Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

When you’re bedridden, you watch visitors come and go like in a play, a lousy play, right? they all come over, act with you for a while, say goodbye, and then make their exits, and you, the supposed main character, are left wondering where they go to, what they do, what they talk about among themselves, and although you clearly remember that normal life isn’t like this, you picture their days filled with fascinating activities, and so you envy them, loathe them, you want to see them in your shoes, to do them harm, infect them, until the door into the room opens again and you feel grateful, it’s truly unbearable to feel thankful to people you know you will never be able to do any favours for, after chatting with your visitors, having a laugh with them, once they’ve all gone, you notice for a moment that you feel relieved, you were almost yearning for this, yearning to relax, to adopt your true face, right? the face of a condemned man, but you don’t want to be alone for too long either, and so after a while you start to miss the daily performance, and the light begins to fade, and the corridor grows still, and unless you’re lucky and you sleep all right, you start counting how many hours it is until you hear the breakfast noises, understand? at night I stare into space, and your mother watches me very intently, as if she were trying, I don’t know, to guess what lofty thoughts I’m having, it isn’t so easy to think in here, you don’t always feel strong enough, so, for instance, I often reflect about taking a dump, but I don’t tell your mum that, I don’t say to her: I was reflecting about taking a little dump, I tell her I’m not reflecting about anything, it sounds better, although, to be honest, it shouldn’t, because when you’re in here, taking a dump is more important than almost anything else, and how itchy your back is, damn it, lying in these beds, you realize the depth of the body, the soul, or whatever, is completely secondary, you put it on hold straight away, your physical reality is the most pressing, complex thing, full of mysteries even for the doctors, I understand less and less about what’s down there, below the sheets, I look at it as if it were someone else’s, and that other thing, I mean, that, it doesn’t seem like it’s mine either, or maybe it does, I still notice it occasionally, but I can’t even bring myself to touch it, I don’t want to touch anything that’s part of my body, everything in my body is my enemy now, this is what it is to be dead.

I think I’m about to contradict myself, let’s see, no, because you can’t imagine how much time I have to reflect now that my time is running out, somehow I never stop reflecting even when I’m asleep, yes, I’m contradicting myself, there, in my head, everything goes very fast, one minute is a luxury for the mind, at least when your back isn’t itching, your mum just called, she’s on her way, she’s a bit late, our marriage hasn’t been perfect, I expect you’re already aware of that, knowing I’m going to die makes me love her more, I discovered love when I got sick, it’s like I’m a hundred and twenty, I’m still young, a youth of a hundred and twenty, and shall I tell you something? I don’t deserve this love, because before I knew I was going to die, I didn’t appreciate how to feel it, sometimes I think illness is a punishment, and the more your mother looks after me the more indebted to her I feel, and I’m not going to be able to repay that debt, she keeps telling me no, what nonsense, we do these things out of love, but debts of love also exist, anyone who denies that is fooling themselves, and such debts never go away, at most we conceal them, like I am now.

Electronic kangaroo, on the phone today you told me about your football match with the neighbours, about the cool trainers your granddad bought you, the concert you went to with grandma, how you beat the record in I don’t know what, do you know what your granddad did when I started dating his little girl? he bought me a pair of slippers, silk slippers, he explained very courteously, for when I wanted to sleep at his house, great, hurrah, the problem is that the damn slippers were his size, not mine, they were tiny on me, it was impossible for me to wear them, there’s liberals for you, I’m so glad you’re having fun, I’ve told you how busy I am, how great I feel now I’m over the flu, about all the deliveries I’m making for Uncle Juanjo while he’s on holiday, I tell you about trips I’m not taking, places I’m not seeing, roads I’m not driving on, one of these days I’m going to have an accident, and that accident is going to separate us cleanly, Lito, I want you to remember us like this, travelling together, now all the memories, even the silliest ones, give off a light, like those little screens you’re so …

Mum calls again. I guess she’s missing us a lot. We’ve spoken three times today already. When we got up. When we stopped for lunch at Santa María de la Reina. And now we’re arriving at Salto Grande with the delivery. I miss her as well. But not when she asks me. Funny, that.

Oh my angel, Mum says, no, nothing, are you all right? are you having a good time? are you eating some fruit? what about dad? hasn’t he driven enough for today? why doesn’t he take a nap? how much further is it? is the weather still nice? do you know how much I love you, honey? do you?

Mum makes noises like she’s blowing her nose. Ma, I say, are you crying?

Me? she answers laughing, no, son, what makes you think that! it’s just a silly cold, all this air-conditioning! well, no, nothing, I was just calling to, I saw the time and thought, bah, you’d be there already, where’s the delivery again? in Santa María de la? wait, no, that was at noon, well, I just wanted, how about salads? (yes, almost every day, I lie), well, all right, but it should be every day, okay? (of course, Mum, I answer), anyway, when you eat hamburgers and things like that at night you don’t sleep so well, they’re very hard to digest, do you understand, my love? that’s why, do you know what the best thing would be? if you ordered at most (we overtake a black VW and return to our lane, the VW accelerates, overtakes us, and pulls back in front of Pedro, Dad swears under his breath, brakes and puts the indicator on again to overtake), is something wrong, angel? what’s wrong? (nothing, Mum, nothing, I say), are you sure, honey? (I swear, I answer), well, as I was saying, I don’t want to be a pain, really I don’t, but I’d prefer it if for dessert you (we overtake the black Volkswagen again, and this time Dad stays in the other lane and accelerates, he accelerates a lot, until the Volkswagen grows small in the mirror and disappears, wow! awesome! Pedro’s super fast even though he’s big! and suddenly the clouds start moving, they’re going away, it must be because we’re driving much faster now), sounds good, my love? do you promise? (I promise, Mum, I say, I love you tons).

Mum asks me to pass her over to Dad. He slows down and takes the phone. He’s holding the wheel with one hand. I don’t understand why he never plugs the phone into Pedro’s speaker. That’s what Uncle Juanjo does. Why do Mum and Dad really like doing the things they tell me people shouldn’t do? Dad only says, yes, no, well, aha, I see, later. It’s hard to tell what they’re talking about. I hope they’re not fighting.

I straighten my cap in the mirror. It’s a bit big for my head. But it looks awesome. The magician said I’d changed. And it’s true with the cap on I look different. More like I’m ten or more. Maybe that was the trick. One thing’s for sure. This cap is special. I wish I could’ve asked the magician where he got it. It’s a lot like the one Stallone wears in, what’s that movie called? The one on TV at the motel the other day? In that movie Stallone is a trucker like Uncle Juanjo. Well, not like Uncle Juanjo. Driving a truck is much more exciting in the movie. In real life it’s okay. But sometimes you get bored. Or your back hurts. Stallone’s back never hurt. Of course he trains all the time. And his back muscles are super strong. In the movie he stops to arm wrestle fat guys with moustaches. And he beats all of them. That’s what I like about Stallone. He always beats bigger and taller guys. And he teaches his son. At first you think he’s a sissy. But in the end he learns. I wish I had a Dad like that. I mean, my Dad’s awesome. But I wish he’d teach me how to arm wrestle the jerks at school. I don’t think he can now. He gets more tired because of the virus. Stallone doesn’t get ill. But Dad still has loads of strength. Totally. I tried to lift his backpack yesterday. Oof. No way.