The Sickness by Alberto Barrera Tyszka Page A

unhurriedly, always keeping the same distance, the same speed, always there, always sharp, always following them. Andrés looks at his father sitting next to him, overcome by sleep, no longer asking any questions.
    Sunk in sleep, he seems happier, he seems safe.

    Dear Dr. Miranda,
    You answered me! I still can’t believe it! I swear that as soon as I saw your name in my inbox, I froze. My eyes filled with tears, I mean it. I got up, I took a few steps, sat down again, got up, sat down . . . I didn’t know what to do. I felt like shouting, jumping, running. I wanted to go out and ring the neighbors’ doorbells or rush to the window and shout: He wrote to me! Dr. Miranda has finally written to me! My eyes filled with tears, Doctor, they really did. In fact, to be honest, they’re still full of tears. I think that I’m too shocked right now to be able to answer. I just wanted to say thank you, Doctor. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
    Ernesto Durán
    Â 
    Dear Dr. Miranda,
    I’ve just sent you an e-mail that I now wish I could erase. It suddenly occurred to me that I may have come across as too effusive, a bit crazy. Please don’t be alarmed. It was just the reaction of the moment. Please don’t be frightened. It really was a momentary madness because I felt so pleased and happy. I do hope you understand. I wouldn’t want to scare you off again.
    Yours sincerely,
    Ernesto Durán

    Dear Dr. Miranda,
    Just one more thing. I thought of it after I’d sent you the previous message. But once you’ve sent a message, you’ve sent it. There’s no getting it back. Then I thought of other things as well. And I wanted to say that, from now on, you set the rules. I wanted you to know that I’m ready to do whatever you say, that, from now on, our relationship will be entirely on your terms. You are the doctor, after all. I promise you I’ve changed. I promise that I’m already much better.
    Yours gratefully,
    Ernesto Durán
    The days they spend on the island are not as Andrés expected, starting with the scenery: there’s nothing about the beach or the sea that reminds him of the island of his childhood. It seems bizarre to think that once, early in the morning, the beach was full of dead jellyfish; now, each morning, it’s full of German and Canadian tourists, hefty men with tattoos on their arms, terribly pale-skinned people who perhaps run a petrol station in Hamburg and are now taking advantage of a cheap vacation in the Caribbean. However, this is just a detail, a daily excuse not to face up to what he’s come there to do. It doesn’t matter which beaches they go to, what plans they make, he still cannot speak to his father. He watches the hours and the scenery pass with the same feeling of impotence, incapable of telling him the truth.
    One day, they go to Macanao, the wildest, remotest part of the island, where the sun appears to have got stuck,
its gaze fixed forever on one stone. The light is very low. The desert landscape is another version of the sea, with which it contrasts or converses. They are two parts of the same body, the blue sea that seems to move as naturally as breathing and the brown earth, eternally motionless. Not even there, on Playa de Punta Arena, can Andrés confront his father and tell him once and for all the terrible news. He can never find the appropriate moment, there’s always something not quite right, he can never get up the courage. He starts to think then that the trip wasn’t a good idea, that it takes more than just a change of location to be able to speak the truth. The sea and the earth, blue and brown, seem to him parts of the same cadaver.
    He finds it very hard to get to sleep at night, and when he does finally manage it, he sleeps badly, fitfully. He never feels rested when he wakes up; he gets out of bed like someone coming home from a dark and arduous task, as if returning to the light after a