Round-trip ticket by Gemma Lienas

VILAR CREATIVE AGENCY

Reading sample

ROUND-TRIP TICKET Gemma Lienas

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Translated by David William Foster The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: Lovers, to bed; ‘tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch’d. William Shakespeare

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For Enric, for everything, as always For Anna María Casassas, for a misunderstanding that has lasted thirty years For Marta Vilagut, for some comments that hit home For Javier López Facal, who gave me the name Tusitala

CHAPTER ONE Cassette 5. Side B. Individual Session. Analyst: Juan M. Patient: Marta P.

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T. “Do you remember what the agreement is, Marta?” … T. “Marta, please, look at me… I know this situation is not very agreeable for you, but it isn’t for me either. Answer me. Do you remember what the agreement is?” P. “Yes.” T. “Would you please repeat it to me?” P.”If I end up weighing less than ninety pounds, I’d have to go in.” T.— “And do you know how much you weigh this week?”

How was Marta to know? What was Juan thinking? That she was the oracle of Delphi? Mrs. Vilgut, who taught literature, often explained classical mythology to them. “You can’t understand literature if you don’t know anything about mythology,” she would say. And she had told them that in Delphi, in ancient Greece, the god Apollo had killed the serpent Python in order to take over the sanctuary that the serpent guarded. From that moment on, the soothsayer, a young woman, was the one in charge of making prophecies in the name of the god. They forced her to fast for three days (which for Marta was no inconvenience, since it was easy for her to do), they bathed her in the inspiring waters of the Castalia fountain (Marta didn’t know whether the water at her house was inspiring but, in any case, it wasn’t going to be for any lack of water, because, with her mania over the microbes that were about to attack her body from all directions, she spent hours in the shower). Then they sat her upon a sacred tripod in front of a crack in the boulder that emitted clouds of gas, and the soothsayer uttered poorly articulated words that were interpreted by the priests…, and so they had the answer they needed. Marta could see herself in the kitchen of her house, seated on a three-legged stool, in front of the steam from the pressure cooker… But you could bet that just at that moment the twins would come in and say something stupid as usual: + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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“Mom! Marta’s off her rocker!” Roberto, for example, might have said. “More so than usual, you must mean!” Alberto would have chimed in. Because Roberto and Alberto were like Fric and Frac. They both spoke at the same time, saying the same thing, and one would complete the sentence the other had begun. Real cute! Just like they had that afternoon when Marta and her parents returned from her first session with Juan. Because the mother, who was right to the point (in fact, just like she always was, because she never hesitated about anything), went into the bathroom, followed by Marta and the twins, grabbed the scale (she carried it like it was a mad dog), which was sitting on the floor between the bidet and the bathtub, exited the bathroom, with her children still in tow (Marta taciturn, Roberto and Alberto with eyes big as saucers), went into the parents’ bedroom, climbed up on a chair, and hid the damned scale on the top shelf of the closet, sticking it away among a pile of blankets and suitcases. She didn’t say a word. She dusted her hands as if saying that takes care of that. But the twins were the ones who had something to say: “Wow! Now what’s Marta going to do?” one of them said. “I feel sorry for her! She sure likes to go around weighing herself,” the other said. “That’s what the psychologist ordered. End of story,” the mother pronounced. Whenever she said “end of story” (and she said it frequently) they all knew there was no use in pursuing the matter. The twins really seemed to be remorseful because they loved their sister and had realized that the scale for her was as important as Legos were for them. Marta remained moody and surprised the twins by not even sticking her tongue out at them, which was the least they expected of her. That was one of the first rules Juan laid down that would be accepted grudgingly by Marta and with relief by her parents. They believed that the parade of norms would translate into a way out of the tunnel in which they found themselves. Well, time would tell how wrong they were. The proof was that Marta not only had not gotten better, but that she had continued to lose weight and, therefore, putting her in the hospital was inevitable. No, she couldn’t answer Juan’s question. She could sense the answer, but she had no desire to open her mouth. He was the one who had made the scale vanish. T. “I know you can’t determine your weight exactly as if you were a scale, but I’m convinced you’re capable of coming close to the real value: 87 pounds.” … + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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T. “Do you hear me, Marta?”

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Of course she’d heard him! The fact she was anorexic didn’t mean that, on top of it, she was deaf! Luckily, deafness was not among the many changes provoked by anorexia. Marta moved restlessly in the chair and looked at Juan resentfully. She felt such intense irritation toward him that she would have clawed at him, insulting him or, perhaps even better, ignoring him with great pleasure. Juan… And she had gotten along with him so well during the first sessions. Juan, with his long and delicate hands, his tender and mocking smile, his shiny, deep black, wavy hair, not right for a man as old as he was. Marta guessed he was about forty years old. His hair looked a lot like Ricky’s… Marta sighed and shook her head violently to get rid of the image. It was all she needed right now. Truth was, she really could have picked a fight with Juan today…, if he had let her. But he didn’t. Not even her crying led him to lose his cool, nor her moody silences, nor her angry responses. His character was birdbrain-proof. Or he’d had a lot of experience. But what the hell was wrong with her? Was she losing control? Was she really fucking herself? It seemed like she was losing her grip on everything, food, laughter, her friends, her studies… Suddenly, all the irritation drained away from her, woosh!, just like a balloon deflating and a gust of anguish, bitter like the taste of lemon peel, filled her mouth.

T. “Good grief! The longer we know each other, the less communicative you become, Marta. Come on and tell me how you feel.” P. “I feel bad, very bad.” T. “Are you worried because you have to go into the hospital?” P. “It’s not that exactly, although I don’t like thinking about it, because it’s going to be horrible being controlled night and day and having to eat what you all decide, and not playing sports and even, with a little bit of bad luck, failing school. All because…” She sighed because, in addition, she would miss her parents and the twins and Atila (Candy less so, of course. And Bes. It’d be great to get her out of her sight!) and Claudia. P. – “But…, well, that’s not really what’s bothering me most.”

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T. “So then, what’s bothering you? Can you tell me? Maybe it’ll calm you down if you do…”

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How could Marta vomit up that uneasiness she could feel in her chest? Would it help to stick two fingers down her throat, just as she had done so often to get the food up? Arggh! And up would come the plate of spaghetti she’d just gobbled down. “Marta, do you feel sick?” the twins had asked the night they found her with her head almost submerged in the toilet. With some slobbery strings sill hanging from her mouth and dripping into the depths of the white porcelain, she said with confusion in her voice, “I’m vomiting up all the spiders I have in my belly.” But she didn’t have time to stop them. “Mom, mom!” They raced down the hall to inform the higher authorities. “Marta must have worms in her belly (they’d engaged in a free interpretation of their sister’s metaphor). “She’s womiting.” And of course they placed her under surveillance. That was all she needed, always on top of her. But it wasn’t so easy to get rid of the emotions in her body. Not even the words used to describe them. What could she tell him? That she was afraid? That she was tired? That she was so full of anguish she couldn’t breathe? She felt on the ropes. Cornered (but, by whom?). That’s why she didn’t care if she had to go into the psychiatric unit. To a certain extent, she wanted to, because she had reached a point where she thrashed around like a caged animal. Like a small enclosure, four hops and you’ve hit the ceiling. She didn’t know how to get out. Was she going to describe to him again the sensation she felt as soon as she woke up? A claw that gripped her stomach, squeezed her lungs upward and almost kept her from breathing. It was as though it greeted her every morning, “Hey, cute stuff, what’d you think? That I’d left?” Marta felt obliged to breathe in deeply, in and out, in order to make sure a current of air was entering her lungs. But the effect didn’t last long. She was once again gasping for air, half asphyxiated, like a fish out of water. Then another deep breath. A crushing exhaustion. The terror of ending up drowning for real. “You shouldn’t be afraid,” Juan had told her the first time she had informed him about it. “It’s anxiety. Those are the physical manifestations of your emotional state. But they won’t kill you, I guarantee you.”

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As though it were worth something to know the name of that emotion! The effects hadn’t gotten any less. Marta continued to be destroyed by anxiety. Okay, let them go ahead and commit her. She still didn’t know what to do.

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T. “Marta, are you crying?” P. “Yes. So what?” T. “No, nothing. Here, take this tissue and blow your nose.” P. … T. “Does your neck still hurt you?” P. “Yes.” T. “You know it’s from tension, don’t you?” P. “Mmmm.” T. “Have you done the relaxation exercises at home I taught you?” P. “I tried, but the truth is that it’s been a disaster. It’s easy when I’m with you, but when I’m alone, I can’t even remember what I’m supposed to do.” T. “You’re supposed to achieve a state of profound relaxation and getting to be able to do that without help requires a lot of practice. You’ll have the chance in the hospital to attend relaxation sessions alone and in the company of other girls.” … T. “Don’t give me that face. I know how hard it is for you to connect with others.” P. “It’s not difficult, it’s impossible. OK, so I don’t want to. Just the thought of meeting new people makes me ill. I can’t even talk to Claudia. And she’s my best friend…”

Claudia! Marta asked herself how long it’d been since she’d had a talk with her friend, an exciting person full of complications. But she couldn’t remember. What she did remember was Claudia’s last attempt to find out what was going on with her. There was that time she’d called. “What’s wrong? It’s been days since I saw you at school and I haven’t the faintest idea of where you are. Are you sick?” Marta hated her. Fuck! Couldn’t she just leave her alone? No one at home had any idea about things at school. She’d told them they had the week off and a lot of her friends had taken the chance to go skiing and those who either had no money or interest in going stayed at home studying. Like her, for example. Her parents hadn’t been surprised. Money was tight for them and they couldn’t have allowed it. Besides, Marta had always worked hard as a student.

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Who knows if they’ll find out the truth now, all because of Claudia and because of her mother’s habit of always having her ears pricked up to keep things under control. She lowered her voice to tell her: “No, nothing’s wrong with me. I’ve got a cold, that’s all.” She would have liked it if “that’s all” were enough, but Claudia was insistent: “Would you like me to bring over my notes from class?” Marta was at her wits end and her mother was hovering over the telephone: “No, I don’t need them,” she said, half-hysterically. Her mother on the hunt. She tried to buy time: “I’ll call you later. I’m just finishing up the assignment in natural sciences.” Claudia insisted: “Girlfriend, I don’t get it.” “OK, thanks, I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up and scurried past her mother’s inquisitive look. She called again a second time the next day. Marta had left orders with the twins in case it happened: “You grab the phone before Mom or Dad. If it’s Claudia, tell her I’m not here.” “But you are here…,” which is the crushing logic of snot-nosed sevenyear-olds. “But it’s like I’m not here. End of story.” But her “end of story” didn’t work with the twins either: “But we can see you right here.” “OK, pretend I’m invisible, can’t you?” No is what Roberto’s and Alberto’s big green eyes said. She tried to smooth things over. “Listen, haven’t you ever been mad at someone and didn’t want to talk to them?” Yes, the twins nodded, it sinking in. They certainly knew about fights… They were specialists. “She’s not here,” Roberto said to Claudia, keeping his voice low so his parents wouldn’t hear. And when she called the third time, she got the same answer from Alberto. “OK, she’ll call when she wants to,” Claudia finally said angrily, putting an end to her rescue mission for whatever was wrong with her friend. + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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The fact is that Marta felt her soul was on fire and that’s why she couldn’t stand contact with anyone. She preferred for everything to take place as far away from her as possible because she didn’t have the strength to face up to anything.

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T. “I know you’ve recently cut yourself off. It’s one more consequence of your illness. But don’t make a big deal about it by spending too much time thinking it over. It won’t help and will only make your anxiety worse. So, listen to me and just keep your thoughts under control. P. “OK, sure, but it’s easy for you to say so. I’m the one who has to do it.” T. “It’s all a matter of practice, like everything in life. The more you practice something, the better it gets and the easier it is to do it again. Train yourself nonstop, just like when you’re practicing a play in volleyball.” P. “When I talk to you at all seems so easy, but when I’m alone at home, I’m overwhelmed.” T. “At least you’ve stopped crying. Would you like to tell me why you were crying?” … T. “Was it because of Ricky?” … T. Was it because of your family?”

Her family? God, her family! Poor things, she’d screwed them up with her damn illness. Now just when things at home had calmed down, here she came and made a mess of everything with this strange thing that was happening to her. Because her parents had returned to being like they were before Conflict A… No way! Better than before Conflict A, closer and nicer to each other. But while Conflict A lasted (clearly, she was Conflict B), it looked like the whole family was on the skids. Marta recalled very well the moment in which things went sour between her parents or, at least, the night she noticed that the relationship between them was not like before, as though an invisible river separated them. The silences had become more frequent and seemed each time to last longer, as though the river widened every day and it was harder for them to go from one side to the other. She and the twins attempted to swim between the two banks to put them in contact, but it was all of no avail. Their father, his head down, as though reading a newspaper only he could see, and their mother, her head down, as though mentally going over the work for the next day. The two of them, each locked in symmetrical and transparent cases, did not communicate. On the outside, Marta

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and the twins (even though the snot-noses seemed not to notice a thing), were there, too. On the afternoon that marked a turning point in the family’s life, Marta had gotten home around six. She remembered it very well because she usually got home later, but a lesion in the adductor muscle of her right leg had kept her from going to gym class. Her father was already home, as usual. It would still be a while before her mother came home from the office. The twins were plopped down on the sofa, hypnotized by the TV cartoons. When she said “Hi, Ertos, how’s it going?” (and it didn’t even bother them that she used the nickname they were called by at school, Alberto and Roberto, hence the Ertos), they answered: “Bang, bang, they got him.” “Right, dead as a doornail.” Marta went over to her father, who was working on the dining room table. He was concentrating so much on what he was doing he didn’t even know she was there. “What are you doing?” she asked him as she patted Atila on the head, who was dozing curled up on the sofa. Atila didn’t budge, his eyes closed, but he emitted a soft growl. It was a useless question because it was obvious he was doing what he most liked to do, which was putting his collection of stamps in order. But she asked him because it was a way of saying to him, “Hey, I’m here! Can you pay a little attention to me?” Her father answered laconically: “You can see with your two eyes…,” and flashed her a quick glance. It was the sort of answer he was used to giving. And that was no big deal, given how things had been going recently, but in fact that aspect of his character had become more pronounced and become more frequent. Truth was that he’d always been like that, at least at home, talking very little (maybe because their mother talked for both of them), not very friendly (although he certainly was with outsiders), definitely not very involved. He was like a part of the furniture. As though he were made of cork. He was more or less lost in his in own affairs and didn’t seem much interested in the home front. Marta thought he got more excited about the latest stamp emission from Tanzania than about picking out a new sofa for the apartment. Marta left him wrapped up in his own world. It was better not to press the issue. At least she’d gotten a word or two out of him. A conversation would have been too much. She gave him one last look before shutting herself up in her bedroom. She looked at his head, with his fine chestnut hair that was unmistakably growing + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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lighter and made it possible to guess that it would not be long before he started going bald, bent over the stamp album in which he patiently placed the new stamps with tweezers. His glasses had slid down his nose and with a brief gesture, he pushed them back up. His mustache, which was turning white, moved in unison with his lips, which were humming a song. He wasn’t a badtempered man (at least, he hadn’t been until then, because Conflict A had begun to make him bitter). He was simply a man of cork. Marta closed the door of her room, which was small, but not as small as her parents’, where the furniture was limited to the matrimonial bed and a tiny closet. She left her backpack full of books and notes on the floor and lay down on the bed to read for a while. She had to study, but thought she would later. And she lost herself in a novel by Marsé, One Day I’ll Come Back. She had only gotten so far in the story when the twins burst into her room like Comanche Indians with the Seventh Regiment in hot pursuit. They leapt onto their sister’s belly. She had to protect them from the enemy. “They want to take us prisoner,” he whispered to her so the captain in blue couldn’t hear. “Click, click,” she closed a virtual door. “Here they can’t get you. This is the realm of the Princess Feet-of Wind and the captain in blue respects her because her father cured his son with some herbs he didn’t know anything about.” The Comanches planted noisy kisses on Princess Feet-of-Wind. “We’re starved. What’s for dinner?” “I was just fixing a snake with crickets and mushrooms. Would you like that?” “Mmmmm, that would be great, princess.” “It smells like a potato omelet, princess.” But they couldn’t enjoy the snake because just then their father opened the door and asked them to come to the table because the potato omelet was ready and their mother was on her way. When they sat down, the air was tense. Their mother was grouchy (she often was recently, so that was certainly nothing new). Their father seemed more than ever made of cork, maybe even plastic popcorn (nothing new there, either). Marta realized that for the first time there was something more than just distance in the air. They’d had a knock-down drag-out fight. But she didn’t know whether they were angry, real angry, of just a little bit angry. After a while, their nonwords and their nonglances wove a spider web that enveloped her soul. Although she was hungry, she had a hard time swallowing the croquettes and the potato omelet, which she loved. She only wanted dinner and her chores to be over so she could shut herself up in her room, where she could go back to reading and + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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forget what was going on around her. All these feelings led her to conclude that they were over-the-top mad this time. She looked at the twins, who seemed impervious to their parents’ cold war. “If we have a brother, we’ll call him Leonera.” How opportune! The mother and father didn’t even hear them. Marta intervened, with a croquette half-stuck in her craw: “That’s silly, boys. Leonera isn’t a name.” “There you are, the smart one,” Alberto said. “You sure know it all, right?” Roberto answered. “Well, for your information, there’s a new kid in class as of yesterday whose name is Leonera.” Marta didn’t say anything right away. “León Heras, dumbbells, his name must be León Heras.” “No, it isn’t! He says Leonera,” Alberto shot back. “I’ll bet he’s from Andalucia and doesn’t pronounce the final s. So he says León Hera.” The twins gave up in the face of the evidence, but with their dignity clearly wounded. They hated her being right. Their parents continued in their glass cases. That was the first dinner in which Marta was conscious of how their silence was only broken by the clatter of the silverware when the dishes were being washed and not even her few attempts to soften the situation by telling them stories from school or the constant scuffle of the twins could ever do a thing to penetrate the iron curtain they’d brought down between them. “Brush your teeth and go to bed,” their mother said to the twins when dessert was over. The twins jumped up from their seats and gave a kiss to their end-of-story mother Absent and a kiss to their plastic-popcorn father Absent and a kiss to their princess feet-of-wind Present. Marta hurriedly helped clear the table and when she could lock herself up in her room, she felt like they’d strapped a bag to her shoulders. She gave into the heavy weariness that the bad situation had dealt her. She fell right asleep without even thinking about One Day I’ll Come Back. She had no idea how long she’d been sleeping when the contained but angry voices of her parents awoke her. She tried hard to understand what they were arguing about, but the distance from her room to theirs was too much for her to really hear well what they were saying. She lay there motionless for awhile under the warm sheets and then + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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jumped out of bed, glued herself to the door and, without making a sound, inched it open. Atila wiggled through the crack and rubbed his back against her legs and then leaped agilely into a chair to spend the night. The twins’ door remained closed. It seemed like they hadn’t been awakened. Her parents’ voices reached her clearly, sliding out above the sliver of light that filtered through their door, also partway opened. “At least you could look at me when I talk to you, Pedro,” her mother demanded in a tone Marta didn’t recognize. Her mouth had the aftertaste of someone who’s licked the edge of a knife. “We’re talking about something serious.” Marta held her breath. What did her mother mean by “something serious”? “Am I right or not?” her mother insisted, barely containing her anger. There was no answer this time either. Marta imagined her father sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to any object in the room to avoid confrontation because he was made of plastic popcorn and because it had always been easier for him to accept her arguments or, at least, not go against them. “Hush,” he scolded her. “Rosa, please, you’re going to wake the kids up.” “They’ve got to know sooner or later…” But Marta couldn’t hear what she and the twins had to know sooner or later, because one of them, probably her father, closed the door. The sliver of light disappeared and, with it, the words. She returned to bed with her feet as cold as her heart. She took a long time to fall asleep and as she turned things over in her mind lying there awake, she couldn’t stop repeating to herself her parents’ words. She was horrified to think they might have been discussing the possibility of splitting up. Or were they, like Claudia’s parents, facing a disastrous economic situation? Or maybe one of them had gotten very sick? Did one of them have a lover? She shuddered to think that perhaps it was a bomb that would blow the family to bits. From then on, whenever a storm was brewing, she crossed her fingers and wished for the war to end immediately. But Conflict A had only begun. P. “It’s not because of my family, either. I think I’m crying over myself, because I feel miserable.” T. “Miserable! Those are rather harsh words you’re using to describe yourself.” P. “I feel dirty all over. It’s no joke.”

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T. “I have no doubt, but it’s only a consequence of the sickness. You’ve got to convince yourself, Marta, that whether you get better or not is up to you and you alone. You’ve got to accept the fact that you’re sick and you’ve got to work with us to stop being sick. Do you understand?” P. “Yes.” T. “Do you want me to call them and give them the news myself?”

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No! No way! Only her father would be at home that time of day (and the twins and Bes, of course). She preferred her father and mother to get the news at the same time, from her mouth. At least her mother would react one way or another. Negatively, of course. Badly, no doubt. Marta could imagine how mad she’d get and would accuse her (with good reason, to be sure) that she’d done nothing but lie to them (again, Marta?) concerning the food. She also imagined that she would be saddened because it seemed to her something serious to have to put her oldest child in the hospital. And surely she would accuse herself, because she considered herself responsible in part (she was Mrs. Perfect) for what had happened to Marta. Yes, she already knew they weren’t going to applaud her, but, nevertheless, they would support her. On the other hand, her father wouldn’t know what to say. Thanks to his plastic popcorn nature and because he never had the faintest idea of what was going on with his oldest child. Marta recalled the surprise that came over her father’s face the afternoon when Juan told them the diagnosis about her illness. By contrast, her mother didn’t move a muscle. She had long suspected it, which is why she’d sought out a psychologist and why she’d dragged her and Pedro to the outpatient clinic. The father couldn’t comprehend it. “Anorexia?” he repeated over and over, as if he had a hard time understanding the word. But when Juan undertook a technical explanation so he’d be able to grasp the illness that Marta had, he cut him off. “I know perfectly well what anorexia is. I read the newspapers and I’ve got an idea of what that sickness is.” And he added that what had stunned him was the fact his daughter had it. “I thought that was something only models and some topnotch sportswomen had.” That afternoon, Pedro stared at Marta as if seeing her for the first time, as if she were a stranger to him or as if he’d just discovered some new facet about her that was so unimaginable that it reduced her to the condition of a stranger. Juan, with patience and tact, had explained to him that it was more and more common and that many, many girls, girls more than boys, were trapped in that hell and they were daughters of normal families, with normal parents, normal siblings, with normal behavior and even outstanding academic records. “Yes, yes,” her father said, for whom so much normality sounded + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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familiar, even if he still failed to understand where that piece of the puzzle they’d just given him fit. His daughter’s anorexia. And to make matters worse, Bes would be at home, with her languid carriage and her straight blond mane that swept across her eyes (downcast, more than normal, according to the twins), looking like she’d never broken a plate in her life. The hag. No chance she wouldn’t hold back and would make some comment. Like, “So then, I was right.” Miss know-it-all, the wonder rat. Marta would’t be at all surprised that she’d already said something to her mother. For some time now she’d see them whispering to each other and fall silent whenever she came near. Uf! She really wanted to tell them herself, catch them on her own, explain everything with the maximum discretion possible, decide what would be the best way to tell the twins and the family and the school, leave Bes out of the loop… And the twins! She didn’t want the news floating about the house without being there herself to do damage control for them. And if she weren’t there, no one would bother, because, so they say, little kids don’t catch onto anything… And as much as they didn’t miss a thing. Nothing. Real linxes. Just like how they’d picked up on the rough waters between their parents. “Can we come in Princess Flatfoot?” the two twins said as they cracked open the door to her room and stuck their blue locks and dirty noses in. The dirty noses were from the chocolate they’d just had for breakfast. Their locks were blue because one day they’d gone for a walk with Uncle Lalo and he’d brought them back, each one with a lock dyed metallic blue. Their parents had been upset, as they always were when Uncle Lalo did things on his own. “Just take a look at that,” their father said, “what a sight!” “I don’t want them going around looking like that,” their mother said. So in the end, the twins kept their blue locks, at least until their next haircut. “Get out of here, you cretins. Can’t a body even sleep in on Sunday?” throwing a cushion at their heads. “Anyway, my feet aren’t flat at all, dwarves.” The twins prudently shut the door and retreated. Princess Whatever-Feet was in no mood for jokes. The fact of the matter was that Marta was sleepy. She’d barely been able to sleep. She’d awakened at midnight in time to hear her father talking in a loud voice (which was not at all common): “So, what do you want me to do?” She was able to make out her mother’s reply, which also came with a raised voice (which was more than common): “Show some sign of emotion, at least.” “What do you mean, show some sign of emotion, Rosa?” + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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“How do I know? Maybe you could object, make yourself heard, say you don’t agree.” Then as if they’d calmed down, turning the volume down, their voices faded away in the night that would become so long for Marta. She couldn’t get back to sleep because they’d passed the state they were in on to her. No more than a half hour after the appearance and disappearance of the twins, the door of her room opened again and two small hands appeared holding a chocolate cigarette. “Hey, Princess Feet-of-Wind, would you like to smoke the peace pipe with us?” Princess Feet-of-Wind burst out laughing from under her sheets. “Princess Feet-of-Wind, are you sleeping?” “How the hell do you expect me to be sleeping if all you do is bother me? Come on in, let’s smoke the peace pipe.” Two still-dirty-with-chocolate boys burst in like meteorites and jumped in bed with the princess, one on each side. And they smoked the pipe in three quite equal bites. “Hey, she’s got a bigger piece than I do,” Alberto grumbled. (Well, quite a bit, but not completely.) “OK, then I’ll smoke less,” the Princess tried to smooth things over. “See?” Everyone was happy. But not completely. “Did you hear Mom and Dad last night?” The Princess, with her microscopic and not very good piece of chocolate melting in her mouth, pondered over what she should say. “Come on! Don’t pretend! You couldn’t help hearing them…” “Unless you’ve become deaf.” “Or maybe even better, dumb.” They were no fools. And they were worried. They wanted an answer. “I’m neither deaf nor dumb. I heard them.” “What do you think they were arguing about?” “They have a Conflict.” Princess Feet-of-Wind called it The Conflict because she still didn’t know that down the road there would be another and she’d have to distinguish between A and B. “And how do you end conflicts?” “And when? When are they over?” The Princess had to admit that she didn’t know how long a conflict could last. As for the end…, there could be two: either they smoked the peace pipe or they went to war. + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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The twins looked at her with tremendously wide eyes. “War?” “Well, yes, war, like Nuria’s parents.” “You mean they’ll split up?” The Princess said to herself that rather than calming them down she was making them more nervous. She wasn’t able to find any answers. “Come on, dwarves, so far no one’s told us what the conflict was about. Maybe it’s the kind of conflict that goes away on its own and no one even remembers it.” The twins looked at each other. “And what if we ask them?” The Princess didn’t think it was a good idea. “Let them be the first ones to explain it to us, if they want to.”

T. “Marta, as much as I’d like to, I can’t spend all afternoon with you. You’ve got to tell me if you want to tell them or if you prefer I do it.” P. “I prefer to.” T. “As you wish. Then go home and tell them. I’ll wait for you all at the hospital to help you handle the intake. Remember that you’ll have to stay in until you’ve gained nine pounds. And you’ve got to gain at least two per week. P. “Yes, you already told me.” T. “I just want to make sure you’ve understood the contract. Once you’ve met the weight we’ve established, you can become an outpatient and follow a much more open regime. You can sleep at home, for example. And later on, if all goes well, you can go back to school. P. “OK. Now I’ve got to wash my hands.” T. “You don’t need to wash your hands. You know perfectly well that that’s an obsession stemming from your illness.” P. “Whatever, I need to wash them. My defenses are real low and I could pick up anything.”

Marta went into the bathroom. She turned the hot water on and then the cold water. She put her hands under the flow of the water that, despite the mix, still seemed cold to her. She increased the flow of hot water. For quite some time she needed any liquid coming in contact with her body (soups, milk or the water in the shower) to be almost boiling. Juan said her low level of tolerance for the cold was a consequence of the excessive drop in her body’s weight. She activated the liquid soap dispenser and some slippery mother-of-pearl drops fell into the palms of her hands. Slowly and deliberately, she rubbed her hands together while she + 1 - 3 0 3 - 7 1 7 6 6 1 9 | O L G A @ V I L A R C R E AT I V E A G E N C Y. C O M | 8 4 5 1 5 T H S T,

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counted to twenty. Then she put her hands under the flow of water and with the same concentration she rinsed them until not a trace of foam remained. She repeated the operation, counting to twenty once again. When the last vestige of soap was gone from her epidermis, she activated the soap dispenser for a third time. At last, as was the case every time she did it three times, she considered she’d outsmarted any microbe that might try to penetrate her skin. Then she dried her hands with the automatic hot-air machine. While she held her hands under the flow of air, she looked at herself in the mirror. The image was that of a withered looking girl. Her skin tone was like an old lady’s, a scrawny white, interrupted only by the red of lips that grew paler by the day. The bags under her eyes were the color of fly’s wings, with her pupil still chocolate brown, although they’d lost the shine that’d always characterized them. She’d always been proud of her hair, but it fell lifeless, stringy and dull down both sides of her face. She was worried about going bald because of the abundance of hair she found on her pillow each morning or in the bathroom after a shower. Marta tried to buck herself up with a smile, but she found she couldn’t.

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