Fever Dream: A Novel(11)

“I’m David,” says Nina, and she smiles at me.

Is this a joke? Are you making this up?

No, David. It’s a dream, a nightmare. I wake up agitated, this time completely clearheaded. It’s five in the morning, and a few minutes later I’m already packing one of the three suitcases we arrived with. At six I have everything almost ready. You like these observations, David.

They’re necessary. They help with remembering.

The thing is, I think over and over how strange my fear is, and it seems ridiculous to be already loading things into the car, with Nina still in her room, asleep.

You’re trying to get away.

Yes. But in the end I don’t, do I?

No.

Why not, David?

That’s what we’re trying to find out.

I go up to Nina’s room. I pack her bag while I try to wake her up. I’d made her some tea, and I brought it up with her packet of cookies. She wakes up and has breakfast in bed, still sleepy, watching me fold the last articles of clothing, put away her markers, stack her books. She’s so sleepy that she doesn’t even insist on knowing where we are going, why we are going back sooner than planned.

My mother always said something bad would happen. My mother was sure that sooner or later something bad would happen, and now I can see it with total clarity, I can feel it coming toward us like a tangible fate, irreversible. Now there’s almost no rescue distance, the rope is so short that I can barely move in the room, I can barely walk away from Nina to go to the closet and grab the last of our things.

“Get up,” I tell her. “Come on, let’s go.”

Nina gets out of bed.

“Get your shoes. Put on this jacket.”

I take her hand and we go down the stairs together. Upstairs, the violet light on Nina’s bedside table is still on; downstairs, I see the light coming from the kitchen. It’s all just like in the dream, I say to myself, but as long as I have Nina by the hand, her strangely stiff body won’t be waiting for me in the kitchen, she won’t talk to me in your voice, there will be no perplexing can of peas on the table.

Good.

By now there’s a little light outside. Instead of putting Nina in the car right away, I have her pack things up with me so she doesn’t leave my side. We also go around the house together to close the shutters.

You’re wasting time.

Yes, I know.

Why?

I’m thinking. While I’m closing the shutters I’m thinking about Carla, about you, and I tell myself that I am part of this insanity.

Yes.

I mean, if I really wasn’t letting myself be taken in by your mother’s fears, none of this would be happening. I’d be getting up right now, putting on my bikini to make the most of the morning sun.

Yes.

So I’m guilty too, then. I’m confirming your mother’s own madness for her. But that’s not how it’s going to be.

No?

No. That’s why I have to tell her.

You’re thinking of talking to Carla.

Of apologizing for yelling at her yesterday. I want to convince her everything is okay, and that she has to calm down.

That’s a mistake.

If I don’t do it, I can’t leave in good conscience. I’ll be back in the city and still be thinking about all this craziness.

Talking to Carla is a mistake.

I turn off the main power switch and close the front door of the house.

This is the moment to leave town, now is the time.

I leave the keys in the mailbox, just as Mr. Geser told me to do the day we leave.

But you’re going to see Carla.

Is that why I don’t make it?

Yes, that’s why.

We leave at dawn. I go down the road in the opposite direction from town and then stop at your house. I’d never gone inside your house, and I’d really rather not. So what I find there comes as good news: the house is empty, and I remember it is Tuesday. Everything starts too early in the country, and maybe your mother is already at Sotomayor’s offices, a mile toward town. It’s a relief, and I take it as a sign that I’m doing the right thing. Nina is sitting behind me, looking out in silence as we drive away from your house toward Sotomayor’s. She doesn’t seem worried. She’s wearing her seat belt, her legs crossed Indian style on the seat, as always, and she’s hugging her mole. Sotomayor’s fields start at a big manor house, and they open out behind it, indefinite. There is still no sidewalk, but there is grass between the street and the house. There are two medium-sized sheds behind it, and seven silos much farther back, far beyond the first fields. I leave the car next to others that are parked at the side of the house, on the grass. I ask Nina to get out with me. The door is open, and we enter the house holding hands. Just as Carla told me, the place is more office than house. There are two men drinking mate, and a fat young woman is signing papers and reading the titles of each page under her breath. One of the men nods, as if he were mentally following the woman’s activity. Everything stops when they see us, and the woman asks us what we need.

“I’m looking for Carla.”

“Ah.” She looks at both of us again, as if the first time hadn’t been enough. “Just a moment, she’ll be right back.”

“You two want some mate?” One of the men at the table raises the gourd, and I wonder if either of them is Sotomayor.