Саманта Швеблин: Mouthful of Birds

The next month I keep progressing with conscious breathing. Now I almost feel like I can stop the energy. Weisman says it won’t be long now, I only have to push a little more. He ups the dosage of my pills. I start to feel my anxiety diminish, and I’m eating a little less. Following the first point on her list, Manuel’s mother makes her greatest effort and tries, gradually—that part is important and we underline it many times: gradually, it says—to start making fewer calls to our house, and to not be so eager to talk about Teresita all the time.

The second month is perhaps the one with the most changes. My body is not as swollen now, and to both of our surprise and joy, my belly starts to shrink. This change, so marked, alerts our parents. Maybe it’s only now that they understand, or intuit, what the treatment is about. Manuel’s mother, especially, seems to fear the worst, and although she tries to stay on the sidelines and keep to her list, I feel her fear and her doubt and I worry it will affect the treatment.

I start sleeping better at night, and I don’t feel as depressed anymore. I tell Weisman about my progress in conscious breathing. He gets excited, it seems I’m about to reverse my energy—I’m so, so close, a hairsbreadth from the goal.

The third month starts, the penultimate. It’s the month when our parents will play their biggest roles; we’re anxious to make sure they keep their word so that everything comes out perfectly. They do, and they do it well, and we are grateful. Manuel’s mother comes over one afternoon and reclaims the colored sheets she’d brought for Teresita. Maybe because she had thought about this detail for a long time, she asks me for a bag to wrap the package in. “It’s just that that’s how I brought it over,” she says, “in a bag, so that’s how it should go,” and she winks at us. Then it’s my parents’ turn. They also come for their gifts, reclaim them one by one: first the hooded piqué towel, then the pure cotton socks, finally the washable diaper bag with the Velcro closure. I wrap them up. Mom asks if she can caress my belly one last time. I sit on the sofa and she sits next to me, talking in her soft and loving voice. She strokes my belly and says, “This is my Teresita, how I’m going to miss my Teresita.” I don’t say anything, but I know that if she could have, if she didn’t have to stick to her list, she would have cried.

The days of the last month pass quickly. Manuel can come closer now, and the truth is, his company does me good. We stand before the mirror and laugh. The feeling is the total opposite of what you feel when you’re leaving on a trip. It’s not the joy of leaving, but of staying. It’s adding another year to the best year of your life, and under the same conditions. It’s the chance to keep on, unchanged.

I’m much less swollen now. It’s a physical relief and it raises my spirits. I visit Weisman for the last time.

“We’re getting close,” he says, and he pushes the preservation jar across the desk, toward me.

It’s cold, and it needs to stay that way; that’s why I brought the thermal lunchbox, as Weisman recommended. I have to store it in the freezer as soon as I get home. I pick it up: the liquid is transparent but thick, like a jar of clear amber.

One morning, during a session of conscious breathing, I make it to the final level: I breathe slowly, my body feels the earth’s dampness and the energy that surrounds it. I breathe once, then again, and again, and then everything stops. The energy seems to materialize around me and I can specify the exact moment when, little by little, it starts to turn in the opposite direction. It’s a purifying feeling, rejuvenating, as if water or air were returning of their own accord to the place where they were once contained.

Then the day arrives. It’s marked on the refrigerator calendar; Manuel circled it in red when we came back from Weisman’s office the first time. I don’t know when it will happen, and I’m worried. Manuel is at home. I’m lying in bed. I hear him pacing, restless. I touch my belly. It’s a normal belly, like that of any other woman—it’s not a pregnant belly, I mean. Weisman says the treatment was very intense: I’m a little anemic, and much thinner than before the episode with Teresita started.

I wait all morning and all afternoon locked in the bedroom. I don’t want to eat, or come out, or talk. Manuel looks in every once in a while and asks how I’m doing. I imagine Mom must be climbing the walls, but they all know they can’t call or stop by to see me.

I’ve been feeling nauseated for a while now. My stomach burns and throbs more and more intensely, as if it were going to explode. I have to tell Manuel. I try to stand up but I can’t; I hadn’t realized how dizzy I am. I have to tell Manuel to call Weisman. For a moment I manage to get up. I pause and then fall to my knees. I think about conscious breathing, but my head has already moved on to something else. I’m afraid. I’m scared something will go wrong and we’ll hurt Teresita. Maybe she knows what’s happening; maybe this whole thing is all wrong. Manuel comes into the room and runs to me.

“I just want to leave it until later…” I tell him. “I don’t want…”

I want to tell him to leave me here on the floor, that it doesn’t matter, he should run and call Weisman, that everything has gone wrong. But I can’t talk. My body is shaking; I’ve lost control over it. Manuel kneels down next to me, takes my hands, talks to me. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I cover my mouth. He reacts then, and he leaves me alone and runs to the kitchen. He’s gone only a few seconds; he comes back with the disinfected jar and the plastic case that says “Dr. Weisman.” He breaks the safety seal on the container, pours the clear liquid into the jar. I feel like throwing up again, but I can’t, I don’t want to: not yet. I heave, again and again. I gag more and more violently and it’s hard to breathe. For the first time I think of the possibility of death. I think about it for a second and then I can’t breathe at all. Manuel watches me, unsure what to do. The gagging stops and something catches in my throat. I close my mouth and grab Manuel by the wrist. Then I feel something small, the size of an almond. I hold it on my tongue; it’s fragile. I know what I have to do but I can’t do it. It’s an unmistakable sensation that will stay with me for years. I look at Manuel, and he seems to accept the time I need. She’ll wait for us, I think. She’ll be okay, until the time is right. Then he hands me the jar, and finally, gently, I spit her out.

“You’ll see, my girl is wearing such a pretty dress today,” Calderón says to Gorriti. “It looks so nice on her with those brown eyes she has—its color, you know. And those little feet…” They’re standing with the other parents, waiting anxiously for their children to be let out. Calderón is talking; Gorriti is looking at the still-locked doors. “You’ll see,” says Calderón. “Stay here, you have to stick close because they’re about to come out. And yours, how’s he?” The other man pantomimes pain and points to his teeth. “You don’t say,” says Calderón. “And did you do the tooth fairy? With mine it’s no good, she’s too smart.” Gorriti looks at the clock. The doors will open any second now and the children will burst out, laughing and shouting in a tumult of colors, some spotted with paint or chocolate. But for some reason the bell is delayed. The parents wait.

A brownish butterfly lands on Calderón’s arm and he quickly traps it. The creature struggles to get away, but he presses its wings together and holds it by the ends. He squeezes hard so it can’t escape. “You’ll see, you just have to see her,” he tells Gorriti as he shakes it, “she’s just adorable.” But he presses so hard he starts to feel the tips of the wings sticking together. He slides his fingers down and sees that he has marked them. The butterfly tries to get free, fluttering its wings, and one of them splits down the middle like paper. Calderón is sorry, tries to hold it still so he can get a good look at the damage, but he ends up with part of the wing stuck to one of his fingers. Gorriti watches him with disgust and shakes his head, gestures for him to drop it. Calderón lets go. The butterfly falls to the ground. It moves awkwardly, tries to fly but no longer can. It finally stays still, flapping one of its wings every now and then, but it doesn’t try anything more. Gorriti tells him to finish it off once and for all, and Calderón, for the butterfly’s own good, of course, stomps on it.