The Sickness by Alberto Barrera Tyszka

Miranda, his father, belong to? Was it possible to place him, with exactitude, among those who know how to handle “bad news”? A piece of fateful, not to say final news? Perhaps Miguel was right: it’s not possible to guess how one human being will react when he discovers how close he is to death. That strong, determined man called Javier Miranda might, despite all predictions to the contrary, collapse and break down when faced with that scan of his brain and the glowing spots devouring it.

    Dear Dr. Miranda,
    I have a confession to make: I’m following you.
    Up until then, up until she read those words, Karina has thought of Ernesto Durán as a mere curiosity. She has read his previous e-mails with a smile on her face. Dr. Miranda’s secretary is in charge of anything that arrives in his electronic inbox. It’s intended exclusively for professional correspondence. He tends to get a lot of promotional material from medical laboratories and pharmaceutical companies, as well as invitations to work-related activities—meetings, official functions, book launches, conferences . . . Somehow or other, though, Ernesto Durán has managed to get hold of that address and has started sending messages. When the first e-mail arrived, Karina immediately reported it to Dr. Miranda. He read it and told her to ignore it and on no account to reply. She didn’t even tell him about the second one, but although she said nothing to the doctor, she made a point of reading it herself. After that first e-mail, Karina, along with Adelaida, the receptionist working for the doctor next door, exchanged views on this very unusual patient. They had never come across anyone quite like Ernesto Durán. When the second e-mail arrived, they spent many hours discussing the case. Karina, who had seen Durán on two occasions, added a few physical details. She remembered him quite clearly as a thin, athletic-looking man. He was about thirty-five, with hair as dark as his eyes: asphalt black. He was attractive, but nothing special. He also had an inner strength, or so Karina felt, a
sort of natural willpower that gave him a certain physical presence. Perhaps the only objectionable thing about him was his ears, which were, in Karina’s view, too small. And Adelaida had added some comment like:
    â€œI never trust men with small ears.”
    That is how Karina remembers him—neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The first time he visited the doctor, he had struck her as polite and friendly, but nothing more than that. He filled in his medical form and then sat down and waited. Karina was surprised when he didn’t pick up a magazine as most patients do. Indeed, there are some people who only read in waiting rooms.
    When he came for his second appointment, he seemed more nervous. Karina remembered clearly how he rested his hands on his knees, sighed, and kept glancing around him, as if he couldn’t control his eyes, or, rather, as if his face were obliged to follow them wherever they went. He also stood up several times and paced around, taking short steps. He went out into the corridor, then came back in, nodding briefly to her when he did. Then the telephone calls began. Ernesto Durán turned into a regular, repetitive irritant. Four or five out of every ten calls would have his voice at the other end. He was always cordial, polite, even affable, but then, one afternoon, Dr. Miranda called her into his office and begged her, yes that was the word he used: “I beg you, please, Karina, not to put through any more calls from that patient,” he said. “Not one. Never again. If he phones, I’m not in.”
    It wasn’t easy. Durán was a persistent fellow, obsessed. It didn’t take him long to realize that Karina had
become a detour, and that their phone conversations were merely an eternal deferment. One day, he exploded. He felt humiliated, he’d had enough, it was a mockery, who did she