Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

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:

How are things with you, treasure? Are you happy? Mum made a chocolate cake while you were away, I’m practising for when you get back! Is your Daddy driving a lot? Please make sure he rests. I love you, darling.

I reply:

Hi M Im fine all dy on rd hpe Pdro rsts @ nite! do u no wot brnd D’s wtchs wre pls kp me choc mch xxx msu

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.