Talking to Ourselves: A Novel

by Andres Neuman

  We pass a sign that says: Valdemancha. This last day of our trip feels like the shortest. We’ve got the radio blaring. I follow the rhythm of the music with my legs. Dad hardly talks at all. I start counting every car we pass. Suddenly I have an idea. Dad, I say, can we go see the sea? He doesn’t answer. I don’t know if he’s heard me. He doesn’t even blink. But then all of a sudden he says: Yes we can. And he changes lane. And he takes the first exit.

  We have lunch in Tres Torres. Dad tells me the town is called that because it used to have three castles. But now there’s only one. So why don’t they change the name, I ask. Meddlesome marmot, he answers. Dad spreads a map out on the table in the bar. He shows the detour we’re making. He marks with a pencil the route we were going to take. And in red ink the one we’re taking. He works out how long each bit should take. He writes a time next to each place. The red line zigzags along the coast. Dad seems excited now. This way, he says, we won’t see the same things we saw on the way here, right? Yes, I say smiling. I love making plans with Dad.

  Now we’re on our way to the sea I concentrate really hard. I stare at Pedro’s windscreen. The moment I see a cloud I look at the wipers and imagine them brushing it away. So far I’m doing okay because the sky is still blue. This road has tons of cars on it. We keep having to dodge them. Too bad Dad doesn’t like video games. He’d beat my score if he wanted to. Or he’d equal it at least.

  The smell is different. We don’t even need to open the windows. The sea gets in anyway. I’m not sure how. But it does. I see it appear and disappear between bends. It’s really shiny. Like millions of screens. It isn’t blue. Or green. It’s, I don’t know. Sea colour.

  At last! At last we arrive in Puerto del Este. I can see the harbour and sailboats. There are tons of people. And kids eating ice creams. I think Dad is checking out the girls. Mum doesn’t look like that in a bikini. Some cyclists go by as well. Racing bikes are awesome. Especially if you have a helmet and stuff. I’m going to ask for one when I’m eleven. We’re moving slowly. There’s nowhere to park Pedro. We drive away from the harbour. I can see a campsite. And volleyball nets. We drive round and round. We stop at a piece of wasteland opposite the beach. As soon as Dad opens the doors, I jump out.

  My skin is all cold and salty. My legs stick to the seat. Lito, Dad says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Dry your hair well. Or you’ll catch a cold. But it’s hot in here, I answer. Dad insists. I groan. Anyway, he’s the one who’s always getting colds. That’s why he didn’t go in the sea. I unstick my legs. Ouch! I reach out and grab the towel from the back seat. I rub my head. Good and hard. Until all of a sudden my heart jumps. My head! My cap! I search everywhere. I rummage through the swimming things. Through our bags. In the glove box. Under the seat. I can’t believe it. I can’t have lost the magician’s cap. But how?, where?, what a dummy (What’s wrong, son? Dad says), I’m the biggest dummy on the planet, I’ll never find another one like it, there are zillions of baseball caps, of course, but this one, this exact one (Do you need something, son? Dad asks) is impossible to buy, maybe I lost it on the beach?, wasn’t I wearing it in the truck?, then it has to be here (Put your seatbelt back on, Dad says, right now, Lito, okay, thank you), or was I stupid enough to wear it in the sea?, it could be, because I ran straight in, or maybe it fell off while I was running?, I can’t believe it, I hate myself, I hate myself, and on top of that, what a sissy (Lito, what’s wrong? Dad says slowing down, come on, no, don’t cry), it isn’t just the cap, I’m also crying because there’s no way, no way Dad can understand how special that cap was (Hey, son, come here, he says reaching out and putting his arm around me), I cling to him, I hide my face in his shirt (I’m so sorry, he says stroking me, so sorry), and suddenly Dad seems like he’s going to start crying about my cap too.

  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!

  Elena

  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.

  Looking at you again when you were beautiful, I wonder whether I am celebrating or denying you. Whether I am recalling you as you actually were or forgetting you when you were sick. Reflecting about it today (if pain can be reflected about and doesn’t disperse like a gas under the pressure of reason), the biggest injustice about your illness was the feeling that this man was no longer you, that you were gone. But you weren’t: he, this, was my man. Your worn-out body. The last of you.

  When I placed you among the books, Lito came over, he stood staring at the photo and said nothing. After a while he went into his room and came out with a ball.

  I remember, do you remember?, do the departed retain something, somehow?, when we ran into each other at university. You were strolling with your hands in your jean pockets, greeting the girls as you went by, as though you were just visiting. You looked at us with the expression of a marauding prole. I dethrone princesses, you seemed to be saying to us. You sauntered among the desks with the air of knowing far more urgent things than Latin. That was what irritated me. That was what seduced me. Despite all your boasting to the contrary, you actually liked studying. What you disliked was being a student. “I don’t mind having to read all this stuff,” you would say to me. “But having to prove it to some moron in a suit,” you protested, you swaggered, “is insulting.” What a liar, how handsome I thought you were.

  Meanwhile, there I was attending lectures from Monday to Friday. Scrupulously taking notes. Studying on Saturdays (what a dummy!). Graduating with honours. Passing my exams early. Believing that way I would secure some certainty from among the many daunting possibilities. We used to say my vocation was clearer than yours. That wasn’t the whole truth. A vocation is a never-ending mission. In other words, a refined way of avoiding the unknown. You weren’t afraid of the unknown. Perhaps that’s why you died first.

  And I remember how planning trips for others bored you, how you dreamt of quitting the travel agency, and your brother insisted you should give Pedro a try. What a notion. I gradually got used to that name. To the point where whenever I saw a truck I thought of Pedro. I never told you this. The way you never told me that, one fine day, you stopped paying the car insurance. I found out last week, when I tried to buy a cheaper insurance. Where did that money go? What happened to the fixed-term deposit? It no longer matters. A secret for a secret.

  “One night, while he was waiting for them to kill him at any moment,” I catch my breath in a novel by Irène Némirovsky, “he had seen the house in her dream, as now, through the window,” some nights, facing our bedroom window, as my book slips from my hands, I see you smoking on the balcony, crinkling up your eyes at the same time as me, and everything grows dark, and you are like an ember flaring up and going out, “he had awoken with a start,” the book falls to the floor, I open my eyes suddenly, I look out at the balcony, there is nobody, “and thought: Only before death can one remember in this way.”

  Today, when I checked my bank balance, I discovered I had more money than yesterday. I stood holding the slip of paper and calculating, adding up days, subtracting expenditures, motionless before the cash machine. Today wasn’t payday. No one owed me money.

  At home I examined my account over the last few months. I made a printout: a plummeting balance and then a sudden peak. I imagined a plane diving into the sea, and the pilot waking up with a start.

  The transfer had no reference. The entry was blank. I emailed my bank to find out which account it came from. For an instant, my heart stopped: the surname was yours.

  The first name was Juanjo’s.

  When I met you, you were in the habit of travelling every summer. You would make decisions on the spur of the moment. You came and went. You already lived as if you were in a travel agency. You were always more adventurous than I. But every epic has its cook. Because to go on an adventure, and this problem dates back to Homer, every hero needs someone to admire them, to wait for them.

  And the one who stayed behind studying, while you reflected about the freedom of the wanderer, was this idiot here.

  This is me: in order to forgive, I need to regret something even worse.

  I just survived a movie by Susanne Bier, distressing, like all Scandinavian movies. In it a kid says:

  “Grown-ups look like kids when they’re dead. My mother looked like a kid. Like she’d never grown up. Like she’d never been a mother.”

  In an attempt to explain the inexplicable, the doctor says:

  “There’s a curtain between the living and the dead. Sometimes this curtain goes up. For example, when you lose a loved one. Then, for an instant, you see death very clearly. Afterward the curtain comes down again. You carry on living. And it passes.”

  The kid simply replies:

  “Are you sure?”

  A surprise: my sister is here. Can you believe it?

  In fact, she told me last week she had booked a flight. But since, as you know,
she usually changes her plans at the last minute, I wasn’t going to take her arrival as a given until I saw her at the airport. It’s been a while since we touched each other. You can’t see the grey hairs, wrinkles, thickening waist, and heavy hips so well on the screen. I thought she had lost her looks. I wonder how I must seem to her, now I am no longer the younger sister but the widow.

  Since your illness, it no longer surprises me to hear about other people’s misfortunes. I respond as if they had already told me. What shocks me is the way the lives of others seem to carry on as before. I felt this when I embraced my sister, and, after so long, she smiled uneasily and told me, yes, things were fine, as always.

  Once we were in the car, she asked about Lito. She calls him my nephew and she barely knows him. Before she arrived, I thought I’d show our son some photos of his aunt. And I realized he couldn’t really point her out. As soon as she looked younger or wore her hair differently, he no longer recognized her. At first, I was exasperated with him. I raised my voice, I complained he never paid attention, I wouldn’t let him have chocolate. Then I blamed myself for restricting relations with the family, for having come between Lito and your brothers. Then I took offence at my sister for not calling enough, hardly ever writing, not visiting us more: all those things that, in theory, had never bothered me. In the end I thought I understood where my anger came from. If my son had trouble recognizing his aunt, that meant before long he would start being unsure about your face.

  Sisterhood is perplexing. It can transport us, in a flash, from the most sinister aloofness to a complete identification, or vice versa. As we drove together in the car, changing topics, the way one changes channels in search of an interesting programme, something gave way inside me. The defensive muscle that reacts whenever we meet. We agreed a couple of times, laughed a bit. Then I took my eyes off the road and glanced at her again, without suspicion. I caught myself thinking she had actually aged well. I am the one who, terrified, sees myself in her, as if my older sister were the chronicle of my next decade.