When he closed the door, Juan only grunted. Instead of going to Gaspar, he went toward his room: on the way, he tossed the box of gauze and medicine and disinfectant on the floor.
Gaspar wasn’t about to let him lock himself away. He wasn’t going to let his father abandon him in the living room, alone and in pain.
“Come here!” he yelled, and he felt that he no longer had pain or painkillers in his body, only a rage that made him tremble. He could kill his father now. He wanted him to realize it. “Say something, you son of a bitch!”
Gaspar stood up in the living room and waited for his father, who walked slowly back. He felt the urge to rush him and smash his head against the wall. But when he looked at him, the rage dissolved and he felt like lying on the floor and ceasing to breathe.
“Where are you, Dad? You’re not my father. My father loved me. Who are you?”
The silence was so complete that Gaspar thought this man who couldn’t be his father must have left.
“I’m empty.”
“No. No. I want you to tell me where my father is.”
“He’s here. He’s still here.”
Gaspar heard the footsteps approaching and he put out his good arm. Don’t hurt me anymore, please, he said. Juan sat down on the floor beside him. Gaspar smelled his scent, recognized it.
“You are what I love most in life, Gaspar.”
“So, what’s wrong with you? Kill me, Dad, please, I’m not scared.”
Gaspar looked into his father’s eyes and he saw a horrible craving there, a desire completely new to him, like an unknown color.
“Don’t ask that.”
“It’s what you want.”
“No. It’s not what I want.”
Gaspar felt rage well up again. Liar, he thought. He was acting. He hadn’t even asked if his arm was okay.
“I didn’t ask you because I know it’s okay.”
“Get out of my head,” growled Gaspar.
“I’m always in your head, even if you don’t realize it. Don’t close yourself off. If you do, it’s going to hurt. Enough pain, Gaspar.”
And then Gaspar felt something that he would remember for years to come, but didn’t know how to name: a blood transfusion, hot water in his veins, images he didn’t see with his eyes. He saw himself sleeping with his father in a bed with white sheets, beside a fan. And before, when he was very little, a baby, lying on his father’s chest while he read a book at an impossible angle so as not to wake him. The backseat of a car. The sound of the waterfalls. Swimming. His parents dancing beside a record player. A black light in the night, a woman with no lips, his mother in an orange shirt playing with him in a garden, his father talking in a dark room, the geometrical sketches in the notebooks and the memory of a damp house with people all around, stains on the ceiling and his father beside him shaking his head no. The smell of gasoline and laughter in the water. And above all, along with the images, that heat in his whole body that made him lunge at his father, beat him with his fists. His father made no move to stop him and Gaspar tried to punch his eyes, scratch his cheeks, until he got tired. And when he got tired, he dropped on to the floor and looked up at the ceiling, at the lamp that was swaying as if moved by a current of air from an open window. I wish it could have been different, he heard.
“People who love each other don’t hurt each other,” said Gaspar.
“That’s not true,” replied Juan. “I hurt you to save you.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s possible that to you I’m crazy, but it’s too late for you to understand and I don’t want you to understand, son. I’m prepared for you to hate me. I would like to die and leave you with a good memory of me, but that’s not possible, and, I think, it’s for the best.”
“I don’t hate you,” sighed Gaspar. “But I’m afraid of you. Why did you cut me? Tell me the truth. You made me drink your blood, Dad.”
“It was necessary. Every step was necessary in order for you to be protected.”
“From who, Dad? You’re the only one I need protection from! What if I tell someone? You could go to jail for hurting me like that, this isn’t the same as smacking me around.”
“I’m also prepared for you to turn me in.”
“You just lied to Lidia.”
“I could tell them the truth. I don’t care.”
Gaspar sat up. How long had he been there, on the floor, beside his father? Hours? His arm was hurting terribly.
“We always took care of each other. I took care of you all this time. You shouldn’t have done this.”
“I’m going to keep taking care of you. Wait,” said Juan, and he gently touched the hand of Gaspar’s wounded arm. “Don’t be afraid of me, there’s no need to be afraid of me anymore.”
Juan rested his hand on the bandage and Gaspar gave a start, but then, immediately, the pain disappeared. It didn’t fade away: it disappeared as if it had never existed. His father looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked dead. He is dead, thought Gaspar.
“The wound is still there. Take care of it as if it hurt, but it won’t hurt anymore. Don’t take the painkillers, you don’t need them. Do take the antibiotics.”
“Where did the pain go?”
“I think you can guess the answer to that, son.”
Gaspar lay back on the floor. He wanted to sleep without dreaming, he wanted to sleep for years.
He was sitting on the front stoop when his uncle arrived. He recognized him immediately: the family resemblance was unmistakable, though Luis wasn’t as big as Juan and he had some gray hair. He was older, Gaspar knew, he must be around forty years old. His uncle waved at him and came running over. He was wearing a down jacket over a flannel shirt, and a bag was slung over his shoulder. When he got closer Gaspar noticed he was tanned, and it was a strange contrast to his blond hair, lighter because of the gray; he also had a lot of wrinkles. They looked at each other for a second until his uncle smiled and hugged him, tousled his hair, and said you’re so big, it’s been over three years since I’ve gotten a photo of you. Gaspar’s voice came out shaky when he said:
“There’s coffee from this morning. Do you drink coffee?”
Luis said yes, but before going in he paused to look at the house. Wonderful, he said, pointing out the wooden door, the iron shutters painted dark green, and finally the names inscribed beside the front door: O’Farrell and Del Pozo.
“They’re two famous architects,” he explained. “You live in a fantastic house.”
Gaspar felt a little ashamed when his uncle entered, because inside was not fantastic. It looked uninhabited. Luis said nothing, though he did look around, a bit surprised. Not a picture on the walls, no furniture to store things, just that yellow sofa. Gaspar was grateful for his silence. The kitchen was more welcoming, and Gaspar started heating the coffee.
“Where’s your dad?”
“I think he’s asleep.”
“I’m going to stay for a while, kiddo, you two can’t be on your own.”
Gaspar took a deep breath before asking:
“Why didn’t you come sooner?”