Read Online The Amnesia Clinic by James Scudamore - Free Book Online
Authors: James Scudamore
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self-pity was already playing in my head over every custom I took for granted, as I began in earnest to feel as sorry for myself as I could. It’s something I have always been pretty good at. In spite of this, I was desperate to keep reality at bay for as long as possible and had resolved to keep quiet about my proposed exile for the moment, however much I was seething within.
The three of us sat round the kitchen table, having dinner. Suarez was on the rum, and Fabián and I were drinking naranjilla juice. On any other day, I might have moaned about this, as I had never really got used to it and sometimes wondered why we couldn’t just have plain lemonade. But on this day, the juice – the fruit is a bizarre amalgam of orange and tomato – had become another familiar feature of the landscape that I was melodramatically preparing to miss, and I savoured every vivid, transient mouthful as a result. Such distinctive physical memories mean that myyouth is nicely compartmentalised. I drank a glass of naranjilla from some exotic juice bar years after leaving Ecuador and a whole series of neatly bookmarked memories fell open – although on that occasion, I didn’t enjoy the taste at all.
‘I hear that Fabián is a hero,’ I said.
‘Is that so?’ said Suarez. ‘I didn’t think it was customary for heroes to do their own public relations, but I suppose you may be right. What is he said to have done this time?’
I recounted the story about Fabián saving the girl in the earthquake, which had, over the course of the last few days, acquired several new and thrilling dimensions. One version had Fabián being tear-gassed by a rogue policeman during the rescue. In another, he’d had to hold off a rabid dog that was trying to steal the girl’s tripe sandwich.
‘Well, if that is what people are saying, then I suppose it must be the truth,’ said Suarez. ‘Congratulations, Fabi.’ He raised his glass in a toast.
‘It was nothing, Uncle. Just what any man would have done,’ said Fabián.
‘It was especially self-effacing of you not to reveal any of this to me on the day. No doubt the shock of the situation took it out of you, and you were unable to piece together what had happened until days after the event.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Fabián. ‘You’re the medical man.’
Suarez beamed. ‘Funny that I didn’t see any distressed children near you at the time. All I saw was a little huahua lying in the gutter, gazing up into the air, with all the stuffing knocked out of him. I must get my eyes tested.’
‘Maybe you should,’ said Fabián. ‘You’re getting on a bit, Uncle.’
There was no late-night storytelling session with Suarez that evening. He went out, leaving us alone in the library with a couple of beers and Jerry Lee Lewis.
I knew there must be more to the story of Fabián’s arm than what I had already heard. Or, more likely, that there must be less to it. In its current form, the portrayal of Fabián as hero was all very well, but I knew the truth would come out before long.
It will be apparent that ‘the truth’ was something with which Fabián and I were fairly free. The best story was usually the one we believed. It was what defined our friendship. But there was also an unspoken understanding – or at least there was as far as I was concerned – that we both knew when things had gone too far from the realm of the plausible.
He might be telling me all about a steamy clinch with Verena in a stationery cupboard, say, and I would go along with the story right up to the point where things started to stray too far. We had an accepted technique for establishing the truth without subtracting from the credibility of the storyteller, which went something like this:
‘So, there you are, with your hand up her skirt, and she’s begging you to go further,’ I would say, ‘and the teacher walks in. What a nightmare. No wonder she was looking so hot and agitated when she came back to
The three of us sat round the kitchen table, having dinner. Suarez was on the rum, and Fabián and I were drinking naranjilla juice. On any other day, I might have moaned about this, as I had never really got used to it and sometimes wondered why we couldn’t just have plain lemonade. But on this day, the juice – the fruit is a bizarre amalgam of orange and tomato – had become another familiar feature of the landscape that I was melodramatically preparing to miss, and I savoured every vivid, transient mouthful as a result. Such distinctive physical memories mean that myyouth is nicely compartmentalised. I drank a glass of naranjilla from some exotic juice bar years after leaving Ecuador and a whole series of neatly bookmarked memories fell open – although on that occasion, I didn’t enjoy the taste at all.
‘I hear that Fabián is a hero,’ I said.
‘Is that so?’ said Suarez. ‘I didn’t think it was customary for heroes to do their own public relations, but I suppose you may be right. What is he said to have done this time?’
I recounted the story about Fabián saving the girl in the earthquake, which had, over the course of the last few days, acquired several new and thrilling dimensions. One version had Fabián being tear-gassed by a rogue policeman during the rescue. In another, he’d had to hold off a rabid dog that was trying to steal the girl’s tripe sandwich.
‘Well, if that is what people are saying, then I suppose it must be the truth,’ said Suarez. ‘Congratulations, Fabi.’ He raised his glass in a toast.
‘It was nothing, Uncle. Just what any man would have done,’ said Fabián.
‘It was especially self-effacing of you not to reveal any of this to me on the day. No doubt the shock of the situation took it out of you, and you were unable to piece together what had happened until days after the event.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Fabián. ‘You’re the medical man.’
Suarez beamed. ‘Funny that I didn’t see any distressed children near you at the time. All I saw was a little huahua lying in the gutter, gazing up into the air, with all the stuffing knocked out of him. I must get my eyes tested.’
‘Maybe you should,’ said Fabián. ‘You’re getting on a bit, Uncle.’
There was no late-night storytelling session with Suarez that evening. He went out, leaving us alone in the library with a couple of beers and Jerry Lee Lewis.
I knew there must be more to the story of Fabián’s arm than what I had already heard. Or, more likely, that there must be less to it. In its current form, the portrayal of Fabián as hero was all very well, but I knew the truth would come out before long.
It will be apparent that ‘the truth’ was something with which Fabián and I were fairly free. The best story was usually the one we believed. It was what defined our friendship. But there was also an unspoken understanding – or at least there was as far as I was concerned – that we both knew when things had gone too far from the realm of the plausible.
He might be telling me all about a steamy clinch with Verena in a stationery cupboard, say, and I would go along with the story right up to the point where things started to stray too far. We had an accepted technique for establishing the truth without subtracting from the credibility of the storyteller, which went something like this:
‘So, there you are, with your hand up her skirt, and she’s begging you to go further,’ I would say, ‘and the teacher walks in. What a nightmare. No wonder she was looking so hot and agitated when she came back to
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