fierce battle. When he opens his eyes each morning, he feels that heâs in flight from something, that heâs escaped by the skin of his teeth, who knows from what, who knows how? He doesnât even remember what it was he was dreaming; he just has a feeling of dense anxiety beneath his eyelids, nothing more.
His father, on the other hand, seems to sleep peacefully. Andrés would have preferred not to share a double room, but his father insisted, it seemed to him an unnecessary expense to have a room each.
âAfter all, we are family,â he muttered to the clerk who greeted them at the hotel reception.
Thatâs doubtless what family is for, thought Andrés: putting your toothbrushes side by side and sharing the same roll of toilet paper, discussing whether or not to change TV channels, finding hair in the drain of the shower, not being able to sit for a moment in silence without the other person asking, âWhatâs wrong?â, closing oneâs eyes peacefully, turning out the light and not feeling afraid, being near. Every night, his father falls asleep first. Around eleven oâclock, his head starts to droop, to nod, he fumbles with the newspaper, as if trying to hold on to one particular page, until finally the night defeats him. His father wears pale striped pajamas, blue or perhaps gray. He sleeps on his back, with his arms outstretched and his mouth half-open. Andrés is surprised to see this, it almost seems to reveal an excess of trust: his father lies there with such marvelous placidity, certain that nothing will disturb him; he sleeps as if nothing could ever hurt him, as if he were a small boy on a family vacation who has fallen asleep on the grass without a care in the world, knowing that no threat hangs over him. Andrés watches in envy. He, on the other hand, lies on his side, arms folded, almost hunched up, head pressed into the pillow.
His father doesnât snore either. The first night, though, Andrés lay for a long time, listening to his breathing. When they were lying there in the dark, he realized that the quiet sound of his fatherâs breathing was beginning to fill the whole room; he felt that the air was creaking as it entered and left his fatherâs body; he couldnât help recalling a vast catalogue of neoplasms: a section of lung with multiple tumoral nodules like a piece of meat
covered in mushrooms, a lymphagitis carcinomatosa in which the lung resembles a dried fish; images of tumoral ulcerations, of parechymal invasions that leave yellowish areas and hemorrhagic foci; images of pulmonary lymphatic territories on the verge of necrosis . . . Unable to sleep, Andrés sat down on the bed and turned on the TV again, but continued to watch his father sleeping, on his back, arms outstretched and mouth half-open, resting, as if nothing were happening around him, as if nothing were happening inside his body either. Andrés went over to him, crouched by his bed and again listened to his breathing. He doesnât know how long he stayed there, motionless in the shadows and the oblique light from the TV screen, not thinking about anything, quite still, breathing along with his father.
The time when Andrés comes closest to telling his father the truth is the evening they stay on the beach of Puerto Cruz almost until nightfall. Theyâve bought a bottle of red wine and are sitting on the seashore where the waves break on the sand. They drink in silence. But Andrés cannot feel at ease by his fatherâs side; he waits, like a hunter, alert, always ready to leap up and catch the famous ideal moment and thus fulfill the secret reason behind the trip. His father, though, as the days pass, seems to feel more comfortable, calmer, enjoying every moment. They talk a little about everything and, of course, end up, discussing the state of the nation. Everyone does it. It occurs to Andrés that the political situation has probably saved many a
His father, on the other hand, seems to sleep peacefully. Andrés would have preferred not to share a double room, but his father insisted, it seemed to him an unnecessary expense to have a room each.
âAfter all, we are family,â he muttered to the clerk who greeted them at the hotel reception.
Thatâs doubtless what family is for, thought Andrés: putting your toothbrushes side by side and sharing the same roll of toilet paper, discussing whether or not to change TV channels, finding hair in the drain of the shower, not being able to sit for a moment in silence without the other person asking, âWhatâs wrong?â, closing oneâs eyes peacefully, turning out the light and not feeling afraid, being near. Every night, his father falls asleep first. Around eleven oâclock, his head starts to droop, to nod, he fumbles with the newspaper, as if trying to hold on to one particular page, until finally the night defeats him. His father wears pale striped pajamas, blue or perhaps gray. He sleeps on his back, with his arms outstretched and his mouth half-open. Andrés is surprised to see this, it almost seems to reveal an excess of trust: his father lies there with such marvelous placidity, certain that nothing will disturb him; he sleeps as if nothing could ever hurt him, as if he were a small boy on a family vacation who has fallen asleep on the grass without a care in the world, knowing that no threat hangs over him. Andrés watches in envy. He, on the other hand, lies on his side, arms folded, almost hunched up, head pressed into the pillow.
His father doesnât snore either. The first night, though, Andrés lay for a long time, listening to his breathing. When they were lying there in the dark, he realized that the quiet sound of his fatherâs breathing was beginning to fill the whole room; he felt that the air was creaking as it entered and left his fatherâs body; he couldnât help recalling a vast catalogue of neoplasms: a section of lung with multiple tumoral nodules like a piece of meat
covered in mushrooms, a lymphagitis carcinomatosa in which the lung resembles a dried fish; images of tumoral ulcerations, of parechymal invasions that leave yellowish areas and hemorrhagic foci; images of pulmonary lymphatic territories on the verge of necrosis . . . Unable to sleep, Andrés sat down on the bed and turned on the TV again, but continued to watch his father sleeping, on his back, arms outstretched and mouth half-open, resting, as if nothing were happening around him, as if nothing were happening inside his body either. Andrés went over to him, crouched by his bed and again listened to his breathing. He doesnât know how long he stayed there, motionless in the shadows and the oblique light from the TV screen, not thinking about anything, quite still, breathing along with his father.
The time when Andrés comes closest to telling his father the truth is the evening they stay on the beach of Puerto Cruz almost until nightfall. Theyâve bought a bottle of red wine and are sitting on the seashore where the waves break on the sand. They drink in silence. But Andrés cannot feel at ease by his fatherâs side; he waits, like a hunter, alert, always ready to leap up and catch the famous ideal moment and thus fulfill the secret reason behind the trip. His father, though, as the days pass, seems to feel more comfortable, calmer, enjoying every moment. They talk a little about everything and, of course, end up, discussing the state of the nation. Everyone does it. It occurs to Andrés that the political situation has probably saved many a
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