“Are you all right?”
The assistant waited. She wanted to see what happened, to understand what was happening, what it was exactly that she was being asked. She felt something intense in her throat, a sharp pain that brought up the image of the books on the pine table, the pages of the two Olingirises, one next to the other, and as if it were a second chance, she looked desperately for a difference, in the eyes, in the scales, in the fins, the colors.
MY BROTHER WALTER
My brother Walter is depressed. My wife and I visit him every night after work. We buy something to eat—he’s partial to chicken and french fries—and ring his bell around nine. He comes to the door right away and asks, “Who is it . . . ?” My wife says, “It’s us!” and he says, “Oh . . .” and lets us in.
He has a dozen people a day call him to see how he is. He always picks up the phone with effort, as if it weighs a ton, and says:
“Yes?”
And the people talk as though my brother fed off stupidity. If I ask him who it is or what they want, he’s incapable of answering. He’s not interested in the slightest. He is so depressed that it doesn’t even bother him that we’re there, because it’s the same as if he were alone.
Some Saturdays, my mother and Aunt Claris take him to events at the assembly hall, and Walter sits there amid the forty-something birthday girls, the bachelors, and the newlyweds. Aunt Claris, who always looks for the most arcane side of the simplest things, says that the more depressed Walter is, the happier people around him feel. Now, that’s really dumb. What is true, though, is that for a few months now things in our family have been improving.
For instance, my sister finally married Galdós. At the reception, among a group of people at my brother’s table drinking champagne and crying with laughter, my mother met Mr. Kito, and now she lives with him. Mr. Kito has cancer, but the man has a lot of energy. He’s always enthusiastic, and he’s very attentive with my mother. He owns a large cereal company, and he’s also a childhood friend of Aunt Claris’s. Galdós and my sister bought a farm far from the city, and we’ve all gotten into the habit of spending weekends there. My wife and I go pick up Walter first thing on Saturday, and by noon everyone is at the farm, waiting by the grill with a glass of wine and that immense happiness that comes with sunny days in fresh air.
We’ve missed only one weekend so far, because Walter had the flu and refused to get into the car. I felt like I should let the others know he wasn’t going, and then everyone started calling everyone else, wondering if it was worth meeting up without him. By the time Galdós was serving up the barbecue, we had all backed out of the event.