Divorce Is in the Air: A Novel (5 page)

“It’s adult onset. Your pancreas is deteriorating.”

“You might find yourself getting more tired than normal. You might have nausea or vomiting, and polyphagia, polydipsia and polyuria, and prickling of the skin.”

“Your body will have trouble forming scars if you cut yourself, that’s another problem.”

“You are going to have to take care of yourself, Mr. Miró-Puig.”

Taking care of myself meant giving up, first of all (the doctor had enough empathy to ration the bad news), fried potatoes, nuts (innocent nuts!), sweets, alcohol (the doctor knows that the list of exceptions here will be long), tobacco (I don’t smoke), meat and seafood binges, and bingeing in general (even lettuce has too much carbohydrate): all the things that provide an ounce of bodily pleasure. Sure, he didn’t put a limit on sex, but your departure had left me without an accomplice—though toward the end our bedroom hadn’t exactly been a carnival—and I wasn’t feeling up to finding a girlfriend.

“There’s no cutoff date for this, Joan-Marc. You’re going to have to behave—
fer bondat,
forever.”

I knew I should be pleased, and not just because he’d moved to a first-name basis, which does make disease less intimidating; my muscle tissue had survived, and 30 percent of the light could still pass through my arteries. We’d caught it in time, problem detected, I was alive and they didn’t even have to slice me up like a chicken. I would go on breathing, and I still had a good thirty-two years or so left.

“It’s not a reversible situation. You’re going to have to say good-bye to certain habits and replace them with healthier ones.”

It was unfair: so many carnivores loose in the streets, so many people who’ve never spent five minutes considering the industrial torture techniques used to fatten up the animals whose cadavers are filleted into their servings of filthy protein. And yet, it’s the conscientious guy who suffers, the guy who’s practically vegetarian and whose worst sin was being a bit greedy when it came to fried tubers and sugary trail mix. It was asking a lot of me to kill the hours between cooked vegetables and a seaweed salad by snacking on tomato slices.

“Some habits must go for good.”

Of course it was bad—terrible—that you’d left me, and that financial worries crowded my doorstep, but it was that visit to the doctor that really brought me to despair. Obviously I rebelled at the prospect of spending the rest of my life watching through a thick pane of glass as steaming plates of delicious fried foods paraded past. But I need more to explain my utter collapse: I stopped writing to you, I stopped pairing my socks, ironing my clothes; I left the house with a slovenly beard and unkempt hair, I wore the same shirt for a week, I forgot to brush my teeth. I found myself sitting down on the toilet like a little girl, sniveling, unable to face my problems. I woke up in the middle of the night, closed my eyes and imagined my heart like a dry bean beating behind my ribs: shriveled, timid, wrinkled. I had attacks of rage while stretched out on the sofa. I lost all confidence in my body. My defenses against hypochondria were peeling off like damp parquet tiles. What would be next? My hands started sweating when I thought about how the consciousness I was so comfortable in, the only point in the whole grand universe where I was capable of living, could just give out at any moment. I got despondent every time I thought about that doughy muscle, coated in blood, beating to the rhythm of instructions screen-printed onto a DNA helix before I left my mother’s womb. It wasn’t only that my arteries were clogged, making me chronically ill in the eyes of Western doctors—after all, if you looked at me with a more discerning eye, I was healthy. My diabetes wasn’t the kind the kids at school had: I could exercise, argue, touch a woman; I would taste meat again. No, the thing that pierced me like a poison arrow was that word: “incurable.”

“Never again.”

I realized I had treated my body as if it were unchanging, and every slight malfunction as reversible; I was sure I could overcome anything with the power of my charm. The problem wasn’t that my youthful vigor had dissipated. Sure, I’ve never been one to spend hours running laps under polluted skies, but soon (as soon as I found an opponent who would pay for the court) I’d be playing tennis again, and no one could stop me from buying a set of dumbbells to turn those (slight) lumps of fat into high-quality muscles. The problem is I’ve started to notice bodily phenomena I never paid attention to before: I look for broken capillaries, I monitor the texture of my skin that yields in lax folds in places that can’t be exercised (cheeks, nape of the neck), the wrinkles that accumulate in the corners overworked by my expressions, the little white spots that spoil my easily tanned complexion…It’s as if youth and vigor were just matter’s fever dreams.

I began to think seriously about things I thought I’d outgrown in adolescence: I spent hours searching online for a way to preserve my mind—all those impressions accumulated over forty-something years of observations and hormone fluctuations—once my organism fell apart. I wore my eyes out staring at the screen for entire nights. It’s a disgrace they still can’t download consciousness to a machine, where it can be preserved until those shady guys doing stem cell research finally figure out how to cultivate host bodies. Surely my unique point of view is worth something, even though the birth rate keeps going up and up year after year. Consciousness is stuck to the cerebral jelly—you can’t separate the two—and it’s lights out once the brain is used up. All this goddamn progress and we still have to break down and die.

“Never again.”

The point is, I didn’t update my Facebook profile so I could contact survivors from a shared past I couldn’t care less about. It was just the first idea I’d had of a way to distract myself from my waning future. And since finding a buddy is less exhausting than looking for a girlfriend, I started prowling through my “friends,” and the “friends” of my “friends.” I was embarrassed to put anything on my wall; unless you run a nightclub or work as a spy, what kind of news can guys like us really come up with? Most had posted photographs full of incipient jowls, those hair implants that only advertise the baldness they’re trying to disguise, age spots, and misshapen blubber. It would have been more elegant if they’d simply vanished after finishing their senior year. Girlfriends, children, wives—it was disheartening to think that by now all my classmates (for the love of God, mere boys) had been baptized in sexual waters.

Pedro-María was divorced, lived in the city, worked for himself, and had free time—it all sounded good. It took us three e-mails to set things up. I boldly proposed a vegan restaurant, but some people just can’t get past the idea of wilted spinach on a plate. He proposed a brasserie in Poblenou and I didn’t protest; my courtesy was stronger than my sense of responsibility as an invalid. I was going to give myself a break.

I spent two days rehearsing speeches that would give the impression of a successful man going through a rough patch—I didn’t have the audacity to hide that—but it got harder and harder as more details of my “temporary” hard time came to light: economic, emotional, health-related. If I was honest about my circumstances, it was easy to confuse me with a newly divorced guy exploiting social networks to vent about his problems. Pedro-María would realize I was at the end of my tether, the kind of guy to be avoided like the plague—that’s me. I couldn’t let that loser humiliate me. If he thought I was going to be his doormat, he was sorely mistaken.

The day wasn’t terribly cold but I ruled out walking. The 54 bus left me on Gran Via, and from there I left behind the regularity of the Eixample for the delirium of Poblenou: its sloping streets, underground walkways, little village houses and rashes of modern buildings; its stairways, blind alleys, and kilometers of warehouses sporting broken windows. I got lost twice; luckily I’d left with time to spare.

While I was trying to find my way, I thought back to how alone I’d felt on my first day of school in Barcelona. Before that move, I hadn’t even imagined you could change cities or houses. The furniture still hadn’t arrived and my sister and I were spending our nights in sleeping bags. The walls and ceiling of my room looked like the canvas of a camping tent; there was the same fear of the dark, there were the same wild sounds (boiler, freezer, cistern). At school I made friends with all the boys I met. My sister had a tougher time: whenever Mother dropped her off she started crying and embarrassed us. So many mothers, so many fathers, so many half-told stories that must be over by now. An entire generation at the nursing-home doors, and back then I peered at them through the fog of preadolescence, without any subtlety of feeling. Those boys (Jacobo, Eloy, Antolín) saved me from isolation, but they gradually broke away from me. By any adult yardstick, they couldn’t have been worth much as friends.

The street curved twice before descending toward the sea. Before I saw the brasserie’s sign I recognized Pedro-María’s lanky figure dragging a motorcycle, and back came his school nickname. We called him Serrucho, the Saw, because he was long and pliant and he walked as if his limbs were coming out of their joints: a kid who was easy to bend. He greeted me by waving his entire arm, then he took off his helmet, shook his head, and smoothed a great mop of graying hair. I wasn’t prepared for the hug he gave me, nor did I remember those blue eyes, misty and cold. He flattered me by saying I looked well.

“Wait till you see the view here.”

La Brasa was styled with vine-covered trellises, and its decor featured fake wine barrels. He had reserved a table with a garden view; the whole place smelled like ashes.

“You can eat like a fucking king here, Johan.”

I could imagine the food, but that “Johan” caught me off guard. Who would ever believe I was Saw’s best friend? Could I really make him the confidant of my second marriage? What was this really about—confessing our little secrets? I waited for help from the past, but no shimmering flashback came to save me, nor were we rescued by a fade to black. Since I didn’t dare to flee, we sat down together at the table instead.

Two beers and a plate of olives came to the rescue. We talked about the temperature, about whether I’d had trouble finding the place; it’s not so awkward to fall back on that kind of thing. Unless you’re some kind of professional friend, one of those who’s spent two decades meeting up with the same people to dissect the Barça game, slurp snails, or go on bike rides together, the years will probably put a distance between you and your old friends. Your day-to-day will bring all kinds of new people into your life: colleagues, additions to the family, neighbors who want to show off their apartment—there just aren’t enough hours for them all. You don’t lose sight of your old pals, echoes reach you from the distant zones they occupy—who they’re seen with, approximately what they do, and how much they spend—but you gradually replace them. I mean, they’re like an insurance policy, and you can rely on them when you need someone willing to grant you half an hour’s honest conversation (bodily failings, fevered corners of the heart), free of the misunderstandings, suspicions, and presumptions that surround new relationships. With these people there’s no need to hide the fact that in the relatively near future we’ll begin to disappoint each other, because with these guaranteed friends placed within our reach by search engines, nobody’s trying to take each other for a ride: we’ve botched things enough as it is.

Pedro-María ordered salad and two T-bone steaks. I didn’t make a peep—it was too sad a day to be vegetarian. I promised myself, though, that I wouldn’t touch the wine. I’d do what you used to when you didn’t feel like drinking: just wet my lips.

If we’d been introduced as adults it would have been hard for us to break the ice: ever since Barça stopped being also-rans I only watch football occasionally, the nicest thing I can say about politicians is that they’re a bunch of deadbeats, I don’t think Pedro-María would be that interested in my BBC science documentaries, and it was too soon to start talking about my new field of interest—the neurotic neurons of my successive female companions. Of course, it didn’t even take us five minutes to turn to our shared history. We’d spent only eight years together, but time had passed so slowly on the way to school, the hours of boredom in the classroom had been innumerable, it was like we’d been moving through a heavy liquid that embedded those few years into a layer of our souls as deep as it was accessible.

While I went bounding up the stairs two at a time to plead on behalf of the class that the teacher postpone the geography test…while I was lacing up my shoes on the basketball court as my teammates took up their positions…it made me sad to think that all those golden bodies brimming with youthful energy would head off to different universities, marry strange girls, buy distant apartments. All the boys in our class came into the world and consumed so much energy as our bones matured…I swear, when I was twenty you could never have convinced me how fast I would pass thirty, that all it took was one month running into the next. It seemed marvelous, being blessed with a pair of hands with which to act upon the world, but it was really just a trick, too common and widespread a phenomenon for any single manifestation to warrant much concern. They knotted a tie around Pedro-María’s neck for the graduation photo in 1979, and you could think of that photo as the critical mass from which we would all emerge, propelled every which way. Before long we would separate into the ugly ones, the idiots, the ladykillers, the beautiful souls, the health freaks, the caretakers, the dupes, the slackers, the men of mystery, the armchair generals, the worriers, the cowards, the ones who founder when they hit the first heavy weather, the tyrants, the wimps, the bosses, the humanitarians, the leaders of charmed lives, the prodigies and the late bloomers, the shrinking violets, the filthy pigs, the brawlers, the weaklings, the shut-ins, those who seemed destined never to grow but then started growing, or never to fall ill, never to die, now scattered among various clinics, savoring their various phases of resignation and united by the same muffled farewell song, bound together by the secret filaments of a shared sense of shame.