Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

I sit up. I wipe my nose. And I tell him about it. Even though I’m ashamed. Dad agrees it must have blown away on the beach. He tries to cheer me up by playing the fool. Maybe it really was a magic cap, he says, and it flew off by itself. I get annoyed. I laugh a bit. I cry some more. And I calm down. Dad accelerates again. I slide my hand toward his head. I touch his neck. His ears. His shaved head. Suddenly I feel like having the same haircut as him. Dad, I say, how about if I shave my head this summer? He pulls his head away. We’ll think about it, he answers, we’ll think about it.

We have a snack in a café full of mirrors. It has a super long bar. It looks even longer in the mirrors. I’m not sure where we are. There are trucks like ours opposite the entrance. So I guess we’re back on our road again. I order a glass of hot milk, jam on toast, and a chocolate croissant. Dad orders a black coffee. A few days ago I was getting a bit fed up with travelling. Sometimes I thought about going home. Seeing Mum. Having my toys again. Now I’m sad the trip is almost over. Dad gets up to make a call. I watch him move along the mirrors. He signals to me to stay here. I hope he doesn’t take long. It’s so boring waiting for him. I finish my snack. I look round. Everyone else seems to be doing something. Except me. There’s a shop at the far end selling cheese, newspapers, CDs, and other stuff. I’d like to go and see it. I order another glass of milk. Suddenly Dad is in the shop. Like he’d appeared through one of the mirrors. After a while he comes back. He pays. And he asks me to go.

I stare at the lines on the road trying not to blink. They look like they’re moving. I imagine somebody’s firing rays at us. A tank filled with avenger soldiers. A racing car with a laser gun. I don’t say these things to Dad anymore. He’s always telling me about the victims of war and stuff like that. Dad’s a real bore that way now. Before it was Mum who gave me lectures about peace. And Dad would say: It’s okay, Elena, best let him get it out of his system. But now Dad gives me Mum’s lectures. (Lito.) And she gets less worried. (Lito.) She’s got more used to it. (Lito, my love.) Except about food. (Son, I’m talking to you.) Maybe Dad’s this way because we’re travelling. We’ll see at home. (Hey! Are you listening to me?)

Yes, yes, I answer. Dad smiles. Pass my shades, will you? he says. No, the other ones, yes those, thanks. I give him his shades. He is still looking at me. Didn’t you notice anything? he asks. Where? I say. In the glove box, son, in the glove box, he answers. There’s loads of stuff in there. Papers. Files. Cables. Tools. CDs. Open it again, says Dad. Oof. I open it again. And among all the stuff I see a small package. A small package wrapped in gift paper. I don’t wait for Dad to say anything else. I start tearing off the wrapping paper. I nearly break the box. And at last I manage to open it. And I see it, I see it, I see it. And I take it out of the box and hold it up and look at it closely and put it on. I can’t believe I’m wearing a Lewis Valentino. A submersible. With a light. And the date. And everything. Then I remember to hug Dad.

I recognize these rocks. The dry ground. Tucumancha. The edges of the highway are very close. Dad asks what time it is. Aha! I turn my wrist slowly. I stare at the hands of my watch. Just to be sure I press the little knob for the light. And I tell him the exact time. With minutes and seconds. Dad says: It’s late. And he accelerates. To tell the truth, I’m in no hurry.

There are trees again at the sides. And fields. And animals. The highway is wider. Pedro is going super fast. Dad’s phone beeps. He says: Tell her we’re almost there. And that I’ll call her in a bit.

I read:

Angel how many more miles? I (Dad accelerates some more and turns on the headlights) can’t wait to see you. How’s Daddy? I’ve cooked (we drive fast round the bends, my body flops to one side) a yummy homecoming meal! I (the grass changes colour, the faster we go the more yellow, or brown it is) love you to pieces (I open the window so I can see better, I stick my head out and Dad closes it).

I type:

d sz we r v nr wl cl u sn xx

We pass Pampatoro. It starts getting dark. There’s still a tiny bit of sun. Like it has steam in it. I can see shadows of trees. We pass other headlights. The animals almost don’t have heads.

Suddenly I see a raindrop on the window. And another. And another. A line of them. Several lines. A stream of raindrops. It’s weird. Really weird. I was super happy. I concentrate on the windscreen wipers. I imagine they’re sweeping the sky. Hitting the clouds like tennis balls. And the clouds are falling on the other side of the fields. Miles away. The windscreen wipers start to move. Small puddles form on the window then break up. I don’t believe this. I try to think about funny things. I remember jokes. I force myself to smile until my cheeks ache. I sing. I whistle. I try to imagine a round moon. Like a big clean plate. The sky grows dark. The clouds have spots all over them. Pedro’s roof makes more noise. The windscreen is flooded. The wipers are moving faster and faster. I don’t believe this. I ask Dad why it’s raining so much. He touches my fringe. The window is blurred.

Suddenly I get it. Peter — bilt!

A forest on my bookshelves and a desert in my house. Yet, no matter how far I venture into the forest, I always come across the same desert. As though all the books in the world, whatever they are about, spoke to me of death.

Stories, stories, stories. Escapes, detours, shortcuts.

How Mario would have loved this collection of letters between Chekhov and the actress Olga Knipper, consorts at a distance. He always travelling, she always in the theatre. Both speaking of future re-encounters. Until their correspondence is interrupted. And toward the end, suddenly, like an improvisation amid an empty stage, she starts to write to her deceased husband. “So, as I write,” she says to herself, she says to him, “I feel you are awaiting my letter.”

If death interrupts all dialogues, it is only natural to write posthumous letters. Letters to the one who isn’t there. Because he isn’t. So that he is. Maybe this is what all writing is.

Do you agree? I have such a lot to tell you. And even a lot to ask you.

Let’s say you said yes.

Dear Mario, I have put a photo of you in the living room. I write living room , and realize for how long you haven’t lived with us while we had meals, relaxed, watched TV. Companionship isn’t about experiencing great moments together. True companionship is the other stuff. Sharing a sincere doing nothing.

I put you on one of the highest shelves, near the window, so that you can breathe or amuse yourself a little. Until recently I felt incapable of looking at photos of you. It was like moving my hand toward a sharp object. You gazed into my eyes so trustingly, so shamelessly alive. Those photos triggered in me a feeling of unreality in the opposite direction: what was impossible, dreamlike, was outside the portrait. Not you on that side, grinning. Us here, now. This half a house.

Before, when we used to look at photos of me in a bikini back when we were dating, so skinny, with flowing hair, firm breasts, I felt insulted. As though someone had touched my arse and, when I turned round, there wasn’t anyone there. These days I need to go back to our early pictures, to spy on us in our youth. Seeing us cheerful, not suspecting the future, I have the impression I am regaining a certainty. That the past wasn’t my invention. That we were there, somewhere in time.