tuesdays she merely tidies up a little and does any ironing. Andrés has left his father at the movies with the children so that he can come and talk to her. He tells her everything, sparing her no detail, but warns that his father doesn’t yet know, that he knows nothing. When Merny hears this, she seems slightly surprised, but she’s never been one to show her feelings. She’s a reserved woman. She doesn’t ask many questions. Sometimes, it’s not easy to guess what she’s thinking, not, at least, for Andrés. When he suggests that she starts coming to the apartment every day, from Monday to Friday, Merny doesn’t answer, she looks uncomfortable and eyes him rather warily. Andrés makes it clear that he’s not asking her to be his father’s nurse. He’ll hire a nurse himself. He just wants her support, to know that she’ll be there all the time to do the cooking every day and pop out to the pharmacy or the market if necessary. “What do you think, Merny?” he asks.