Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

Your mum didn’t want to leave, I had to insist, bah, to force her to, I’ve been thinking, you know? about what I told you yesterday, about that poor woman, the thing that used to scare me most, was dying young, I was obsessed with reaching old age, I felt entitled, what a fool, right? what’s strange is to live the way I did when I was healthy, time is never long enough, it always, so to speak, falls short, they say the perfect way to die is in your sleep, without even noticing, I’m not so sure, I think I’d rather feel it, I want to live my death, it’s all I have left, I don’t want it taken away from me, when you reach my age, more or less, perhaps you’ll start to feel protective, and you’re not going to have a father to look after, there’ll be no father to enable you to be that son, I’ll be a lost opportunity, and so now, well, now comes the advice, I feel a bit ridiculous, the ideal thing would be for you to observe me half your life and think: all right, let’s salvage this and this from the misguided man who is my father, and let the devil take the rest, too bad, we can’t, we can’t.

Enjoy life, do you hear? it’s hard work enjoying life, and have patience, not too much, and look after yourself as if you knew you won’t always be young, even though you won’t know it and that’s okay, and have plenty of sex, son, do it for your sake and mine and even your mother’s, lots of sex, and if you have children, have them late, and go to the beach in winter, in winter it’s better, you’ll see, my head hurts yet I feel good, it’s hard to explain, and go travelling on your own once in a while, and try not to fall in love all the time, and care about your looks, do you hear me? men who don’t care about their looks are afraid of being queer, and if you are queer, be a man, in short, advice isn’t much use, if you disagree with it you don’t listen, and if you already agree you don’t need it, never trust advice, son, travel agents advise you to go places they’ve never been, you’ll love me more when you’re old, I thought of my father the moment we got down from the truck, our true love for our parents is posthumous, forgive me for that, I’m already proud of the things you’re going to do, I love the way you count the time on your fingers when you set the alarm clock, or do you think I don’t see? you do it secretly, under the covers, so I won’t know you have difficulty working it out, I’m going to ask you a favour, whatever happens, whatever age you are, don’t stop counting the time on your fingers, promise me, octopus.

It’s getting dark there, in the window, your mum will be here soon, I’ll go on tomorrow, I’m hungry, I’m sleepy, there’s a new nurse who looks a lot like your mother when she was young, her name is Alicia, she’s very kind, she’s going to get me some pasta even though chicken’s on the menu, Alicia is a good name for a girl, don’t you think?

I open my eyes. The sun is in my face. Dad is taking the strips of plastic off the windows. I close my eyes again. I remember I was dreaming something really weird. We were going to the seaside. We who? Actually I think I was alone. I went down to the shore. And I started tearing strips off the water. Like it was an animal’s skin. Below the sea the sun was buried. The more strips I tore, the more light I discovered. Then a fisherman appeared. Or somebody with a sort of tow truck. And he started taking away the bits of sea. Then Dad took the plastic off.

Good morning, meddlesome marmot, Dad says holding a piece of bread in one hand, ham or cheese? No tomato? I ask. There’s none left, he answers. I lift my body off the mattress. I stretch. Ham and cheese, thanks, I say yawning. Hey, Dad, doesn’t your back hurt? Mine, he answers, I don’t have a back anymore.

We pass a sign that says: Valdemancha. This last day of our trip feels like the shortest. We’ve got the radio blaring. I follow the rhythm of the music with my legs. Dad hardly talks at all. I start counting every car we pass. Suddenly I have an idea. Dad, I say, can we go see the sea? He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he’s heard me. He doesn’t even blink. But then all of a sudden he says: Yes we can. And he changes lane. And he takes the first exit.

We have lunch in Tres Torres. Dad tells me the town is called that because it used to have three castles. But now there’s only one. So why don’t they change the name, I ask. Meddlesome marmot, he answers. Dad spreads a map out on the table in the bar. He shows the detour we’re making. He marks with a pencil the route we were going to take. And in red ink the one we’re taking. He works out how long each bit should take. He writes a time next to each place. The red line zigzags along the coast. Dad seems excited now. This way, he says, we won’t see the same things we saw on the way here, right? Yes, I say smiling. I love making plans with Dad.

Now we’re on our way to the sea I concentrate really hard. I stare at Pedro’s windscreen. The moment I see a cloud I look at the wipers and imagine them brushing it away. So far I’m doing okay because the sky is still blue. This road has tons of cars on it. We keep having to dodge them. Too bad Dad doesn’t like video games. He’d beat my score if he wanted to. Or he’d equal it at least.

The smell is different. We don’t even need to open the windows. The sea gets in anyway. I’m not sure how. But it does. I see it appear and disappear between bends. It’s really shiny. Like millions of screens. It isn’t blue. Or green. It’s, I don’t know. Sea colour.

At last! At last we arrive in Puerto del Este. I can see the harbour and sailboats. There are tons of people. And kids eating ice creams. I think Dad is checking out the girls. Mum doesn’t look like that in a bikini. Some cyclists go by as well. Racing bikes are awesome. Especially if you have a helmet and stuff. I’m going to ask for one when I’m eleven. We’re moving slowly. There’s nowhere to park Pedro. We drive away from the harbour. I can see a campsite. And volleyball nets. We drive round and round. We stop at a piece of wasteland opposite the beach. As soon as Dad opens the doors, I jump out.

My skin is all cold and salty. My legs stick to the seat. Lito, Dad says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Dry your hair well. Or you’ll catch a cold. But it’s hot in here, I answer. Dad insists. I groan. Anyway, he’s the one who’s always getting colds. That’s why he didn’t go in the sea. I unstick my legs. Ouch! I reach out and grab the towel from the back seat. I rub my head. Good and hard. Until all of a sudden my heart jumps. My head! My cap! I search everywhere. I rummage through the swimming things. Through our bags. In the glove box. Under the seat. I can’t believe it. I can’t have lost the magician’s cap. But how? where? what a dummy (What’s wrong, son? Dad says), I’m the biggest dummy on the planet, I’ll never find another one like it, there are zillions of baseball caps, of course, but this one, this exact one (Do you need something, son? Dad asks) is impossible to buy, maybe I lost it on the beach? wasn’t I wearing it in the truck? then it has to be here (Put your seatbelt back on, Dad says, right now, Lito, okay, thank you), or was I stupid enough to wear it in the sea? it could be, because I ran straight in, or maybe it fell off while I was running? I can’t believe it, I hate myself, I hate myself, and on top of that, what a sissy (Lito, what’s wrong? Dad says slowing down, come on, no, don’t cry), it isn’t just the cap, I’m also crying because there’s no way, no way Dad can understand how special that cap was (Hey, son, come here, he says reaching out and putting his arm around me), I cling to him, I hide my face in his shirt (I’m so sorry, he says stroking me, so sorry), and suddenly Dad seems like he’s going to start crying about my cap too.