“Well then?”
“At the river when we were eating the soup without water and there was music, a man came out of the water.”
“And how did you know he was like the woman at the hotel?”
“Because he was naked and all swollen and he couldn’t be like that. Then I did what you taught me and he went away.”
“He left right away?”
“Yeah.”
Impressive, thought Juan.
“Were you scared?”
Gaspar hesitated a moment and ran a hand over his forehead. His gesture of worry. His other one was to ball up his left hand in a fist. Many times Juan had had to make him unclench his fingers, and it was no small amount of strength that Gaspar put into that anxious tic. He’s going to die young if he stays this nervous, Juan had said to Rosario once. Furious, she had yelled at him to never say such things about Gaspar, how could he be such a brute, our son is not going to die. All that seemed so distant now, the early-morning fight, Rosario taking her pillow to sleep in another room, the slam of the door and the expensive perfume on the sheets.
“I didn’t like it,” replied Gaspar.
“Give me your hand and let’s swear, so you’ll see I’m not lying to you.”
Juan slowed the car. The highway was empty, so he could drive with one hand and look into his son’s eyes.
“I swear to you they can’t do anything. They’re not men and women, they’re echoes. You know how when you shout in the garage at home your voice comes back to you? But it’s not your voice anymore, the second time. This is the same. They were people once, there was a time when they were the woman from the hotel and the man from the river, but not anymore. They can’t do anything. They can’t hurt you, because they can’t even touch you. They can get near you, but they can’t touch you. I swear.”
“But why do we see them?”
“There are just some people who can see them. There are people who can see many more things.”
“You see other things.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Me too?”
“I don’t know. We can test you if you want. And, if you want, there’s also a way to see those who are like the man and the woman only when you feel like it.”
“When I feel like it?”
“Sure.”
“Why would I ever feel like it?”
It was a good question. Juan laughed.
“Then I’ll teach you how to never see them again.”
“Are the black flowers like the women who aren’t women? Because I saw them beside the clouds and now my head hurts.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Here, in my eye.”
Juan reached back into the backseat and felt around for the bag. He had to give his son an aspirin now, before the migraine erupted. Swallow it with water, he said, and sit still with your eyes closed. Gaspar had inherited the crippling headaches from him. They were impossible to explain to the fortunate people who only suffered from regular headaches: the hammering blows beneath the skull, eyes like two stones embedded in the face, the light like a knife, every noise amplified. And the nausea.
That wasn’t the worst part, for Juan. The worst was that he couldn’t take away Gaspar’s pain. The only suffering he could take away was the pain he himself caused.
“I need to throw up, Daddy,” Gaspar said fifteen minutes later, and Juan stopped the car at the side of the road and opened the door so he could vomit on to the asphalt. He held the boy’s forehead and his hair at the nape of his neck and he felt Gaspar’s body as it strained, contracting and sweating in pain. He was going to have to find someplace cool and dark so the boy could sleep; otherwise, under that noontime sun, the hours of migraine were going to be unbearable. He’d have to go back to Tali’s house. He took a little ice from the cooler and passed it over Gaspar’s forehead; the boy was pressing on his temples like an adult.
“Don’t cry, it’ll make it worse,” he told him.
Gaspar vomited again. There was nothing left in his stomach, and the effort made him tremble. Juan was so focused on holding his son’s head that he didn’t notice the car pulling up beside him. He heard the voice before he sensed the car’s presence, and he felt annoyed with himself. Was he losing his reflexes? What was wrong with him?
“Hi there, are you okay?”
Juan turned around and saw a Peugeot beside him. The driver who had spoken was obviously from Buenos Aires, and he looked young and inoffensive. Juan was alert now as he turned his full attention to the stranger. Trustworthy, he knew it with utter certainty. Another innocent.
“My son doesn’t feel well.”
“Do you need help? Here, two hundred meters on, there’s a grocery. I’m staying with the family, and they have a phone.”
Two hundred meters away? In this wilderness? Juan felt a slight pang of distrust, and at the same time he perceived that the young man in the car was also making an effort. There in the north the dictatorship was less oppressive, but any thinking person at least felt alarm bells go off when faced with a strange situation. But, thought Juan, this one didn’t qualify as strange: a kid getting sick on the road, in summer. That was normal. He could accept the help, and the young man acted naturally as he offered it. Nothing pointed to any danger.
“They’ve got the store hidden from the highway then,” said Juan. “I don’t imagine they do much business.”
“People around here know where it is. See the side road?”
His manner was casual, another reassuring signal. Juan saw the dirt road: there was even a small wooden sign with white letters that said “Karlen Grocery.”
“My son gets migraines. What he needs is a cool, dark place to rest, not a store with people making noise. I was going to find a hotel.”
The stranger nodded.
“The family lives there, I’m sure they’ll let him borrow one of the bedrooms. It’s only two hundred meters.”
Juan looked the stranger in the eyes. He had curly hair and wore glasses, though he didn’t have them on now: there were marks on the bridge of his nose. His car was pretty messy: he was traveling. His beige shirt was clean. Juan would be able to use him later, if he wanted.
“I’ll follow you,” he said.
Karlen Grocery appeared right away. It was a modest construction, half brick and half wood, with a large parking lot and a patio, and behind it was the white-painted family home. The store had a deck with a long table that, though it was noon, was empty. There were two men drinking something, maybe ca?a, and leaning against the railing. The stranger in the car got out first and spoke with a woman who was standing in the doorway wearing a floral housedress and apron, her gray hair pulled back. As soon as she heard what the stranger had to tell her, she came running to Juan’s car. Juan had opened the driver-side door and was still moving an ice cube over Gaspar’s forehead. The boy didn’t turn his head: he’d already learned that would only increase the pain.
The woman introduced herself as Zulema Karlen, the owner of the grocery and the sawmill, and she told Juan that if he wanted, the boy could lie down in her son’s bed, they’d be more than welcome. Could be this child is bedeviled, she said, after Juan introduced himself and Gaspar. He could very well be, replied Juan, but I don’t know many people who know how to cure the evil eye. You’re right about that, said Mrs. Karlen. It’s like they say, there’s a lot of snake oil. Come on this way. My mother had headaches like that, but I’ve never seen them in a child. Could he have sunstroke? It’s possible, said Juan. The woman’s tone was vaguely critical: a man who doesn’t know how to take good care of his child, she thought. It didn’t bother Juan—she wasn’t all wrong. He hadn’t bought a hat for Gaspar, for example, didn’t make him wear a seat belt, and if the boy annoyed him, he was capable of beating him brutally, even worse than that morning. He followed the woman, carrying Gaspar.