Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

At least this time they knocked, she must be a student nurse, the older ones burst in, as if this were their room, recently I’ve been eating more, I had lost a lot of weight, you saw me, I took some appetite stimulants with me on the trip, they sort of worked, it’s hard to trust food when you keep throwing up, you start to see it as something completely alien to your organism, I don’t know, some kind of invasive substance, I took the appetite stimulants and some other pills with me, none of them to cure me, all to make me feel less, that’s the weird thing about drugs, the ones that supposedly cure you destroy you on the inside, and the ones that supposedly aren’t a cure make you feel like a person again, does that mean you have to stop feeling like a person in order to get better? maybe that’s why for so many of us it doesn’t work, because we won’t let the poison in completely.

The day of the race at the petrol station I’d been feeling sick all day, I couldn’t catch my breath, it happens sometimes, I don’t know what the hell it depends on, the heat, the humidity, being tired, I’ve no idea, and you can run faster and faster, you train for everything, bullheaded hare, it’s like you had a pair of wheels in your backside, you take after your granddad a little in that way, he always used to say that it was fine to go down fighting, and, just to annoy him, I’d say: what about fighting to lose? you were determined to beat me, weren’t you, your legs are getting long, and you know the worst thing? the most shameful thing? when I saw you were pulling away from me I started to run for real, it upset me for a moment that you were going to win, then I realized I couldn’t do it and I slowed down, I shut myself in the toilet, I waited in there for a while until I got my breath back, when I would insist on stopping for you to take a leak, for instance — no, it’s nothing, hi, it’s nothing.

Last night I watched a movie with your mum, she brought her laptop, good idea, a wonderful comedy with Katharine Hepburn, have you heard of her? I mean, do people still know who Ms. Hepburn was? the movie didn’t seem dated, it’s still hilarious and, how was it? as wicked as intelligence itself, that’s what your mother said last night, so don’t give me the credit, I get distracted when I read, I think about a hundred and one other things, maybe that says something for books, I don’t know, but it doesn’t happen to me with movies, when I’m enjoying a movie, it’s as though I disappear, if you follow me, at first I thought it was a bit frivolous of me, I mean, in my state, to laugh out loud like that, but I soon let myself go, and it worked better than any drug, it was a kind of, which reminds me, my pill.

Actually, well, there was another reason to enjoy the movie, being there, next to your mum, without talking, because what could we say to each other? laughing at the same gags, the two of us just there, alive, knowing we love each other, and that we’ve hurt one another, that’s the power of movies, right? you are moved at the same time as others, you can share books as well, of course, that’s what your mother always tells me, but we enjoy them separately, not together, maybe books are for people on their own, I’m going to leave your mum on her own, whenever we both laughed she’d squeeze my hand.

Do you remember sometimes when she called us, there wasn’t much coverage, we told her we’d call her at the next stop, and then we’d forget, and the poor woman kept calling, sick with worry, and I handed you the phone so she’d be less angry, sitting in the truck is like watching a really long movie, right? your mum got upset, I think, she ended up not always answering her phone, I could tell she was tense, I kept saying we were fine, I don’t know whether she believed me, I had a few dizzy spells, the worst one was on the way there, in Tucumancha, I was even scared I’d let go of the wheel, the road was full of bends, I hadn’t driven that much in years, it was early on in the journey, and I was still telling myself: I can do it, I can do it, I must be able to do it, like you with the weather, right? we’re both bullheaded, you and I, dizzier and dizzier, and there was nowhere to stop on that stretch of road, and that’s when I got really worried, that’s when I thought your mother was right and the trip had been a crazy idea, and I remembered Uncle Juanjo, who’d suggested I get some practice before setting off, and I remembered your granddad, who did exercises every morning for half an hour, and all of a sudden I thought I was an irresponsible father, I think this was what made me feel the dizziest.

And what about the fan? the one you said was going to unscrew itself from the ceiling and slice our heads off? we stopped there because I was lost, son, what a disaster, I turned back three or four times, I couldn’t even understand the instructions on the GPS, the roads weren’t right, they’d changed, I didn’t feel good that day either, it’s strange, for the most part I felt worse on the way there than on the way back, that night what I needed was a comfortable bed, bah, a bed in any case, what a crappy mattress, right? but what I think about most now, what I most remember, is when we slept next to each other in the truck, on our sides, pretty uncomfortably, and I clasped your chest, I could feel you breathe and I didn’t sleep a wink, I stayed awake all night, euphoric, listening to every sound …

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.