Diving Board, page 6
I really did forget about Miguel’s existence until I lay down at night. Then he would appear. First his image, behind my closed eyes. After that, seamlessly, when I opened them, his person, as though they were one and the same. Just as I’d imagined him, he’d be standing in a corner, staring at some point beyond the walls.
* * *
Sometimes I wish I could pinpoint exactly when things took a turn. So I could understand what happened, or why. But life doesn’t work that way, definitive moments exist only as abstractions. The fact remains that I don’t know when everything began to get complicated. Because it wasn’t a moment, it was a sort of slow and prolonged slippage. A pool I had submerged myself in, step by step, the water warm and very deep. The further in I got, the hotter it was and the more I felt the pressure, the liquid penetrating my pores, the heat melting me. There was beauty to this bewilderment, and it allowed me to open up and disappear.
I might say it was the moment that Esther, on edge and ill at ease, watching from the door, placed a pair of pliers in my hand. And the vibration, amplified in Miguel’s skull, when I pulled out that first tooth. But to be honest, every night felt like the natural, slow, and silent continuation of something that had always been happening. That was the worst part: not being able to stop. The problem was who we were, who we had evidently always been.
Even the day Esther stopped watching. It was spontaneous, like the rest of it. She just went in first.
I had to finish up, because penetrating bone is a lot tougher than it seems.
* * *
Some mornings I woke with my hands covered in blood, not knowing why. By the time the memory began to sharpen, I’d already washed them and removed the traces. There was nothing then to connect those nightmares with reality. Only Miguel’s mutilated body behind the door. All it took was not opening it.
Then it was night and we went to bed early, determined not to go into his room. But we couldn’t sleep. We’d lie there for a while with our eyes closed, until the yearning got the best of us. I’d try to get up first so Esther didn’t feel guilty. She’d follow me, and we’d walk through the hallway in silence, convinced it was the last time.
We’d exhaust ourselves and sleep very deeply. Completely disconnected. Sometimes, when I tried to get up in the morning, it was as though I had split in two, and I’d see us from above. Our bodies were rigid. We looked dead.
* * *
This was around the time of my last weeks at the office. I no longer cared about work. I’d been given the date of my retirement a year earlier, and I’d sit there silently, doing nothing. Sometimes I found myself running a finger over the blade of a pair of scissors. Or looking out the window like a robot, my eyes following the sun as it lowered, calculating the hours before midnight.
It was the same at home. The silent dimension, where everything we couldn’t say resided, had become more important than what we believed was real. Esther moved through her days like a sleepwalker. She’d either wander around the house or sit at the table, her head twisted, her eyes fixed on the wall.
It was around then, when his eyes became part of it, that I understood we had to stop. Not because of Miguel, but because of us. Though at this point it sounds ridiculous, I felt we’d crossed a line. The next day, at breakfast, I told Esther that it was over, that we couldn’t go on like this. The mere mention of the subject in the morning light, which spilled hazily into the kitchen, contorted her expression. She looked at me, a grimace furrowing her face, rising up from her stomach, and she vomited on the table.
* * *
She stayed in bed that day. For the first time, I had to take care of Miguel on my own. I had to feed him, clean him, change his bandages and diapers. The smell of his room was unimaginable, a clammy entity that wrapped itself around my body like a swollen, putrid snake. Before I went in, I had to prepare myself mentally. I’d stand next to the door until my heartbeat normalized. He was still very thin and had practically no hair, except for the colourless fuzz around his pelvis. His body repulsed me. But at the same time something throbbed in the pit of my stomach. A bloody and disproportionate desire, unbearable because it was so intense.
That’s what I was thinking one morning, my gaze blank, lost among the lines of some news in the paper, when the bell rang. It was Nahuel, home for a surprise visit. He was changed, a man now, with a thick beard and rough hands. He spoke with conviction, with decisive movements. For the first time in weeks, Esther got out of bed.
We decided to go for lunch, the occasion deserved to be celebrated. My wife put on a dress and brushed her hair. Her eyes shone. We walked in the sun for a while, eventually finding a spot next to a park with tables on the sidewalk. It was beautiful out, the sort of day that makes you want to inhabit the world, to inhale it. Nahuel spent the time talking about the places he’d been to, the people he’d met, how cold it was in Canada. Esther and I glanced at each other out of the corners of our eyes. There was no need to say it; we both realized we’d been wanting to travel for a long time.
Javier came straight over after work to have a coffee. We went on talking, remembering stories, telling each other anecdotes we already knew because there was a simple pleasure in hearing them again.
We were there until late, all four of us, watching the sun lower between the trees, the orange sky at nightfall.
The Island with No Shore
gabriel wakes after having slept next to the body of his wife all night. He looks at the clock on the bedside table. It’s nine in the morning on a Saturday, he could sleep in a bit later. He rolls onto his back and, without meaning to, brushes Paula with his arm. She’s freezing.
Not yet.
* * *
He hears noises in the kitchen, opens his eyes, and finds he’s fallen back asleep. Martín must be making breakfast. It’s almost ten. He gets out of bed.
His son is standing on a stool, watching a pot of milk closely as it heats on the stove. In one hand, he’s holding a box of matches and shaking it so it makes noise. Paula taught him to use the kitchen at a very young age.
The coffee is already made. They sit down to breakfast. Gabriel is silent, lost in thought.
“Where’s Mom?” Martín asks after a while.
“She’s sleeping,” his father says. And it’s then that he makes a decision. “When you’re finished breakfast, pack up some of your clothes in a bag.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Tigre.”
“What’s Tigre?”
“A place.”
* * *
Martín showers by himself, dresses by himself, gets his bag ready without help. He even brushes his hair and teeth without being told to. He’s only six and Gabriel finds it a bit strange, suspicious even, that he’s so independent. By noon, they’ve already packed.
“Are we coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Mom?”
“She’s not coming.”
“Can I say goodbye?”
* * *
They each kiss Paula on the forehead and then leave. Before hailing a taxi to the train station, they enter a deserted bank. Miraculously deserted, Gabriel thinks, his sudden penchant for the mystical surprising him. As though someone were thinking for him.
He withdraws all his savings, and when they’re back in the street, drops his ID cards into a garbage can.
* * *
The rattle of the train lulls him to sleep. When he wakes, Martín is talking to a woman two seats away. Gabriel calls to him with a few words, and the boy returns.
* * *
The ferry is full. Martín, surprised by the water flowing under the boat, leans his head over the railing, looks down. He stretches out a hand to touch the river, but he can’t reach it. When it begins to drizzle, he moves back under the ferry’s roof. Suddenly, he seems worried.
The passengers get off one by one. They climb onto docks and disappear into islands, among trees.
The ferry reaches the end of its route and the driver begins to manoeuvre it around for the return trip. Gabriel had been hoping his problem would resolve itself, but he now finds he’s obliged to approach the driver. The ferry’s engine makes a lot of noise. He imagines the frightened fish under the water vibrating with the thunderous, inexplicable sound. The driver gives him a distrustful look.
“Do you know of anyone renting a house or a room?”
“Around here?”
“Yes, as far away as possible.”
“I’ll leave you on that dock. Take the path on the left and walk about three kilometres, until you reach a house with a greenish-brown roof. You’ll recognize it by the mould, and because it’s the last property. The old man’s name is Horacio.”
* * *
It’s raining and the path is muddy. Boots—they didn’t bring boots. But Gabriel would rather not think about what Paula would have prepared for.
The deeper they go into the island, the greater the silence. The sound of the ferries fades until it disappears completely. His son walks behind him, both fascinated and fearful. A white dog follows them, a puppy the size of a field mouse. It approaches with its tail between its legs and whines. Martín tosses it a cracker, then another.
The path skirts a stream, veers off at a right angle, then continues along another riverbed, this one wider. Between one bank and the next, there are about three metres. The vegetation is increasingly dense. It’s been a while since they’ve seen a house.
They stop to rest, have a drink of water, eat something. Martín asks about his mother.
* * *
The house appears surrounded by trees. Moss climbs the walls, clings to the roof. It’s a fluorescent, unreal green.
Gabriel claps and the dog yelps nervously.
A man of about seventy, short and stocky, appears from out back. He has a very long beard and small eyes, a calm gaze. Gabriel introduces himself. They shake hands. Horacio’s is covered in mud, the skin on his fingers callused and rough.
There’s no need for explanations, three words suffice. They go into the house. A kitchen with a wood stove. A bathroom. Another room with a double bed. From every window, they can see the river. Gabriel is surprised the house is so clean, just a few cobwebs he removes with his hand.
Horacio lives in the cabin next door and looks after the property. The owners haven’t been here in months, he tells them. But he corrects himself immediately: in years. He asks how much they can pay.
Tied to the dock is a canoe that still floats. They can use it to get to the grocer’s, a kilometre or so away.
* * *
Martín walks to the river. The white dog follows him. Gabriel sits down on a tree trunk to watch his son; the rain has stopped, but everything is wet. He makes some calculations. They’ll have enough money for around five months. Six tops.
* * *
About twenty minutes away on foot, where the path ends, they find an abandoned house; after that there are marshes, low and thick woods, streams snaking through the land, overflowing everywhere.
It’s there that Gabriel sees Paula for the first time on the island. She looks at him from a window on the upper floor, through the dirty, opaque glass.
Martín is playing on a fallen tree. Gabriel averts his gaze and walks to the river, stepping on rotten branches. After a minute or two he looks again. Paula is still there. He thinks about asking his son if he sees her too, but decides against it. He’s afraid Martín will say yes.
* * *
Martín is asleep, exhausted after a day that’s been particularly intense, distinct. Gabriel is wide awake, his eyes open, scanning the ceiling, the stains of damp that overlap and expand.
* * *
He sees Paula often now. Among the trees out back; walking in the tall grass on the other side of the river; or underwater, floating five centimetres below the surface. Sometimes she looks him in the eye. But in general she ignores him, seems absorbed in the current, the sky, whatever.
* * *
His son adapts quickly; he roams around, afraid of nothing. He plays with the dog or chops wood with Horacio, who’s teaching him to use the axe. But he doesn’t stop asking about Paula. Gabriel is evasive. At some point he’s going to have to explain things. Not yet.
The weather improves; it starts to get warm.
* * *
Gabriel is on the dock when Martín comes over. He asks when they’re going back, where his mother is. Gabriel looks at him silently. The boy pouts, seems on the verge of tears. Then he goes down the steps and sits at water level, his legs submerged. Gabriel closes his eyes, and when he opens them his son is gone.
There are ten steps. He takes them quickly but does not run. He sees Martín a few metres away, surfacing from below, waving his hands, then sinking again. Gabriel takes off his shoes, shirt, pants, and jumps into the water. For a second, between one stroke and the next, he thinks he’ll be too late, that he won’t find his son. But there he is, very close. Gabriel’s fingers grasp Martín’s shirt.
Gabriel nears the bank and is able to touch the clay at the bottom of the riverbed. Or almost: he has to hop to bring his head above water so he can breathe. He clutches Martín around the waist, holding him above water. He keeps going and feels the mud between his toes.
On the dock, the boy vomits a yellowish-brown liquid.
* * *
It’s very hot and Gabriel is teaching Martín to swim. Since he saved his son from drowning, he’s felt more necessary; having a purpose helps anchor him in time. Now they’re resting in the sun. Paula comes over and sits down next to them. She’s silent. Martín has his back to her, and it’ll be a while before he sees her.
Gabriel looks at the drops of sweat on her forehead, her eyes, her hair moving in the wind, her bare feet. She seems younger. He reaches out a hand and touches her. Her skin is warm and damp.
No one says anything. Until Martín turns around and sees her.
“Mom.”
She smiles, and he reaches over and hugs her.
* * *
The sun begins to set, and the three of them walk toward the house. Horacio is in the garden, and he looks at Paula as though he knows her. She goes up to him and says something that Gabriel doesn’t hear. Horacio nods.
That night they have dinner together. Paula cooks for the four of them. They eat in silence, have a bit of wine. Then Horacio leaves.
Martín sleeps in the middle of the bed. Paula and Gabriel gaze at each other and he waits for her to speak. To explain where she came from, how she got there, what she’s looking for. Or to ask why, for example, so he can say he doesn’t know. But she says nothing and falls asleep.
Gabriel spends the night watching her, listening to her breathe.
* * *
He confirms his money is almost gone; only a few bills remain. Thinking about such mundane matters on a forgotten island with a son who has begun to ignore him, a stranger, and a dead woman seems stupid. But the money is gone. And he needs a reason to talk to Paula. Any excuse to begin to leave the dream state he’s in, and maybe even the island.
But when Gabriel approaches, she looks at him, smiles, and walks out of the house before he can open his mouth. He gives her a confused look through the window. She’s wearing a blue dress and is still barefoot, her hair loose, almost blonde, bleached by the sun. He sees her cross the garden to Horacio, who’s making a birdcage. He sees them speak. Horacio listens, nods.
That same day, Gabriel goes over to pay him. At the very least, he wants to give Horacio the little he has left. But the man refuses to accept it. He smiles and says no without opening his mouth.
* * *
Martín and Paula go for a walk. Gabriel is left alone on the dock and he tries to fish. The fish slip through the water: orange, red, yellow. He sees them, but none approach his hook. He leaves the fishing rod, lies down in the shade, and asks himself where the insects and the birds have gone. Without realizing it, he falls asleep.
When he wakes, he sees Paula and Martín in the middle of the garden. They’re standing, holding hands, watching him. Gabriel believes he sees something in the distant way they’re watching him, that he has been acting for them without knowing it, everything around him a stage. But he’s dizzy with sleep, from the heat and the silence buzzing in his ears. The ideas that pursue him as he walks toward his wife and son are too abstract; they don’t settle, and in the end, they fade away.
“What’s going on?” he asks. Martín says nothing, and he asks again.
“Mom took me to the abandoned house.”
“She did?”
The boy looks at his muddy feet.
“What’s there?”
“People.”
Gabriel raises his head. Paula smiles at him and nods in that lazy way of hers.
“People?”
“Yes, Mom saw them.”
“What are they like?”
“Like you, like me. They walk around, wear clothes, make food,” says Martín, raising his eyes. He frowns and then walks off with his mother toward the house.
* * *
Gabriel needs to distract himself. He gets into the canoe and rows toward the main channel. But when he stops moving his arms, the current takes him back. He knows this can’t be happening; the streams flow toward the river, the river toward the sea. He must be going in the opposite direction.
