Talking to Ourselves: A Novel

Then I start to sing, and my mouth gets bigger. It makes Dad laugh to see how happy I am. But Mum doesn’t laugh.

I’d been pestering them about it now for ages. Every summer. They always said the same thing. When you’re older. I hate it when they say that. I picture a long line of kids with me at the end. This time they argued. Not out loud. They waved their arms about a lot. They shut themselves in the kitchen. It really annoys me when they do that. The kitchen belongs to all of us! I put my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear much. After a while they came out again. Mum had a serious face. She looked out of the
window
. She blew her nose. Then she came over and kissed my fringe. Dad asked me to sit down with him. Like we were having a real talk. He squeezed my hands and said: You’re a man now, Lito, we’re going. And I started bouncing up and down on the sofa.

I try to stay calm. Well, I’m a man now, right? I pull down my T-shirt and sit properly. I ask Dad when we’re leaving. Right now, he says. Right now! I can’t believe it. I run up to my room. I open and close drawers. I drop my clothes on the floor. Mum helps me pack my backpack. This is going to be awesome. For
sure. Totally. This is the kind of stuff that starts happening to you when you’ve turned ten.

All three of us go down to the garage. It always smells bad in here. I switch the lights on. And there’s Uncle Juanjo’s truck. Shiny. Like new. Dad starts checking the tyres. The engine. The oil. Does Dad know about things like that? Mum puts my
backpack
on the front seat. Right there. On the navigator’s seat. I don’t know what to say. We’re silent until Dad’s finished. His fingers are black. They look like insects. He washes his hands slowly. Then he climbs into the cab. He takes out his wallet and puts a photo of Mum on the mirror. She rubs her eyes.

It takes us ages to leave. We say goodbye and everything. Mum whispers in Dad’s ear. She keeps hugging me. Oof.
Finally
we climb into the truck. Dad immediately straps me in. But he doesn’t strap himself in. He examines some papers. Looks at a map. He writes stuff down. Suddenly the engine makes a noise. The door lifts up and the garage fills with light. I can’t see Mum waving anymore. Well! Dad says, banging the steering wheel, let’s hope Pedro brings us luck. Why is it called Pedro? I ask. Because it’s a Peterbilt, son, he replies. What’s that got to do with anything? I insist. Dad roars with laughter and puts his foot down on the accelerator. I hate people laughing at me when I ask questions.

I see the roofs of the cars go by. It’s like being in a helicopter with wheels. One day I’ll drive Pedro. Totally. I always watch the way Uncle Juanjo does it. There are hundreds of buttons everywhere. But they really only use three or four. The hardest thing has to be steering. What happens, for instance, if you’re supposed to turn one way and you turn the other by mistake? All the rest looks easy because Dad doesn’t seem to pay much
attention
to it. It’s like he’s thinking about something else. But I’m
not going to tell Mum that. They always fight in the car. It’d be great to hold the wheel. But I know that’s not possible when you’re ten. I’m not stupid. We’d get a ticket.

It’s super hot up here. I guess because we’re so high up the sun is hotter. I try turning up the air-conditioning. I play with the buttons Dad played with when we were leaving. He pulls a face and turns it down again. I turn it up again. He turns it down again. Dad’s really annoying. I ask him, just in case: Will you teach me how to drive? Dad smiles, then goes all serious. When you’re older, he sighs. Just as I thought. It’s illegal, isn’t it? I say. That’s not the reason, gun-toting mollusc, Dad replies. Why then? I ask, surprised. He keeps me guessing. Why? Why? I ask again. Dad takes a hand off the steering wheel, lifts his arm slowly (a red car passes us really fast, red cars are great, I prefer convertibles, a red convertible would be awesome, I wonder how the owners stop their hair from getting messed up, or maybe they all have it cut short?, of course, that must be it, but what about the women, then?), Dad stays like that, hand in the air, until I turn to look at him again. Then points his forefinger at me. No. Not at me. Lower down. He’s pointing at my trainers. That’s why, he says. I don’t get it. It has to do with my trainers? Your legs, champ, Dad says, how do you think you’re going to reach the pedals? Actually, I hadn’t thought of that. What if I wore high heels like Mum? But I don’t say that because I’m embarrassed.

We leave Pampatoro behind. The bar was really gross. The food was yummy. It had tons of ketchup. There are no more trees. The countryside is yellow. It’s like the light is burning the ground. I read a sign: Tucumancha. There are loads of rocks along the sides of the highway. Orange-coloured rocks like bricks. Where do bricks come from? Do people make them? Or do they grow
inside rocks and people cut them into squares? Pedro is very close to the edge of the highway. Dad is braking in a weird way. His back is very straight and he’s gripping the steering wheel with both hands. It reminds me of
World Force Rally 3
(the music on the radio stops for the news, they read out: so many people dead, so many injured, the number of injured people is bigger than that of dead people, but what if some of the injured people die, do they change the numbers?, do they read them out again?, the music Dad has on is a bit boring, it’s all old stuff), that video game has some great circuits, there’s one full of rocks like a huge desert. Besides crossing it, you also have to dodge animals and shoot at Arabs who attack you. If you don’t kill them quickly, they leap on your car, smash the windscreen, and stab you. It’s awesome. Once I nearly beat the highest score. But I turned over at the final corner, lost a life, and got points deducted. Rally games are my speciality. Maybe it’s because Uncle Juanjo has the truck. And without realizing it I’ve learnt too. Actually, now that I think of it, there aren’t any pedals in
World 3
.

Dad, I say, did you know there’s a game where the landscape is exactly like this? Really, he replies. It’s one of my favourites, I tell him, the hardest thing is dodging the wild animals without driving off the track. Aha, Dad says, and if you drive off, what happens? You overturn, I tell him, and you lose time. What else? he says. Poor Dad doesn’t know a thing about video games. And then you lose lots of places, I explain, and have to overtake them all again. Unless you find a supercharged engine or some
extra-slick
tyres of course. Is that all? Dad’s being really annoying. What? I reply, you think it’s easy dodging animals, killing Arabs, changing an engine, and overtaking everyone else
without
crashing into the rocks? No, no, he says, I’m asking what else happens when you have an accident, I mean, do you get hurt? Do people help you? Do you get to sit out a few races or what? Video
games don’t work like that Dad, I sigh. I give up. I’m not
going
to argue with someone who wouldn’t even be able to beat the top score in
World 1
. I start fiddling with the radio until I find some better music. I look at Dad out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t say anything. We pass another sign:
MÁGINA DEL CAMPO
, 27
KM
. There are no more rocks. The sun is almost level with Pedro. Now there are wire fences. Tractors. Cows. If we hit one, I’ll have to restart the game.

Are you hungry? asks Dad. No, I reply. A bit, maybe. We’ll stop again soon, Dad says looking at the map, that’s enough for today. Then he stretches his arms (I don’t think he should let go of the steering wheel, Mum always says that to him in the car, and Dad tells her he knows what he’s doing, and Mum says if he knew what he was doing he wouldn’t let go of the steering wheel, and Dad says she can drive next time, and Mum says he’s
unbearable
when she drives, and they both go on like that for a while), he bends forward, twists his neck, sighs. His face looks tired. Hey, I say, why don’t we eat some of what’s in the back? No, Lito, no, Dad laughs, we have to deliver the goods intact. Besides, everything’s packed into boxes. And counted. One by one? I ask. One by one, he says. And they count everything again after we’ve made the delivery? I ask. I really don’t know, Dad says. So what’s the point? I grow impatient. Son, he says, there are lots of things about work that make no sense. That’s what they pay us for, do you see what I mean? More or less, I say.

We park Pedro outside a bar with coloured lights. Dad
reminds
me to call Mum. I tell him I’ve just sent her a text. Call her anyway, he insists. Oof. What’s great is that afterward he asks the big question: Motel or truck? Truck! I cry, truck! But tomorrow, Dad says pointing a finger at me, we shower, right?

We climb down to take a leak. We brush our teeth using a bottle of water. We make up the bed at the back. We lock the
doors. Cover the windows with some strips of plastic. We lie with our backs to the wheel. The bunk is hard. Dad puts his arm round me. His arm smells of sweat and of petrol a bit, too. I like it. When I close my eyes I start hearing the crickets. Don’t
crickets
ever go to sleep?

They’ve just left. I hope my son comes back happy. I already know my husband won’t be coming back. It was now or never, I agree. Although Mario finds it hard (men do as a rule) to admit that sometimes it’s never.

Apart from the possibility of accidents (something which
terrifies
me even to write), what if he takes a turn for the worse? What if he can’t carry on? What would Lito do then? Mario
refuses
even to contemplate it. He seems convinced that his
will-power
outstrips his physical strength. As usual I gave in. Not out of generosity, but rather guilt. The absurd thing is that now I regret it all the same.

If Mario accepted the limits of his strength, we would have told all our friends the truth. He prefers us to be secretive.
Discreet
, he calls it. A patient’s rights go unquestioned. No one talks about the rights of the carer. Another person’s illness makes us ill. And so I’m in that truck with them, even though I’ve stayed at home.

Mario insisted he needed to go on a trip with his son at least once in his life. To take him in the truck, the way his father had
done with him. I couldn’t refuse him that. But then he came out with an unacceptable argument. He said that in any event we could do with the money. Worse: that I could do with it. If he’s already putting it like that, then he won’t be able to withstand all those miles. And the fact that he insists on making
financial
decisions the way my father-in-law did, like a paterfamilias, shows that deep down he’s in denial about his situation.

I’ve just called Dr. Escalante. I made an emergency appointment so that he can tell me about Mario’s physical state and whether he will really make it through this trip. We should have
consulted
Dr. Escalante before deciding anything. Perhaps Mario knew what the answer would be, and that’s why he was against it from the start. He kept telling me it was a personal matter, not a medical one. What was I supposed to do, drag him there? But I think that now at least I am within my rights to see Dr. Escalante on my own. I want to know exactly how he found him during the last checkup. I’m going to ask him to be absolutely honest. I suppose I must have sounded quite anxious, because he’s given me an appointment tomorrow morning at eleven.

The staff room is not far away, so I’ll make the most of it and go there to prepare the language resits. They are still some way off, but not working drives me crazy. I’m afraid there are two kinds of alienation: one is the exploited worker’s, the other that of the worker on holiday. The first has no time to think. The second can only think, and that is his sentence.

I’m still waiting for Mario to reply to my message. I feel hot and nervous at the same time. I need to scratch my body hard all over, until I’ve peeled away something I can’t quite put a name to. I don’t like it when Mario answers the phone while he’s
driving. And so I am in his hands. It is me he is throttling as he grips the steering wheel. He turns it. And he is wringing my neck. Enough. I won’t continue this diary until I receive his message.

I won’t continue this diary until I receive his message.

I won’t continue this diary until I receive his message.

I won’t continue this diary until. At last, at last.

They are fine. Or so they tell me. At least they were thoughtful enough to send me two messages. Mario’s strikes the right note. Concise without being evasive. Affectionate without sounding sentimental. He still knows how to treat me, when he wants. That’s what made me fall in love with him: his ability to handle silences as well as words. Some men are brilliant talkers, I’ve met many like that. But almost none of them know when to be silent. Most of my female friends confuse the tough guys with the silent types. I think that’s a movie myth. The worst examples of male aggression I’ve come across have been intolerably verbal. At full volume.

As usual, I found Lito’s reply hard to decipher. All those abbreviations that supposedly speed things up, don’t they slow down the meaning of the message? Don’t they impede communication? I’m growing old.

I sat in the waiting room for an hour and a half. Seeing all those sick people together didn’t exactly put my mind at ease. In the end Dr. Escalante fitted me in between two patients. He gave me no more than five minutes. He nodded practically
the whole time and apologized for the rush. When he saw me tormented by all the questions I had, he suggested I come back tomorrow. He has a gap between twelve and twelve-thirty. I’ll be there. All he had time to tell me was that, while the trip has its risks, right now Mario’s body is experiencing a respite thanks to having stopped taking the drugs. And that this normally boosts the immune system for a limited period. So the
additional
uplift, although there are no guarantees of course, might help Mario recover some of the strength he lacked months ago. I asked the doctor how limited that period would be. He shrugged and said: Limited.

The cautiousness of doctors irritates me. Conversing with them is like talking on a phone without any coverage. In other words, like listening to yourself speak. They allow you to get things off your chest, to ask questions the answers to which you dread, and gradually to become aware of what’s going on based on the information they drip-feed you. Dr. Escalante is a strange man. He knows how to manage his position. He doesn’t display his power: he calmly takes it for granted. What strikes me most about him is his air of discreet composure, his aloof
self-confidence
, combined with the energy of a man his age. I notice that profusion of energy in his look and in his brusque arm movements. As a matter of fact, Dr. Escalante isn’t that much younger than I am. And yet when I’m with him, I’m not quite sure why, I feel like an older woman, or as if my life is duller than his. I’ll bet anything he doesn’t have kids.

Before seeing the doctor, I chatted with Lito and Mario. Lito told me they had slept in the truck. I thought we had agreed they were going to stay in hotels. I chose not to get angry because they seemed happy. Mario told me he hadn’t been feeling sick. He sounded relaxed. When he’s anxious or he’s lying to me, he pauses strangely in mid-sentence; he takes breaths in unnatural
places. Lito was shouting excitedly. Hearing him like that
comforted
me. At the same time it saddened me. He said he saw a landscape just like the one in the Road Runner cartoons. They’re eating well. I’m not. I’m going to choose the exam texts. Then I’ll spend the afternoon reading. My nerves are calmed by reading. Not true. They aren’t calmed, they change direction.

After leaving the surgery, I went (fled) to a bookshop. I bought several novels by authors I like (I chose them quickly, almost without looking, as if I were buying painkillers) and a journal by Juan Gracia Armendáriz, which I leafed through by chance. I suspect his book will be not so much a painkiller as a vaccine: it will inoculate me with the unease I am striving to overcome.

“Illness, like writing, is forced upon us,” I underline in the journal, “that is why writers feel awkward when questioned about their condition.” In a sense the opposite is true of us teachers, we seem to wear our condition on our sleeve, we exist in a classroom. I imagine the same goes for doctors, only it must be far worse: in the eyes of others, without respite, they are always doctors. “And yet when questioned about their favourite
techniques
or their best-loved authors, writers will talk incessantly, in the same way the sick become particularly garrulous when we enquire after their ailments,” the difference being that writers can’t help talking about something that saves them, whereas the sick can’t help talking about the thing that is dragging them under.

I have just come from seeing Dr. Escalante. It wasn’t what I expected. Not in any sense.

But was I expecting anything?

I arrived at his office exactly on the hour. As I had supposed, I was obliged to wait quite a long time. I was the last to be called in. Dr. Escalante and I greeted one another coldly. He asked me to take a seat. He said, “Let me see,” or some such phrase. All perfectly normal. After that, I am not sure what happened, or how.

At first he behaved as always. He listened, nodded, and gave didactic answers, as though avoiding the most troublesome
aspect
of every reply. That exasperated me, because I hadn’t gone back there to revisit platitudes I already know by heart.
Sometimes
I have the impression doctors tell you things not to help you understand what is happening, but to delay your
understanding
. Just in case, with any luck, in the meantime the illness is cured. And, if it isn’t, at least they will have saved themselves the awkward business of revealing the worst. This cautiousness drives me nuts. I told Dr. Escalante so in no uncertain terms. I detected a look of irony and at the same time of mild satisfaction on his face. He smiled. He seemed to relax. As if he were saying: So you’re one of those. The kamikaze type. The type who believe they prefer to know.

At that moment the doctor struck me as a man who knows he is attractive, without being good-looking.