Talking to Ourselves: A Novel (4 page)

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:

Mum replies:

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.

The motel is full of old junk. There’s a smell of fish coming from the back. The guy at reception has gaps in his teeth. He wears his shirt half open. His chest is all sunburned. He looks like a thug. Dad gives him some money. The thug hands us the key. Not a card. A proper key with a key ring and all. A round, heavy key ring. Like a golf ball. Do you have Internet? I ask. The thug’s gums go even pinker. What do you think, kid? he replies. Come along, son, come along, Dad puts an arm round me. The dining room’s at the back. Sure. At the back. Where the fish are rotting.

I make bread pellets. I roll them on the tablecloth. I flick
them with my middle finger. I try to aim them between the
water
jug and the breadbasket. The pellets slide fast because the tablecloth is oilskin. So far I’ve scored nine goals and had six misses. Could be better. Don’t you like the soup? Dad asks. He looks sad as he says this. So I tell a lie. Dad cheers up a bit. I put another spoonful in my mouth. This soup should be used in chemical warfare. They could fire it from tubes out of light
aircraft
. And everyone would die. I shoot two more pellets. One goes in, one goes out. I play one more to make it the best of three. Good shot. Dad puts a white pill on the tip of his tongue. Then he smiles. I get a bit carsick on those mountain roads, he explains, too many bends. I saw him take the exact same pill yesterday. And there weren’t as many bends as today. I look at the man at the opposite table. The dining-room light is far away, so it looks as if he only has half a face. Maybe the other half is missing. Maybe he ate up all his soup and it’s disintegrated.
Suddenly
the man with half a face sees I’m looking at him. And he stares straight at me. But his face doesn’t move. Not even an inch.

There’s a rusty fan on the ceiling. The fan makes me a bit
nervous
. It goes round and round. It wobbles a lot. And it’s nearer to my side. I ask Dad if he’ll swap beds with me. Dad says no. Then he tickles me and we swap. I turn on the TV. It’s teeny. I channel surf. On one Stallone is twisting the arm of a big fat man. I’ve seen that film before. It’s awesome. On another there’s the
president
with a gaggle of microphones. On another the police are firing tear gas. On another there are naked women. Dad tells me to change the channel. On another there’s a football match I don’t know where. The players’ names are really weird. On another there’s a woman skater bouncing off the ice in slo-mo. He switches the light off. I don’t feel sleepy yet. I ask if I can go
on watching TV for a bit. He says yes but with the sound off. I tell him it’s no fun watching TV with the sound off. He says it’s no fun with it on either. Then he gives a big yawn. And he takes a sleeping pill. I turn the TV off. Dad says: Goodnight speedy chelonian. Wasn’t I an arthropod today? I ask. That was
yesterday
, he replies, it’s after midnight.

I was going to say he drives me wild. But besides being cheesy, that would be inaccurate. It’s more like, with Ezequiel as a
pretext
, through his body, I had allowed myself to go wild. His healthy young body. Distant from death.

As I write this I despise myself, but sometimes Mario’s body disgusts me. Touching it is as difficult for me as it is for him to look at himself in the mirror. His scaly skin. His bony frame. His flaccid muscles. His sudden baldness. I was prepared for us to grow old together, not for this. Not to go to sleep next to a man my age and wake up next to someone prematurely old. Whom I continue to love. Whom I no longer desire.

I know what I’m doing is wretched. I suppose I am going to feel extreme remorse. Good. Everything is extreme. Because now, tonight, all I could feel was bestial, unforgivable pleasure. Tomorrow I don’t know. And the day after tomorrow I’ll be dead.

Ezequiel’s power can’t be appreciated when you see him naked. He has to be seen in movement. Gesticulating, approaching, assaulting. His physique is a refutation of the platonic. He is Elena
audacious, not muscular. Intense, not athletic. What is
irresistible
is his conviction. Which encourages me to overlook my own defects. This is essential when in bed with a man. Not what I see in his body: what he can make me see in mine. When I am with Ezequiel, I adore myself. I concentrate on our actions. And our actions are all,
my God
.

I remember early on, when we were very young, feeling
intimidated
by Mario. His robustness. His symmetry. I had never been confronted by such a beautiful nude. But, in bed, I couldn’t give myself fully. I didn’t find disorder. It was like embracing the treasure chest and being unable to open it. I hoped that things would improve by living together. And they did improve, but not very much. Now I think that deep down, because it seemed to me his body was more admirable than mine, I was constantly wriggling away, choosing my best side, half-posing. With
Ezequiel
I allow myself to be plain. Vulgar. Ugly. Excitingly ugly.

I need to touch myself. Or I will keep going round in circles, without ever getting to the point.

Good. Okay. The point.

Ezequiel doesn’t fit any of the categories catered by the porn industry. His tastes are different. He likes zits. Dirty heels. Rippling flab. Hairs sprouting everywhere. Like the ones that resemble pinheads embedded in the groin. He even likes farts. It’s quite extraordinary. Anything that can be smelled, sucked, squeezed or bitten hard, he considers worthy of the greatest admiration. He chews my armpits. He licks my unshaven legs. He sucks my feet where my sandals have rubbed the skin raw. He smells my anus. He rubs his cock against the roughness on
my elbows. He comes on my stretch marks. He says that all this, my wealth of imperfections, comes from health itself.

Today, at his place, he explained that every day he sees so many bodies shrivelling up, losing their glow, degenerating pore by pore, that he has started to be excited by what is most alive, everything that flows with eagerness out of the body. To him, beauty is exactly that.

While we were talking I stood up, naked, in front of the wardrobe mirror. Still sweating slightly, Ezequiel, remained lying down, hands clasped behind his head. His feet were crossed, and he was looking at me looking at myself. I examined
everything
I most hate about my body. My lopsided nipples. The scar from my caesarean. That sagging flesh on my inner thigh. That loathsome puffiness above my knees. My too-broad calves. The perennial corns on my little toes. Then I observed myself from the side. I focused on the folds of my stomach. On my
diminished
buttocks, which look as if the muscles have been absorbed to the sides. On the dwindling roundness of my breasts as they become more elongated and hollow. Sock boobs, my sister and I used to call them when we made fun of old women. I thought I looked rather repulsive. And for once I didn’t care.

I confessed to Ezequiel that for a couple of years now, I have had a penchant for looking at myself in the mirror too much. I spend the same amount of time looking in it as when I was a teenager. I often find myself scrutinizing my naked body,
reflecting
on whether it might still be considered desirable. I asked him whether he thought that was wrong. On the contrary, he said. We ought to look at ourselves every day. See how we are in decline, losing our shape, how our skin is starting to grow rougher. And that only in this way can we understand and
accept
the passage of time.

His response seemed to me a little too unpleasant. And not very seductive. And that what he was actually saying, playing the scientist, was that I am old. I was offended. I insulted him. I became aroused. Then he insulted me. Then he penetrated me up against the wardrobe mirror. Then I wept. Then I thanked him.

I spent the entire day fretting because Mario didn’t answer the phone. Finally he got back to me. They stopped at Comala de la Vega and are now on their way to Región. Lito told me he knows how to guess the number of inhabitants. And that he misses me. And that he wants a Valentino something-or-other wristwatch. Mario says he feels fine, just a little tired. He spoke to me in that tone of forced calm he adopts when he doesn’t want me to interrogate him. I wanted to know if he had vomited and he feigned surprise. I’m not Lito, I reminded him, and I’m not stupid either. Then he admitted he had, twice. And changed the subject. It drives me crazy when Mario assumes that
controlling
attitude of his. As though illness depended on our level of composure. Mario is brave, his brothers keep repeating like
parrots
. If he were as brave as all that, he would weep with me each time we speak.

At one point during the call, Mario asked me how I was. And, he added and I quote, what I was getting up to. It was an innocent question. I think. I had a mental block. I felt a lump in my throat. And I had to pretend I was losing coverage.

“There’s a lot of horribleness she refuses to countenance,” I agree with what Helen Garner writes in one of her novels, “but it
won’t just go away.” In fact the job of horror is to do the opposite: to resurface. “So somebody else has to sort of live it.” By avoiding the subject of his death, Mario delegates it to me, he kills me a little. “Death will not be denied. To try is grandiose.” And feeds it. “It drives madness into the soul.” Like one truck driving into another. “It leaches out virtue.” Leaves it barren. “And makes a mockery of love.” And there are no more clean embraces. Here all of us fall ill.

Lito sent me a wonderful e-mail from Salto Grande. With his comma-free sentences, his strange spelling. I miss him as never before, in a way that feels more like physical pain than
affection
. I feel ransacked inside. As though all the energy I normally spend on my adorable and unruly son had been extinguished due to the absence of any recipient. People who don’t have kids think they suck you dry (which they do, I swear), but they don’t realize that this energy, which our kids guzzle down like water from a canteen, is the exact same one we stole from them. It is like a two-way circuit. Without Lito here I work less but get more tired. The only thing that recharges my batteries is having sex with Ezequiel.

“Two-way circuit?” “Recharge my batteries?” All of a sudden I am talking like Mario. As though language were taking
revenge
on me.

Bringing up a child and caring for a sick person have this in common: both require an energy that is not really yours. You are instilled with it by them, by their eager love, their expectant fear. And they clamour for it as though scenting fresh meat. I
sometimes
feel that motherhood is a black hole. Whatever you put in is never enough, and you’ve no idea where it goes. At other
times, though, I feel like a vampire feeding off her own child. Devouring his enthusiasm in order to carry on believing in life.

But a child is also a deposit box. However selfish that may sound, you invest in him your time, your sacrifices, your
expectations
, in the hope that in the future he will yield gratitude. I argued about this with my sister, who called me again yesterday. She asked about Mario and told me she was looking for a flight. I told her not to worry, and that I know how busy she is with work at this time of year. I’m actually dying for her to come. As always, we ended up talking about our respective families. We never talk about ourselves. I told her a child is literally an
investment
. She said that was a horrible idea. That motherhood couldn’t be understood in economic terms. And that whatever I do I should never say such a thing to Lito. It wouldn’t be so bad. Kids also speculate with their love, they spend their lives making mundane calculations: if I’m good today, I’ll get this; if I’m bad I’ll get that taken away; if I’m nice to Dad I’ll have a few days worth of credit; if I’m nice to Mum the two of us can negotiate with him. That’s how we are.

Day after day you put the best (and the worst) of yourself into your child. And in the meantime you wonder: Will he notice? Will he remember? Will it do him any good? And, because you are no saint, you also wonder: Will he acknowledge it? Will he reward me for it? Will he want to look after me?