Talking to Ourselves: A Novel Page 2

  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.

  From then on Dr. Escalante’s tone changed; he unclasped his hands, moved closer to the edge of his desk. I was immediately on my guard, trying not to straighten my hair, cross my legs, not to blink or anything. And, for the first time, we had an honest conversation. He was brutal, direct, and at the same time respectful toward me. He spoke to me as an equal, without using patronizing euphemisms. He confirmed nearly all my fears. Although he insisted that the trip wasn’t the real problem. I was supposed to know everything he told me, and yet hearing it still shocked me. It made me think of Dr. Escalante as an honourable man. After all, they don’t pay him to be that sincere.

  When it seemed the conversation was over, one of us, I don’t recall who, made some remark about marriage. Nothing memorable. A passing comment. Yet, almost without us realizing it, our conversation was rekindled. And not only did it regain its intensity, it turned more personal. I talked about my son, his uncles, aunts, and grandparents. Escalante spoke of his mother, who died from the same illness he is now attempting to combat. I mentioned the panic attacks that have kept me from sleeping since Mario is the way he is. The doctor confessed that when he first started practising, he suffered from terrible insomnia. And he also told me he was separated. He told me this, I don’t know, with unnerving empathy. I pressed myself against the back of my chair. He glanced at the time and frowned. I sprang to my feet and thrust my arm straight out, so as to shake his hand at a distance. He said: I can’t believe how late it is. And then, squeezing my hand: I have to go now. I’d gladly ask you along, Elena, but it’s a work lunch. I told him not to worry, that I should have left ages ago, that I had to do I don’t know what I don’t know where. And I hurried toward the door. Then he added: But we could have dinner, if you like.

  “I realised what the feeling was that had been besetting me,” I underline, as I read a John Banville novel with some trepidation, “since I had stepped that morning into the glassy glare of the consulting rooms,” when there is an illness in the family, light angers or even repels us. “It was embarrassment. Embarrassment, yes, a panic-stricken sense of not knowing what to say, where to look, how to behave,” until not long ago I loved the mornings, I would get up eager to fill myself with light, and leave for work feeling I was accompanied. Now I prefer the night, which at least has a certain quality of parenthesis, somewhat like a sterile chamber: everything appears slightly deceptive in the dark, nothing seems willing to go on happening. “It was as if a secret had been imparted to us so dirty, so nasty, that we could hardly bear to remain in another’s company yet were unable to break free,” now Mario is far away but our secret is still here, in the house, “each knowing the foul thing that the other also knew and bound together by that very knowledge,” Mario has left, and that knowledge remains. “From that day forward all would be dissembling. There would be no other way to live with death.”

  Today has been utterly disconcerting. Because I’m not exactly drunk; far from it, I never get drunk, but a little tipsy perhaps. Because it’s two in the morning. And because just now, outside the front door, I gave Ezequiel a long hug goodbye and we even brushed the corner of our mouths with our lips. The wine was wonderful, made entirely from grapes harvested at night, or so the sommelier told us, what all of them? Amazing, how can they possibly see the grapes? Truly wonderful, I wrote down the name of the vineyard so that I can order some online, it wasn’t too tart or too fruity, the sommelier was terribly friendly.

  Maybe some coffee will clear my head.

  In fact, I entered the restaurant determined to tell him I wasn’t going to have dinner with him. That I had thought better of it and regretted the misunderstanding. Of course, it would have been easier to tell him over the phone. But, as it turned out, I didn’t have his private number or his e-mail address. The doctor, I mean Ezequiel, it still feels strange calling him that, had hurriedly proposed dinner. He had named a restaurant, a street, a time. And had virtually run away. I scarcely nodded. I didn’t refuse, that was all. I stood dazed outside the office door. It had a sign on it with the full names of all the different specialists and their working hours. His were finished for the day. That was the first time I had paid any attention to his first name. I should call off that dinner. Then I realized I had no way of getting hold of him outside the office. Was that a strategic omission on his part? I don’t think so. But, in short, I had to turn up at the restaurant. It would have been rude to simply stand him up. Him of all people. My husband’s doctor.

  How embarrassing, my God, how embarrassing.

  Not only that. I even arrived ten minutes early. And he was already in the restaurant. He told me he had had to check on a patient, and as he lived relatively close by, he had decided to wait for me there. I was wrong-footed, because to leave suddenly in that situation would have been like saying: Then you’ve waited in vain, goodbye. What I really wanted was to have arrived first. Seen him come in. Greeted him politely, making it perfectly clear I had taken the trouble to wait for him. Apologized. Paid for my drink and left. That is what I had imagined. But Ezequiel stood up to greet me, he looked very pleased to see me, he was extremely attentive, he told me he had just ordered a bottle of Merlot rarely found in our country. And so I said nothing, sat down, and smiled like an idiot.

  From then on everything that happened, how can I put it? acted like an antidote. Every word, every gesture conspired to block my path and prevent my escape. Ezequiel could have avoided talking about Mario (a clumsy move that would have vexed me and driven me instantly from the table), but he did precisely the opposite. He mentioned him from the very beginning, incorporating him into the conversation so naturally that it felt almost as though my husband had arranged the dinner himself but had been unable to come at the last minute. Ezequiel could also have asked me overly personal questions, as though imposing intimacy upon me. But he behaved in exactly the opposite way; he was discreet about my life and extremely open about his own. After we ordered the second bottle, Ezequiel could have made overtures, subtly in any case (which at that point I would still have bridled at somewhat), yet he didn’t make the least move. Not even to glance at my cleavage. Which, although nothing to write home about, was nevertheless there.

  Now that I come to think of it, a man only achieves such a level of restraint if that is what he has set out to do. I mean, only if it is premeditated. My God. In any case, it’s too late now. Not because we have done anything irreparable. But because it’s past four in the morning and I am wide awake. And because I was incapable of telling Ezequiel when I arrived at the restaurant, or during the meal, or as we walked back to the house, or when I heard him say his phone number, that it had all been a mistake, that I would never call him, that I didn’t want to see him. That much is irreparable. Almost as irreparable as having written my God so many times. Such an atheist and so drunk.

  I look out of the window and I don’t know what to do. Whether to lean out and yell, throw myself head first onto the pavement, or hail a cab.

  “She was also something of a feminist, not crazy,” I underline in one of Cynthia Ozick’s short stories, “but she resented having
‘Miss’ put in front of her name; she thought it pointedly discriminatory, she wanted to be a lawyer among lawyers.” The pupils call us female teachers Miss or, at worst, Ms. If it comes to that I’d prefer harassment. “Though she was no virgin she lived alone.” What fun Miss Ozick has. I remember once, during a dinner, a man asked my sister if she lived alone. In a rare show of humour, my sister replied: Yes, I’m married.

  Why did I lack the courage to pursue my academic career? Admittedly, the precariousness alarmed me, finding myself on the street at thirty, being the umpteenth jobless researcher, et alia. But there was something else. Something around me I could see rather more clearly than my dubious vocation.

  Having observed the fate of my former women colleagues, I consider myself sufficiently well-informed to sketch this brief

  PERVERSE OUTLINE

  OF THE

  ASPIRING FEMALE ACADEMIC

  to be expanded upon below, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, in the hope that it displays some aptitude for synthesis:

  YOU ARE CAPABLE

  YOU ARE INCAPABLE

  [id est: you’re dumb]

  YOU ARE CAPABLE AND HOT

  YOU ARE CAPABLE AND NOT HOT

  [id est: you’re ugly]

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, AND YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, AND YOU DON’T LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS

  [id est: you’re a prude]

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, AND THEY PROMOTE YOU

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, AND THEY DON’T PROMOTE YOU

  [id est: you’re a slut]

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, AND YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, AND YOU DON’T SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR

  [id est: you’re ungrateful]

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR, AND, VERY

  IMPROBABLY, YOU TAKE OVER HIS POST WHEN HE RETIRES

  YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR, AND, OF COURSE, YOU RETIRE HAVING NEVER TAKEN OVER HIS POST

  [id est: you’re over the hill]

  We trust this has not wearied you, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, and that our research will attain, if not your unmerited theoretical approval, then at least your paternal consent to carry on failing. Thank you very much.

  I take my phone out of my bag, I turn it on, look at it, leave it on the table, put it back in my bag, take it out again. I act like a delinquent.

  The first thing I did when I got up was call Mario. It took a while to get hold of him. They seem fine. They are seeing places, enjoying themselves. They sound almost happier without me. When I asked Mario whether he was sleeping eight hours a day like he had promised, he hesitated. I got annoyed and we argued. We fell silent. And then we were tender. Lito tried to explain something to me about the truck and the rain, I couldn’t hear very well, whatever it was it sounded adorable. He told me very excitedly that he had beaten his dad in a race. I asked him to let me speak to Mario again. He promised he hadn’t really run, how could I even think that, didn’t I know the little tyke had an overactive imagination. We ended on a happy note. I felt reassured. I busied myself cleaning windows. I did some washing. I boiled vegetables. I read for a while. I prepared the literature exams. I sewed on two buttons. Then I called Ezequiel.

  He asked me if I had thought about our dinner the previous night. I said no. He asked me if I’d had difficulty getting to sleep. I said no. He suggested meeting for coffee this afternoon. I said no. He asked if he could call me tomorrow. I said yes.

  “Hypocrite lecteuse! Ma semblable! Ma soeur!,” I underline with a highlighter in a manifesto by Margaret Atwood, hypocrisy is a leveller, sisterly hypocrisy, sister hypocrisy, “Let us now praise stupid women,” praise them, praise them!, “who have given us Literature.” Without stupid women, not a single love poem would have ever been written.

  Is Mario jealous? Somewhat. Am I jealous? Not particularly.

  I could just as well have written: Is he jealous? Not really, because he acknowledges it as such. Because he is a man at ease with his jealousy. Like my sister is with hers. She even cultivates it. She regards jealousy as a sign of love.

  And I could as well have written: Am I jealous? Perhaps in a twisted way. Because, although in theory I am less possessive than they are, in fact I am afraid to acknowledge the possessive impulse in myself.

  Is jealousy related to love? It is related: they fight. They probably cancel each other out. Are fantasies related to marriage? They are related: they cohabit. Maybe they are mutually sustaining.

  Not long ago I reached a certain age, how can I define it? an age: that’s all. After which we begin counting it, we become too aware of it. It isn’t a number so much as a kind of frontier.

  Why is it that suddenly, without having decided to, we begin noticing younger people? Observing them with a certain nervousness? Why are we tempted to attract their attention, to display ourselves surreptitiously in front of them? What do we hope they will avoid? What do we want them to give us back?

  Any woman who thinks this is a problem restricted to men, very well: she is probably naïve, a coward, or a hypocrite. I have women friends who fit neatly into all three categories. Until one day, when they least expect it, they leave their bald husbands for some other man.

  I can’t help but admit that I, too, am turning into That. The thing I didn’t want to become. I should have been fully prepared. I had seen it in books, films, in my neighbours. But that couldn’t happen to me. Yet it has: I am starting to mistake beauty for youth.

  Mario

  … testing, testing, let’s see, is this piece of shit working or not?, testing, tes, well, it seems to be, getting started is difficult, breathing is a bit of a struggle sometimes, but the main thing is to get started, isn’t it?, like with Pedro, after that, well, everything speeds up, I’ll explain, bah, can I explain this?, you’re at your grandparents’ and you don’t know why, we’ve sent you there until the end of the holidays, I’m meant to be travelling, we talk every day, I try to sound cheerful, am I deceiving you, son?, yes, I’m deceiving you, am I doing the right thing?, I’ve no idea, so let’s assume I am, I prefer you not to see me like this, we can’t tell you what’s going on now, what is now in any case, if I don’t even know when you’re listening to me, will those mp thingamajigs still exist?, or will iPods seem as old-fashioned to your kids as my record player?, formats disappear just like people, hold on, is this thing still recor—.

  And at the same time I’m not sure, do you see?, I swear I’d give my life to, how ironic is that, I’d give anything to know what’s going to happen to this lie, what you’ll think of me when you discover it, you’ll have a few photos of me, I hope, and if so Mario you’ll look at them sometimes, won’t you?, but I have no way of seeing you, I mean, will you be a nice guy or a rogue?, or will you be nice some of the time and a bit of a bastard others, like the rest of us?, and, you know, I try, I really do try to figure out if you’re going to look like me, not too much I trust, for your sake, and part of me is desperate for you to grow up now, and another part of me is scared by how fast you, I mean, for you time will also, well, and I spend hours inventing a face, a height for you, but not a voice, I can’t do voices, it’s strange, I make up bodies, but I remember voices, and I can picture your back, your nose, whatever, your beard, you have a beard?, I can’t believe it.

  Let’s say that with you I’ve had good intentions but not much initiative, I fooled myself into believing I was waiting, waiting for you, for instance, the last few summers you’d been asking me if you could go with Uncle Juanjo on a delivery, he suggested it, he told me, but your mother and I were neve
r sure, we thought it was dangerous, or not right for your age, or heck knows what, there’ll be time, we said, we thought there’d be plenty, and suddenly, or not so suddenly, there wasn’t any, that’s why I had to do it like this, in such a hurry, I had to create this memory for you, your mum was against it at first, we argued quite a lot, I was feeling better, and you know those trips, the ones the travel agency was supposedly sending me on?, well, I was staying with your uncle and aunt for a few days, until I had recovered a bit from the side effects, then I came home and did the best I could, your mother, it goes without saying—wait, someone’s coming in.

  Once I quit taking the poison there was a, like a kind of illusion, I had mornings when I was elated, I got up and thought: I’m cured, then the next day I returned to reality, I had ups and downs, and during one of these remissions I asked Uncle Juanjo what deliveries he had, are you sure? he said, are you sure?, then I suggested we go together, that came first, right?, and at the same time, why not, it would bring in some money, the pay was good, and I, well, you’ll agree, son, I was thinking about how little money we had left in the bank, about the mortgage payments, needing a new car, things like that, and I had a duty to you, didn’t I?, your duty is to take care of your health, your mother said, but this summer it was different, I hardly felt sick at all, you’d just had your birthday, the delivery date was okay, you can tell there aren’t as many truckers to put the screws on during the holidays, damned bloodsuckers, I more or less knew the route, I’d been there once with your granddad, he was the one who started trucking, then Uncle Juanjo took over, bah, and I was supposed to, that’s another story, your granddad wanted it to be me, you know?, he even taught me how to move trailers, how to strip engines, how to budget, I don’t know why the heck we teach our kids to behave the way we do, when we know we aren’t happy, sometimes when I think about it, I swear I—