They’ve just left. I hope my son comes back happy. I already know my husband won’t be coming back. It was now or never, I agree. Although Mario finds it hard (men do as a rule) to admit that sometimes it’s never.

Apart from the possibility of accidents (something which terrifies me even to write), what if he takes a turn for the worse? What if he can’t carry on? What would Lito do then? Mario refuses even to contemplate it. He seems convinced that his will-power outstrips his physical strength. As usual I gave in. Not out of generosity, but rather guilt. The absurd thing is that now I regret it all the same.

If Mario accepted the limits of his strength, we would have told all our friends the truth. He prefers us to be secretive. Discreet, he calls it. A patient’s rights go unquestioned. No one talks about the rights of the carer. Another person’s illness makes us ill. And so I’m in that truck with them, even though I’ve stayed at home.

Mario insisted he needed to go on a trip with his son at least once in his life. To take him in the truck, the way his father had done with him. I couldn’t refuse him that. But then he came out with an unacceptable argument. He said that in any event we could do with the money. Worse: that I could do with it. If he’s already putting it like that, then he won’t be able to withstand all those miles. And the fact that he insists on making financial decisions the way my father-in-law did, like a paterfamilias, shows that deep down he’s in denial about his situation.

I’ve just called Dr. Escalante. I made an emergency appointment so that he can tell me about Mario’s physical state and whether he will really make it through this trip. We should have consulted Dr. Escalante before deciding anything. Perhaps Mario knew what the answer would be, and that’s why he was against it from the start. He kept telling me it was a personal matter, not a medical one. What was I supposed to do, drag him there? But I think that now at least I am within my rights to see Dr. Escalante on my own. I want to know exactly how he found him during the last checkup. I’m going to ask him to be absolutely honest. I suppose I must have sounded quite anxious, because he’s given me an appointment tomorrow morning at eleven.

The staff room is not far away, so I’ll make the most of it and go there to prepare the language resits. They are still some way off, but not working drives me crazy. I’m afraid there are two kinds of alienation: one is the exploited worker’s, the other that of the worker on holiday. The first has no time to think. The second can only think, and that is his sentence.

I’m still waiting for Mario to reply to my message. I feel hot and nervous at the same time. I need to scratch my body hard all over, until I’ve peeled away something I can’t quite put a name to. I don’t like it when Mario answers the phone while he’s driving. And so I am in his hands. It is me he is throttling as he grips the steering wheel. He turns it. And he is wringing my neck. Enough. I won’t continue this diary until I receive his message.

I won’t continue this diary until I receive his message.

I won’t continue this diary until I receive his message.

I won’t continue this diary until. At last, at last.

They are fine. Or so they tell me. At least they were thoughtful enough to send me two messages. Mario’s strikes the right note. Concise without being evasive. Affectionate without sounding sentimental. He still knows how to treat me, when he wants. That’s what made me fall in love with him: his ability to handle silences as well as words. Some men are brilliant talkers, I’ve met many like that. But almost none of them know when to be silent. Most of my female friends confuse the tough guys with the silent types. I think that’s a movie myth. The worst examples of male aggression I’ve come across have been intolerably verbal. At full volume.

As usual, I found Lito’s reply hard to decipher. All those abbreviations that supposedly speed things up, don’t they slow down the meaning of the message? Don’t they impede communication? I’m growing old.

I sat in the waiting room for an hour and a half. Seeing all those sick people together didn’t exactly put my mind at ease. In the end Dr. Escalante fitted me in between two patients. He gave me no more than five minutes. He nodded practically the whole time and apologized for the rush. When he saw me tormented by all the questions I had, he suggested I come back tomorrow. He has a gap between twelve and twelve-thirty. I’ll be there. All he had time to tell me was that, while the trip has its risks, right now Mario’s body is experiencing a respite thanks to having stopped taking the drugs. And that this normally boosts the immune system for a limited period. So the additional uplift, although there are no guarantees of course, might help Mario recover some of the strength he lacked months ago. I asked the doctor how limited that period would be. He shrugged and said: Limited.

The cautiousness of doctors irritates me. Conversing with them is like talking on a phone without any coverage. In other words, like listening to yourself speak. They allow you to get things off your chest, to ask questions the answers to which you dread, and gradually to become aware of what’s going on based on the information they drip-feed you. Dr. Escalante is a strange man. He knows how to manage his position. He doesn’t display his power: he calmly takes it for granted. What strikes me most about him is his air of discreet composure, his aloof self-confidence, combined with the energy of a man his age. I notice that profusion of energy in his look and in his brusque arm movements. As a matter of fact, Dr. Escalante isn’t that much younger than I am. And yet when I’m with him, I’m not quite sure why, I feel like an older woman, or as if my life is duller than his. I’ll bet anything he doesn’t have kids.

Before seeing the doctor, I chatted with Lito and Mario. Lito told me they had slept in the truck. I thought we had agreed they were going to stay in hotels. I chose not to get angry because they seemed happy. Mario told me he hadn’t been feeling sick. He sounded relaxed. When he’s anxious or he’s lying to me, he pauses strangely in mid-sentence; he takes breaths in unnatural places. Lito was shouting excitedly. Hearing him like that comforted me. At the same time it saddened me. He said he saw a landscape just like the one in the Road Runner cartoons. They’re eating well. I’m not. I’m going to choose the exam texts. Then I’ll spend the afternoon reading. My nerves are calmed by reading. Not true. They aren’t calmed, they change direction.

After leaving the surgery, I went (fled) to a bookshop. I bought several novels by authors I like (I chose them quickly, almost without looking, as if I were buying painkillers) and a journal by Juan Gracia Armendáriz, which I leafed through by chance. I suspect his book will be not so much a painkiller as a vaccine: it will inoculate me with the unease I am striving to overcome.

“Illness, like writing, is forced upon us,” I underline in the journal, “that is why writers feel awkward when questioned about their condition.” In a sense the opposite is true of us teachers, we seem to wear our condition on our sleeve, we exist in a classroom. I imagine the same goes for doctors, only it must be far worse: in the eyes of others, without respite, they are always doctors. “And yet when questioned about their favourite techniques or their best-loved authors, writers will talk incessantly, in the same way the sick become particularly garrulous when we enquire after their ailments,” the difference being that writers can’t help talking about something that saves them, whereas the sick can’t help talking about the thing that is dragging them under.

I have just come from seeing Dr. Escalante. It wasn’t what I expected. Not in any sense.

But was I expecting anything?

I arrived at his office exactly on the hour. As I had supposed, I was obliged to wait quite a long time. I was the last to be called in. Dr. Escalante and I greeted one another coldly. He asked me to take a seat. He said, “Let me see,” or some such phrase. All perfectly normal. After that, I am not sure what happened, or how.

At first he behaved as always. He listened, nodded, and gave didactic answers, as though avoiding the most troublesome aspect of every reply. That exasperated me, because I hadn’t gone back there to revisit platitudes I already know by heart. Sometimes I have the impression doctors tell you things not to help you understand what is happening, but to delay your understanding. Just in case, with any luck, in the meantime the illness is cured. And, if it isn’t, at least they will have saved themselves the awkward business of revealing the worst. This cautiousness drives me nuts. I told Dr. Escalante so in no uncertain terms. I detected a look of irony and at the same time of mild satisfaction on his face. He smiled. He seemed to relax. As if he were saying: So you’re one of those. The kamikaze type. The type who believe they prefer to know.

At that moment the doctor struck me as a man who knows he is attractive, without being good-looking.

From then on Dr. Escalante’s tone changed; he unclasped his hands, moved closer to the edge of his desk. I was immediately on my guard, trying not to straighten my hair, cross my legs, not to blink or anything. And, for the first time, we had an honest conversation. He was brutal, direct, and at the same time respectful toward me. He spoke to me as an equal, without using patronizing euphemisms. He confirmed nearly all my fears. Although he insisted that the trip wasn’t the real problem. I was supposed to know everything he told me, and yet hearing it still shocked me. It made me think of Dr. Escalante as an honourable man. After all, they don’t pay him to be that sincere.

When it seemed the conversation was over, one of us, I don’t recall who, made some remark about marriage. Nothing memorable. A passing comment. Yet, almost without us realizing it, our conversation was rekindled. And not only did it regain its intensity, it turned more personal. I talked about my son, his uncles, aunts, and grandparents. Escalante spoke of his mother, who died from the same illness he is now attempting to combat. I mentioned the panic attacks that have kept me from sleeping since Mario is the way he is. The doctor confessed that when he first started practising, he suffered from terrible insomnia. And he also told me he was separated. He told me this, I don’t know, with unnerving empathy. I pressed myself against the back of my chair. He glanced at the time and frowned. I sprang to my feet and thrust my arm straight out, so as to shake his hand at a distance. He said: I can’t believe how late it is. And then, squeezing my hand: I have to go now. I’d gladly ask you along, Elena, but it’s a work lunch. I told him not to worry, that I should have left ages ago, that I had to do I don’t know what I don’t know where. And I hurried toward the door. Then he added: But we could have dinner, if you like.

“I realised what the feeling was that had been besetting me,” I underline, as I read a John Banville novel with some trepidation, “since I had stepped that morning into the glassy glare of the consulting rooms,” when there is an illness in the family, light angers or even repels us. “It was embarrassment. Embarrassment, yes, a panic-stricken sense of not knowing what to say, where to look, how to behave,” until not long ago I loved the mornings, I would get up eager to fill myself with light, and leave for work feeling I was accompanied. Now I prefer the night, which at least has a certain quality of parenthesis, somewhat like a sterile chamber: everything appears slightly deceptive in the dark, nothing seems willing to go on happening. “It was as if a secret had been imparted to us so dirty, so nasty, that we could hardly bear to remain in another’s company yet were unable to break free,” now Mario is far away but our secret is still here, in the house, “each knowing the foul thing that the other also knew and bound together by that very knowledge,” Mario has left, and that knowledge remains. “From that day forward all would be dissembling. There would be no other way to live with death.”

Today has been utterly disconcerting. Because I’m not exactly drunk; far from it, I never get drunk, but a little tipsy perhaps. Because it’s two in the morning. And because just now, outside the front door, I gave Ezequiel a long hug goodbye and we even brushed the corner of our mouths with our lips. The wine was wonderful, made entirely from grapes harvested at night, or so the sommelier told us, what all of them? Amazing, how can they possibly see the grapes? Truly wonderful, I wrote down the name of the vineyard so that I can order some online, it wasn’t too tart or too fruity, the sommelier was terribly friendly.

Maybe some coffee will clear my head.

In fact, I entered the restaurant determined to tell him I wasn’t going to have dinner with him. That I had thought better of it and regretted the misunderstanding. Of course, it would have been easier to tell him over the phone. But, as it turned out, I didn’t have his private number or his e-mail address. The doctor, I mean Ezequiel, it still feels strange calling him that, had hurriedly proposed dinner. He had named a restaurant, a street, a time. And had virtually run away. I scarcely nodded. I didn’t refuse, that was all. I stood dazed outside the office door. It had a sign on it with the full names of all the different specialists and their working hours. His were finished for the day. That was the first time I had paid any attention to his first name. I should call off that dinner. Then I realized I had no way of getting hold of him outside the office. Was that a strategic omission on his part? I don’t think so. But, in short, I had to turn up at the restaurant. It would have been rude to simply stand him up. Him of all people. My husband’s doctor.

How embarrassing, my God, how embarrassing.

Not only that. I even arrived ten minutes early. And he was already in the restaurant. He told me he had had to check on a patient, and as he lived relatively close by, he had decided to wait for me there. I was wrong-footed, because to leave suddenly in that situation would have been like saying: Then you’ve waited in vain, goodbye. What I really wanted was to have arrived first. Seen him come in. Greeted him politely, making it perfectly clear I had taken the trouble to wait for him. Apologized. Paid for my drink and left. That is what I had imagined. But Ezequiel stood up to greet me, he looked very pleased to see me, he was extremely attentive, he told me he had just ordered a bottle of Merlot rarely found in our country. And so I said nothing, sat down, and smiled like an idiot.

From then on everything that happened, how can I put it? acted like an antidote. Every word, every gesture conspired to block my path and prevent my escape. Ezequiel could have avoided talking about Mario (a clumsy move that would have vexed me and driven me instantly from the table), but he did precisely the opposite. He mentioned him from the very beginning, incorporating him into the conversation so naturally that it felt almost as though my husband had arranged the dinner himself but had been unable to come at the last minute. Ezequiel could also have asked me overly personal questions, as though imposing intimacy upon me. But he behaved in exactly the opposite way; he was discreet about my life and extremely open about his own. After we ordered the second bottle, Ezequiel could have made overtures, subtly in any case (which at that point I would still have bridled at somewhat), yet he didn’t make the least move. Not even to glance at my cleavage. Which, although nothing to write home about, was nevertheless there.

Now that I come to think of it, a man only achieves such a level of restraint if that is what he has set out to do. I mean, only if it is premeditated. My God. In any case, it’s too late now. Not because we have done anything irreparable. But because it’s past four in the morning and I am wide awake. And because I was incapable of telling Ezequiel when I arrived at the restaurant, or during the meal, or as we walked back to the house, or when I heard him say his phone number, that it had all been a mistake, that I would never call him, that I didn’t want to see him. That much is irreparable. Almost as irreparable as having written my God so many times. Such an atheist and so drunk.

I look out of the window and I don’t know what to do. Whether to lean out and yell, throw myself head first onto the pavement, or hail a cab.

“She was also something of a feminist, not crazy,” I underline in one of Cynthia Ozick’s short stories, “but she resented having ‘Miss’ put in front of her name; she thought it pointedly discriminatory, she wanted to be a lawyer among lawyers.” The pupils call us female teachers Miss or, at worst, Ms. If it comes to that I’d prefer harassment. “Though she was no virgin she lived alone.” What fun Miss Ozick has. I remember once, during a dinner, a man asked my sister if she lived alone. In a rare show of humour, my sister replied: Yes, I’m married.

Why did I lack the courage to pursue my academic career? Admittedly, the precariousness alarmed me, finding myself on the street at thirty, being the umpteenth jobless researcher, et alia. But there was something else. Something around me I could see rather more clearly than my dubious vocation.

Having observed the fate of my former women colleagues, I consider myself sufficiently well-informed to sketch this brief

to be expanded upon below, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, in the hope that it displays some aptitude for synthesis:

We trust this has not wearied you, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, and that our research will attain, if not your unmerited theoretical approval, then at least your paternal consent to carry on failing. Thank you very much.

I take my phone out of my bag, I turn it on, look at it, leave it on the table, put it back in my bag, take it out again. I act like a delinquent.

The first thing I did when I got up was call Mario. It took a while to get hold of him. They seem fine. They are seeing places, enjoying themselves. They sound almost happier without me. When I asked Mario whether he was sleeping eight hours a day like he had promised, he hesitated. I got annoyed and we argued. We fell silent. And then we were tender. Lito tried to explain something to me about the truck and the rain, I couldn’t hear very well, whatever it was it sounded adorable. He told me very excitedly that he had beaten his dad in a race. I asked him to let me speak to Mario again. He promised he hadn’t really run, how could I even think that, didn’t I know the little tyke had an overactive imagination. We ended on a happy note. I felt reassured. I busied myself cleaning windows. I did some washing. I boiled vegetables. I read for a while. I prepared the literature exams. I sewed on two buttons. Then I called Ezequiel.

He asked me if I had thought about our dinner the previous night. I said no. He asked me if I’d had difficulty getting to sleep. I said no. He suggested meeting for coffee this afternoon. I said no. He asked if he could call me tomorrow. I said yes.

“Hypocrite lecteuse! Ma semblable! Ma soeur!,” I underline with a highlighter in a manifesto by Margaret Atwood, hypocrisy is a leveller, sisterly hypocrisy, sister hypocrisy, “Let us now praise stupid women,” praise them, praise them!, “who have given us Literature.” Without stupid women, not a single love poem would have ever been written.

Is Mario jealous? Somewhat. Am I jealous? Not particularly.

I could just as well have written: Is he jealous? Not really, because he acknowledges it as such. Because he is a man at ease with his jealousy. Like my sister is with hers. She even cultivates it. She regards jealousy as a sign of love.

And I could as well have written: Am I jealous? Perhaps in a twisted way. Because, although in theory I am less possessive than they are, in fact I am afraid to acknowledge the possessive impulse in myself.

Is jealousy related to love? It is related: they fight. They probably cancel each other out. Are fantasies related to marriage? They are related: they cohabit. Maybe they are mutually sustaining.

Not long ago I reached a certain age, how can I define it? an age: that’s all. After which we begin counting it, we become too aware of it. It isn’t a number so much as a kind of frontier.

Why is it that suddenly, without having decided to, we begin noticing younger people? Observing them with a certain nervousness? Why are we tempted to attract their attention, to display ourselves surreptitiously in front of them? What do we hope they will avoid? What do we want them to give us back?

Any woman who thinks this is a problem restricted to men, very well: she is probably naïve, a coward, or a hypocrite. I have women friends who fit neatly into all three categories. Until one day, when they least expect it, they leave their bald husbands for some other man.

I can’t help but admit that I, too, am turning into That. The thing I didn’t want to become. I should have been fully prepared. I had seen it in books, films, in my neighbours. But that couldn’t happen to me. Yet it has: I am starting to mistake beauty for youth.