Liliana Heker - Please Talk to Me - Selected Stories

Then again, even as a boy he wasn’t normal. Brilliant, yes, but not normal. That’s what worries me, I realise now. How to explain that to the doctors. They’ll ask me: And why did you never say anything about those strange looks? I’ll say, He didn’t always look at me that way, Doctor, and when he did I thought it was because he was angry with me. They’ll ask: Why did you never tell anyone that he shouted at night? I’ll tell them: We were children, Doctor, you know how these things are. I was scared that they would beat him (then Mama will jump in protesting that she has never lifted a hand against any of her children; on second thought, I’d better be careful not to say that and spare myself the complications). They are going to ask: And why did the others notice nothing? That will be the hardest part to explain. I could say: You know how parents generally treat the youngest child, especially someone like Juan Luis, an apparently perfect boy, Doctor, the kind who always carries off the end-of-year prize. Or alternatively: You’re the psychiatrist, Doctor; I don’t need to explain to you the lengths to which a bourgeois family will go to protect itself from abnormality. No, I can’t say that. I won’t have the courage to destroy Mama’s cherished image. It might be better not to mention our childhood; I don’t want to give them reasons to find me responsible for Juan Luis’ illness. We all know what psychiatrists are like — they attribute a significance to everything. I’ll say what everyone thinks: that the first sign was at Baldi’s house. Nobody can refute that because all five of us were there that time.

We were in the garden, I’m sure of that because I remember noticing the reddish reflections on the face of Señora Baldi (which made her look even fatter than she actually is) and thinking that dusk was a particularly irksome time of day. The talk was of some homeopathic doctor or other. Everyone knows that I find these inane conversations exasperating, so I did what I always do on such occasions: I didn’t listen. It’s easy: a simple question of perspective. What I mean is, if you consider that a radio has a much greater range from the twelfth floor than it does from sea level, you can understand that it’s possible to shrink the radio of one’s own perception to the body’s compass. Except that this time, when I returned from my isolation I had the impression (to start with it was only an impression, something you could feel in the air more than anything else) that other people in the garden were annoyed. I looked around me, but I realise now that even before looking, I knew what was happening. It was Juan Luis talking, in fact it was most likely his voice that broke my absorption. It wasn’t the mere fact of his talking, though, but the way he talked. Without a break, and with a strident tone that made the skin bristle. I noticed that some people were looking at me, as though begging me to intervene. Not Mama and Papa; not Adelaida, either: they still had their eyes on Juan Luis as though nothing strange was happening. It wasn’t the last time I observed this reaction or piously contributed to it myself (every time Juan Luis embarked on one of his weird episodes I would tell an anecdote or think up some gambit to divert attention towards me). That afternoon in the garden I attempted one such loving intervention though on this occasion (I must confess) it was totally ineffective, given its ultimate consequences. First, I knocked over a jug of sangria, prompting a commotion that forced Juan Luis to be quiet. Then I contrived to make myself the centre of attention, talking about mechanics, about spiritualism, all that nonsense that people find so fascinating. I’m sure that I succeeded in neutralising my brother on that occasion.

But I don’t want any more importance to be given to my behaviour than it had in reality. The illness was already apparent and, although we avoided talking about the subject, our behaviour changed. Every day, as the time approached for Juan Luis to come home, we would start shouting at one another, taking umbrage at the slightest trifle, lashing out for no reason. Perhaps not surprisingly, Mama was the most affected. She developed a kind of hysterical defence: finding herself in the company of any other human being, she would start to talk about Juan Luis, about his paintings, his girlfriend, how handsome he was, etc. I mean, I don’t want to come across as hyper-sensitive but I sometimes got the impression that she invited people round simply in order to talk to them about my brother. I don’t think she did this consciously (my mother hasn’t a Machiavellian bone in her body) but I realised how bizarre this must seem to our guests — and there was nothing I could do about it. In the beginning, yes, I did try to rein in her panegyrics but that seemed to make her more anxious, so that finally I opted for total silence when people came to visit. (Happily that mania for having visitors seems to have stopped.)

I couldn’t sit and do nothing, though. Not only on account of my family (who seemed more burdened every day) but for another, more pressing reason: María Laura. I don’t know — I’ve often asked myself about the strange workings of love. From a logical point of view, there is no reason why a girl like María Laura (the very embodiment of joie de vivre) would feel attracted to a sick man. And yet there she was, as happy as could be and apparently oblivious to any problem.

I tried dropping hints but realised very quickly that I would never convince her of the truth. So the best solution (at the time it seemed like the best) was to go and speak to María Laura’s father. I wish I had never done that. The man received me very well, listening to me attentively and promising to do everything I asked but afterwards — I don’t know — something came over him. María Laura, perhaps: that girl never liked me. Anyway, the fact is that the man not only allowed Juan Luis to keep going out with his daughter but then he did something even more hare-brained: he told Juan Luis about my visit. No, I’m not imagining it. I know it seems crazy that a serious person would put such a dangerous weapon in the hands of a lunatic but that’s how it was. That same night, as soon as Juan Luis came home, I knew what had happened. I could tell just from the way he looked at me. As if he wanted to overpower my very spirit. For a long time he stood watching me, then finally he shook his head. I don’t know what he intended by this gesture but it chilled me to the core. I felt that never in my life would I know a minute’s peace. You think I’m exaggerating? Not at all. From that day on he began to persecute me. Especially in the way he looked at me. I couldn’t take a single step without feeling his eyes fixed on some part of my body. And his words were almost as unbearable as his looks. Every time he alluded to me it was with the purpose of humiliating me. Nothing too obvious, nothing that would make the others think: Juan Luis is a bully. They were subtle attacks, straight to the point. It made me suspect that there was a plan: He was doing precisely the things that most vexed me. His plan then was to make me lose control, so that the household’s attention fell entirely on me. He wanted to deceive them, to my detriment .

The other evening my suspicion was confirmed.

For a long time Juan Luis had been pressing me to let him do a portrait of me; to start with I didn’t want to submit to his purposes, but in the end Adelaida persuaded me to go along with the idea; besides, I was interested to know what he was after with all this. When I saw the finished portrait I finally understood. No — it was nothing to do with the painting itself: it was a good portrait. Too much ochre, perhaps. But there was something that powerfully caught my eye: an unjustifiably yellow mark between the cheekbone and the right temple. What did that mean? To start with, I wasn’t entirely sure, but when I looked up my suspicions were confirmed: Juan Luis was laughing. I could hardly believe what was happening. ‘My brother,’ I thought, ‘my own brother capable of such cynicism.’ Blinded by rage, I wanted to hit him but instead I smashed the painting into a thousand pieces. I remember what I was thinking: what else might this maniac do if he is capable of working for two weeks with the sole aim of hurting his brother? What will he not stop at, now that his game has been discovered?