Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

Well, and that’s how she and I got started, I would tell her half jokingly: I’m your consolation prize, it irritated her, but I guess it was kind of true, her family always thought so, I didn’t care, we met up every day, lent each other books, went halves on buying records, studied together, well, not that so much, we went camping, the whole shebang, until midway through my degree I got this feeling, I don’t know, of being trapped, finally I decided to take a year off and go travelling, I went all over with my backpack, stopping at any old place, I got money from wherever I could, doing odd jobs, borrowing, or if I had to, well, I even read more books, I tell you, in hostels, in parks, in van — no, thanks, I still have some, yes, thanks.

I came back in the summer, and your mother said we should move in together, how about that? move in together or never see each other again, she told me, I was flabbergasted, we’d spoken hundreds of times on the phone, exchanged heaps of letters, but, I don’t know, I think during that year she tried a different life as well, and different men, she says she didn’t, and we both went off, to live together, I mean, and your mum got her degree, and never applied for that research grant, to tell the truth, that suited me fine, I preferred her to get a steady teaching job, now I’m not so sure, I don’t know, around that time, more or less, is when she stopped writing, in the meantime I had to do something, of course, I wasn’t about to go back to studying, and I wasn’t going to hang around waiting for my in-laws to give me a handout, in short, I started to look for things related to travelling, I did this and that, and then I started working at the travel agency, I was used to moving around, not to dealing with tourists, a tourist, you might say, is someone who pays you in order not to move around, at first I thought of it as a stopgap, it was convenient, near home, finding something better wasn’t so easy, you know? and so I stayed on, I began to settle, and the years went by like crazy, my parents died, one then the other, just imagine, as if they’d made a pact, your grandma always longed to have grandchildren, how can I describe her to you? my mother walked around staring down at her feet, the more they yelled at her at home, the more she painted her nails, and Uncle Juanjo took over the company, he was always telling me: why don’t you come and work with me, you know you love the open road, but we’d just had you, Lito, and something strange started happening to me, I started to be afraid of the open road, and every time that I …

We arrive at Veracruz de los Aros and then it happens again. The sky clouds over. All at once. First I thought it was a fluke. No. No way. I’ve done loads of tests. And it works. If I concentrate really hard, the weather changes. I don’t know who has the power. Pedro or me. But it’s true. Maybe that’s why they gave the truck that name. Wasn’t he the saint who carried round the keys of heaven? I was worried that Dad might laugh at me and all that. I know him so well. I’m glad he takes me much more seriously now. That’s the good thing about being ten and sharing a truck. So I told him about my discovery. Dad tested it too. And he saw it was true.

It depends on my mood. If everything’s okay, it’s sunny. If I get bored, it clouds over a bit. When I’m restless, it gets windy. If I get angry and cry, it rains. The other day, for instance, Dad was furious because I stuck my arms out of the window. It scares me when Dad bawls at me like that. And that night there was lightning. Of course, you have to be patient. The sky won’t change as soon as I think of it. It’s like Dad says: You have to drive a long way to travel a short distance. But if I keep it up, eventually it happens. Like mealtimes.

I send a text from Dad’s phone:

hi ma hw r u? we r awsm! saw ++s of grt plcs 2day dt wrry dad nt drvg fst:-) xxxs luv u

Mum replies:

Thank you my darling for your delicious message. Your mum is fine but she misses you loads. Be careful climbing in and out of Pedro. I went swimming today. You are my angel, kiss Daddy for me.

Mum doesn’t know how to use the phone, I laugh. What do you mean? Dad says, she uses it every day. And she had one before you were born, grumpy arthropod. Sure, I say, but she doesn’t know. Her messages always have twenty or thirty letters too many. It’s more expensive. And she wastes about a hundred letters. There are some things you don’t skimp on, Dad says. And you, I go on, don’t know how to use it either. Oh, heck, pardon me, he says, why? Let’s see, I say, where in the menu do you find the games? That’s unfair, he complains. Ask me about something I might have a use for. Okay, okay, I say. How do you copy your contacts list? He doesn’t say anything. You see? I say. Then I raise my arms and whoop like I’d just scored a goal. Arthropod! says Dad.

We stop at another service station. Dad keeps wanting me to take a leak. Like I was an eight- or nine-year-old. He says it’s not good to hold it in. That it’s best to go right at the start. And, because we drink so much Coke, in the end I always go a bit. We climb out. The sun blinds me. Dad is wearing shades. He points to some metal doors. I crinkle my nose to try to see them. Last one to the toilet cleans Pedro’s windows, I shout. Dad smiles and shakes his head. You’re afraid I’ll win, right? I try saying. I’m afraid the effort will make you wet yourself before you get there, he replies. Liar! Liar! I accuse him. Pants on fire! he teases. Don’t be a spoilsport, I complain. Don’t you be so competitive, he says. I stop walking. I lift my head. I put my hand over my eyebrows and say: Please, please, please. Dad stands still. He sighs. He looks ahead of him. He grips his belt. He sighs again. You count, he whispers. One, two! I shout. After that all I hear is the sound made by the soles of my trainers.

I reach the door to the toilet. Me. First. For a moment I think Dad may have let me win. That always annoys me. This time it’s different. Because he actually ran and he’s all shaken up. It’s true Dad had that virus last year. And he still isn’t the same as before. He says he is. I know he isn’t. But his belly isn’t so big. So he should be quicker than when he was fat. I don’t know. I beat him anyway. This summer is so cool. As soon as school starts I’m going to take on that jerk Martin Alonso, who always beats me at races. I leave the toilet. Dad doesn’t. It takes him quite a long time these days. But when I take just a bit long, he grumbles. Although. I’m not surprised considering what comes out. Dad shits a lot and it’s hard. I’ve seen it. Finally he appears. His face and T-shirt are soaked. Good idea. Me too.

We cross Sierra Juárez. Dad can’t find the radio station he likes. So he lets me choose the music. I’m happy and it’s getting warmer. Further proof of Pedro’s power. I’ve thought a lot about it and I’ve realized that it’s him. Or rather, it’s the two of us. For it to work the truck has to be moving and I have to be on board. Dad looks at the map the whole time. Are you okay? he asks. Great, I reply. We should be in Fuentevaca by now, he says. Pedro’s tired so he’s going more slowly, I laugh. Papa doesn’t find it funny. His jokes are worse. I switch on the phone to play for a bit. I choose mini-golf. I still don’t understand the rules. But I keep scoring more and more points. Lito, Dad says, I think we’d better spend the night at a motel, right? I think there’s one near here. We need to take a shower. And to get a good night’s sleep. Because tomorrow (the ball spins round in a weird way, it gets bigger, flies up like it’s coming out of the screen, disappears, the yardage calculator keeps going, the trees lean a bit to the right, the crosswind makes the shot more difficult, the ball appears, then grows smaller again, falls in slo-mo, bounces once, twice, three times, keeps rolling slower and slower, what would it be like to play in the hills? is there such a thing as mountain golf? the ball lands on the green, skips closer, the flag’s in sight, what a shot, ladies and gentlemen! it rolls a few feet further, no, I don’t think it’s going to make it), hey, son, hey, are you listening to me or not? Yes, yes, I reply.