14
The doctor’s surgery was on a top floor with a view of the sea gleaming in the distance and the slope of Calle Muntaner, dotted with trams, which slid down to the Ensanche between grand houses and imposing edifices. The place smelled clean. The waiting rooms were tastefully decorated. The paintings were calming, with landscapes full of hope and peace. The shelves displayed books that exuded authority. Nurses moved about like ballet dancers and smiled as they went by. It was a purgatory for people with well-lined pockets.
‘The doctor will see you now, Se?or Martín.’
Doctor Trías was a man with a patrician air and an impeccable appearance, who radiated serenity and confidence with every gesture. Grey, penetrating eyes behind rimless glasses. A kind, friendly smile, never frivolous. Doctor Trías was a man accustomed to jousting with death, and the more he smiled the more frightening he became. Judging by the way he escorted me to his room and asked me to sit down I got the feeling that, although some days before, when I had begun to undergo medical tests, he had spoken about recent medical breakthroughs in the fight against the symptoms I had described to him, as far as he was concerned, there was no doubt.
‘How are you?’ he asked, his eyes darting hesitantly between me and the folder on his desk.
‘You tell me.’
He smiled faintly, like a good player.
‘The nurse tells me you’re a writer, although here, on the form you filled in when you arrived, I see you put down that you are a mercenary.’
‘In my case there’s no difference at all.’
‘I believe some of my patients have read your books.’
‘I hope it has not caused permanent neurological damage.’
The doctor smiled as if he’d found my comment amusing, and then adopted a more serious expression, implying that the banal and kind preambles to our conversation had come to an end.
‘Se?or Martín, I notice that you have come here on your own. Don’t you have any close family? A wife? Siblings? Parents still alive?’
‘That sounds a little ominous,’ I ventured.
‘Se?or Martín, I’m not going to lie to you. The results of the first tests are not as encouraging as we’d hoped.’
I looked at him. I didn’t feel fear or unease. I didn’t feel anything.
‘Everything points to the fact that you have a growth lodged in the left lobe of your brain. The results confirm what I feared from the symptoms you described to me, and there is every indication that it might be a carcinoma.’
For a few seconds I was unable to say anything at all. I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised.
‘How long have I had it?’
‘It’s impossible to say for sure, but I presume the tumour has been growing there for some time, which would explain the symptoms you told me about and the difficulties you have recently experienced with your work.’
I took a deep breath and nodded. The doctor observed me patiently, with a kind mien, letting me take my time. I tried to start various sentences that never reached my lips. Finally our eyes met.
‘I suppose I’m in your hands, doctor. You’ll have to tell me which treatment to follow.’
I saw his despairing look as he realised I had not wanted to understand what he was telling me. I nodded once more, fighting the tide of nausea that was beginning to rise up my throat. The doctor poured me a glass of water from a jug and handed it to me. I drank it in one gulp.
‘There is no treatment?’ I said.
‘There is. There are a lot of things we can do to relieve the pain and ensure maximum comfort and peace . . .’
‘But I’m going to die.’
‘Yes.’
‘Soon.’
‘Possibly.’
I smiled to myself. Even the worst news is a relief when all it does is confirm what you already knew without wanting to know.
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ I said, without quite knowing why.
‘I’m sorry, Se?or Martín. I’d like to have given you better news.’
I felt as if I had finally confessed to a lie or a minor sin, and the large slab of remorse that had been pressing down on me was instantly removed.
‘How much longer do I have?’
‘It is difficult to determine exactly. I’d say a year, a year and a half at most.’
His tone clearly implied that this was a more than optimistic prognosis.
‘And of that year, or whatever it is, how long do you think I’ll still be able to work and cope on my own?’
‘You’re a writer and you work with your brain. Unfortunately that is where the problem is located and where we will first meet limitations.’
‘Limitations is not a medical term, doctor.’
‘The most likely outcome is that, as the disease progresses, the symptoms you’ve been experiencing will become more intense and more frequent and, after a time, you’ll have to be admitted to hospital so that we can take care of you.’
‘I won’t be able to write.’
‘You won’t even be able to think about writing.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know. Nine or ten months. Perhaps more, perhaps less. I’m very sorry, Se?or Martín.’
I nodded and stood up. My hands were shaking and I needed some air.
‘Se?or Martín, I realise you need time to think about all the things I’ve told you, but it is important that we start your treatment as soon as possible . . .’
‘I can’t die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwards I’ll have a whole lifetime in which to die.’