Andrés can analyze the effect of this news on himself. Since he saw the scan of his father’s brain until now, until this rumpled dawn moment, how has he felt? Tense, nervous. He’s filled with a sense of haste, of hurry and anxiety. It’s an inner despair, almost liquid, that never ceases to boil, to flow, to stain everything. His memory is permanently startled. Memories, images, anecdotes come and go all the time. It’s as if the past had been let out of a box. He is now pure, stampeding fear. Would it be the same for his father? Would all the memories of his nearly seventy years rush into his mind? Would that be the best way to say goodbye to life?
Andrés reads an extract from Kraus’s book: “In fact, it isn’t at all easy to tell which patients will be capable of being told everything and which will not. It’s a complicated business determining who will benefit from knowing how long it will be before they go blind, before they cease being able to walk or require catheters to ensure that their sphincters continue to function. And yet it’s clear that there are some people capable of handling bad news and others who simply can’t.” Which group does Javier Miranda, his father, belong to? Was it possible to place him, with exactitude, among those who know how to handle “bad news”? A piece of fateful, not to say final news? Perhaps Miguel was right: it’s not possible to guess how one human being will react when he discovers how close he is to death. That strong, determined man called Javier Miranda might, despite all predictions to the contrary, collapse and break down when faced with that scan of his brain and the glowing spots devouring it.
Dear Dr. Miranda,
I have a confession to make: I’m following you.
Up until then, up until she read those words, Karina has thought of Ernesto Durán as a mere curiosity. She has read his previous e-mails with a smile on her face. Dr. Miranda’s secretary is in charge of anything that arrives in his electronic inbox. It’s intended exclusively for professional correspondence. He tends to get a lot of promotional material from medical laboratories and pharmaceutical companies, as well as invitations to work-related activities — meetings, official functions, book launches, conferences. . Somehow or other, though, Ernesto Durán has managed to get hold of that address and has started sending messages. When the first e-mail arrived, Karina immediately reported it to Dr. Miranda. He read it and told her to ignore it and on no account to reply. She didn’t even tell him about the second one, but although she said nothing to the doctor, she made a point of reading it herself. After that first e-mail, Karina, along with Adelaida, the receptionist working for the doctor next door, exchanged views on this very unusual patient. They had never come across anyone quite like Ernesto Durán. When the second e-mail arrived, they spent many hours discussing the case. Karina, who had seen Durán on two occasions, added a few physical details. She remembered him quite clearly as a thin, athletic-looking man. He was about thirty-five, with hair as dark as his eyes: asphalt black. He was attractive, but nothing special. He also had an inner strength, or so Karina felt, a sort of natural willpower that gave him a certain physical presence. Perhaps the only objectionable thing about him was his ears, which were, in Karina’s view, too small. And Adelaida had added some comment like:
“I never trust men with small ears.”
That is how Karina remembers him — neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The first time he visited the doctor, he had struck her as polite and friendly, but nothing more than that. He filled in his medical form and then sat down and waited. Karina was surprised when he didn’t pick up a magazine as most patients do. Indeed, there are some people who only read in waiting rooms.
When he came for his second appointment, he seemed more nervous. Karina remembered clearly how he rested his hands on his knees, sighed, and kept glancing around him, as if he couldn’t control his eyes, or, rather, as if his face were obliged to follow them wherever they went. He also stood up several times and paced around, taking short steps. He went out into the corridor, then came back in, nodding briefly to her when he did. Then the telephone calls began. Ernesto Durán turned into a regular, repetitive irritant. Four or five out of every ten calls would have his voice at the other end. He was always cordial, polite, even affable, but then, one afternoon, Dr. Miranda called her into his office and begged her, yes that was the word he used: “I beg you, please, Karina, not to put through any more calls from that patient,” he said. “Not one. Never again. If he phones, I’m not in.”
It wasn’t easy. Durán was a persistent fellow, obsessed. It didn’t take him long to realize that Karina had become a detour, and that their phone conversations were merely an eternal deferment. One day, he exploded. He felt humiliated, he’d had enough, it was a mockery, who did she think she was, he roared before slamming down the phone. Karina was left shaking. She managed to keep a grip on herself in front of the patients in the waiting room, but immediately got up and walked down the corridor to the restroom. While still managing to remain calm, she was nevertheless aware of the occasional internal shudder: Durán’s shouts, or at least their echo, were in her body, trapped inside. When she looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes filled with tears. She felt ridiculous, furious, stupid. She washed her face, hoping to salvage a little of her pride from that cold water.
The following day, however, she was surprised to find a small box of chocolates and a little note waiting for her. Durán was asking her forgiveness. Half an hour later, he did so again over the phone. Karina treated him rather coolly, with a certain haughtiness in her curt, discreet replies, but it was clear that she was touched by the gesture. Durán, moreover, tried to go a little further, to put his case and explain his sense of urgency. Karina softened her tone somewhat and, in a spirit of camaraderie, explained that there was no point in making any further attempt to contact the doctor. She suggested an alternative strategy: when Dr. Miranda was able to see him again, she herself would phone to arrange an appointment. When they said goodbye, neither of them felt much faith in the other. A whole week passed without a single “Hello” or “Good afternoon” from Ernesto Durán. Karina even came to the conclusion that he must finally have resigned himself to the situation. Then the first e-mail appeared. Then the second. Then the third. She read them all carefully. Although she was reluctant to admit it, she found them rather touching. She showed them to Adelaida, and they both agreed that Durán was clearly desperate and utterly sincere in what he wrote, that he was, in short, a sensitive man in difficulties. Adelaida even remarked that Dr. Miranda’s attitude seemed most unfair.