Alberto Barrera Tyszka - The Sickness

True, it was a particularly difficult time for me, I was in a really bad way, anxious and out of control. And it wasn’t a good idea to start phoning you from different places in the city, at different times, so that you could calm me down and reassure me that I wasn’t going to faint. But that really is what I felt, that if I didn’t talk to you, I would pass out wherever I happened to be. I felt that I depended on you, that you were my guarantee that I wouldn’t collapse on the floor that very instant.

I have no words to describe it, and, believe me, that inability drives me to despair. I don’t know how to get across to you the terrible, physical certainty that I was about to pass out, to faint. There was a ravine inside my body. That sounds odd, I know, but that’s how it was. I was deathly pale, and even though I couldn’t see my face, I knew how pale I was. I could feel the blood pounding in my temples. The tips of my fingers were ice cold. It wasn’t all in my imagination. I never liked having to bother you, interrupt you, hound you. The truth is I really regret having done so. I simply wanted to communicate to you what it was I was experiencing with such intensity. That’s why I insisted on further investigations, on a more in-depth medical evaluation. I can’t deny that, at the time, your behavior remained exemplary, very wise and patient. You were invariably friendly and pleasant, but you never swerved in your diagnosis. You listened to me, but you took no notice of me, and that’s why sometimes I really despaired. And then came the afternoon when you said you wanted to talk to me frankly. And I thought to myself: At last! But you surprised me. Instead of listening to me, instead of dealing with my pressing problems, you told me that you didn’t want me to continue wasting my time and my money, do you remember? I’m sure you must remember that. You told me that I didn’t need you, that I didn’t need a medical doctor, but a psychiatrist.

That same afternoon, you suggested I go into therapy. You even recommended a lady doctor, a friend of yours, and gave me the number of her practice. And again I took your advice. You see what confidence I had in you! I did as you suggested and went to the therapist you recommended. I’m not sure why, but I think that was when our problems began. From that moment on, everything between us changed, and I’ve never again been able to speak to you.

I’ve even wondered if perhaps the psychiatrist told you what we talked about at our first meeting. Perhaps that was it. As soon as I left her office, she picked up the phone and dialed your number. At least that’s what I imagine happened now. Although that still doesn’t make sense, I mean, what could she have told you that was so very terrible? I don’t remember having said anything unusual that day. I arrived punctually, but I have to say, I took an instant dislike to the woman, she seemed so cold, unfriendly, distant. She didn’t even try to break the ice, as they say. She didn’t speak at all. She just sat there in silence, and I realized that it was up to me to talk. I told her a little about what had happened, why I was there. I talked about you and my fainting fits. But she still said nothing. Occasionally, she scribbled something in her notebook. I felt uncomfortable, well, I didn’t have much more to tell. I asked her: What else do you want to know? What more do I need to say? And she said that this was my time and I could say what I liked. That made me feel even more uncomfortable. The fact is I didn’t like that therapy business at all. What was I doing there? Why was I having to talk to that stranger? What was I supposed to do? Talk about my life, my intimate thoughts, to a woman I’d only just met? And I was paying for it too! During the rest of the session, I just kept telling her about my fainting fits, but nothing more.

But something must have happened, Doctor, and it’s either that psychiatrist or your secretary who’s to blame, because I haven’t managed to speak to you since or get another appointment. Do you see? It makes me think that perhaps you’ve been kidnapped, that someone is holding you against your will so that we can’t meet. That’s what I feel.

I didn’t finish this letter last night. I was tired, and it was late. I don’t think I knew quite how to continue. It’s odd. I had the feeling that I should stop, but I couldn’t find a way to end it, if you see what I mean. I got up early this morning, went for a walk, ate a little fruit, and sat down to finish this letter before going to work. I have to confess, Doctor, that I’m starting to feel really frustrated. What if you don’t answer this letter either? If there’s no answer, what should I do? I’m still getting the dizzy spells. In fact, they’re getting worse and worse. Now my saliva’s gone funny too. I have a bitter taste in my mouth all the time. I’ve also started to feel a kind of pressure around my eyes, on my eyelids. These are new symptoms, Doctor. I’m afraid that when we do at last meet and talk, when we do see each other again, it will be too late.

Ernesto Durán

Mariana is white, but not too white, not so white as to be just that, a white woman. He thinks this while he watches her naked in the shower. Andrés has closed the door and sat down on the lid of the toilet. She hasn’t spotted him there yet. Reality is always different when you’re taking a shower. She is simply there, letting the water do what it will with her, as if nothing else existed, as if the steam were not something impermanent, as if the world were not just outside that room, as close to hand as her towel. Neither the years nor the children have made her less desirable. Not, at least, to him. Ever since the research carried out by Dr. Winnifred Cutler in 1986, science has been doing its best to dissect desire, even concluding that what people call love, physical love, has a shelf life, and can’t last more than seven years. Andrés’s own experience contradicts such statements. He looks at Mariana and feels a tremor inside him, a tension. Desire consumes the body, but doesn’t wear it down. It doesn’t grow wrinkled; it changes, it’s transformed, but doesn’t age. He looks at Mariana now and he desires her. Tonight, even when he’s depressed and tired, even after fourteen years together, desire remains undefeated. He likes her. He likes her small, narrow shoulders. He likes her size, her skin, her bottom, her feet, her cunt. He has been inside that body so many times and yet it still excites him to see her naked.

“How long have you been there?” she asks when she finally notices him.

Andrés doesn’t answer. He pulls her toward him, gently takes her towel from her and starts to dry her.

“What’s up? What happened with your dad?”

He continues absentmindedly running the towel over Mariana’s body. Confronted by such silence, she finally turns to look him in the eye.

“What happened?” she asks again.

“I don’t want to talk now,” mutters Andrés, before leaning toward her, in search of a kiss, as if wanting to murder words, to erase them with his lips, to wall them in.

They made love in the bathroom. Furiously. Like young things. She squatted over him, her back to him. Andrés bit her neck, her shoulders. They made love like two cats. They both enjoyed powerful orgasms and were left panting and silent, as if each body were taking a while to return to its place. Then they went into the bedroom, where they lay down naked on the bed and talked. Andrés had felt nothing special when he first met her. Nor had Mariana. It wasn’t love at first sight, or even second or third. But a taste, an inner liking hovered and grew around them, until one night, at a friend’s house, much as had happened just now, except that then they had drunk too much wine, they wearied of watching a Russian film on video and went off into another room. There they started talking, recognized their mutual attraction and, without quite knowing how, started to take off their clothes between kisses and caresses. They clutched and clung to each other. They had sex the way two strangers, two bodies, usually have sex for the first time, bodies that have not yet constructed their own intimacy. Then they spent all night talking, sitting naked on the granite floor. That is perhaps what they most remember about that first time — the cold of the granite on their buttocks.