Dr. Trías was a man with a patrician air and an impeccable appearance who radiated serenity and confidence with every gesture. Gray, penetrating eyes behind rimless glasses. A kind, friendly smile, never frivolous. Dr. Trías was 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.
“Señor 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.
“Señor 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 assume the tumor 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 kindly 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 realized 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, Señor 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.