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Fiction

Swimming Upstream

By Eduardo del Llano
Translated from Spanish by Dick Cluster

“I don’t like ballet,” the doctor admitted.

“OK,” Nicanor said, “but it’s different with me. It’s not that I don’t like sports, it’s that they don’t make any sense to me. Like I wouldn’t understand a salmon explaining why it has to migrate. I just don’t get a stadium full of people screaming with enthusiasm or outrage about eight guys who bang a leather ball around better than the other eight.”

“Nine.”

“Whatever. The point is that a playing field leaves no room for the spirit. An artist has talent, no doubt about that. So does a mathematician. But a ballplayer just runs or hits better than an ordinary guy. Tell me what that has to do with humanity.”

Nicanor was Rodríguez’s patient, but Rodríguez was out on leave. To describe Nicanor, suffice it to say he was skinny and bald with bad skin. Right away, part of the doctor took a dislike to him. The other part tried to be professional.

“Sports are a lot more than that. They’re struggle, strategy, teamwork. When a sprinter sets a record, when a guy jumps two-and-a-half meters as if he were made of rubber, there’s beauty in that. It’s about surpassing human limits.”

“OK, but in the wrong direction. You’re saying struggle and strategy. That’s the language of war.”

With apparent nonchalance, the doctor closed his newspaper, covering the sports page to which it had been turned. He checked his watch.

“O’Donnell, you’re not here to tell me your opinion about sports. That’s not a problem in itself. Maybe the fact that your position is so rabid, so reductionist . . .”

“I came to see you, doctor, because sometimes my soul leaves my body and reappears in the body of a baseball player in a tight situation.”

The doctor nodded ever so slightly, holding the patient’s eyes until he blinked.

“Your soul migrates. What did you say earlier about salmon?”

“Nothing,” the patient said curtly. “You’re not getting rid of me by telling me my mother forced me to eat fish when I was a boy. Which, by the way, isn’t true. What is true is that sometimes for a moment I transubstantiate into a baseball star.”

The doctor felt a brief attack of envy. One of these days, he thought with annoyance, I’ll have to ask Rodríguez to analyze me.

“What team?”

“Havana. The Industriales.”

“I see. And under what circumstances does this occur? Sometimes the most ordinary things can provoke fantasies. Fatigue, for instance, or problems with your wife, or sniffing ten or twelve lines of . . .”

“The weird thing is, it doesn’t happen to me. It happens to them. Typical situation: the Industriales have their backs to the wall at the end of the ninth inning, down three runs, but with the bases loaded and their last hope at bat. In that situation, it’s almost a sure thing that my soul is going to take part in the game.”

“And you strike out.”

“No. I hit a spectacular home run. I’m conscious the whole time of being an intruder in a foreign body. I’ve got this tension, you know, like I’m about to be found out. The way to dissolve the tension is by swinging. Generally I hit it out of the park.”

“And the player’s soul? Where does it go in the meantime? Into your body?”

“For me to answer that, you’d have to prove that baseball players have souls. Anyway, the thing isn’t that symmetrical. My body faints. Maybe the ballplayer’s soul sits in the grandstand and watches.”

“And does your soul choose to emigrate into any player in particular?”

“It used to, but he left the country. In fact, I think it’s thanks to my soul that he’s now a Major League star. But the thing doesn’t work over such a long distance, so now he’s got to take care of himself.”

The doctor twisted the table lamp so its beam pointed at the other man. He began waving a pencil.

“Concentrate on this. You’re getting tired. Your eyelids are heavy. You want to sleep. When I say one-two-three, you’ll fall into a deep sleep. One. Two. Three. What do you feel?”

“I’m a big fish. I’m swimming against a cold current.”

“A salmon?”

“No, a manjuarí.”

“The Cuban pike? But pike don’t migrate.”

“How should I know that? I’m just a fish, I do what my instinct tells me. If you want to discuss ichthyology . . .”

“All right, you’re a pike and you’re migrating. What’s happening now?”

“I’m in the sea. On shore there’s a group of boys playing baseball.”

“The manjuarí lives in fresh water.”

Nicanor shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“So hypnosis isn’t going to work. Give it up.”

The part of the doctor that disliked the patient now hated him intensely, and that part had become much larger. He checked his watch again.

“Look, your case isn’t as unusual as you think. It’s true that a Cuban who doesn’t like baseball is a strange phenomenon, but on a deeper level, what are we dealing with here? Rejection and fascination, desire and taboo. It’s a clear case of what we could call . . .”

“Turn on the television.”

“What?”

“Obviously you don’t believe me. I came here today for a reason. Everyone—even me—knows that the championship series just got underway and the first game is being played right now, here in Havana, against Pinar del Río. You’ve already looked at your watch several times. I know you’re dying to know the score, to watch. Turn on the TV.”

The doctor did as he was told.

The Industriales were about to lose. It was the bottom of the ninth, and they were three runs down, but they had the bases loaded. A sinewy light-skinned black man stood in the batter’s box.

“Watch,” Nicanor said, and fainted.

A subtle change seemed to come over the batter. He glanced around as if disoriented. The way he was gripping the bat didn’t even look right.

So what, the doctor thought. Naturally the batter is nervous. It’ll take more than this, Nicanor O’Donnell, to get me to fall for the act you’re putting on.

The pitcher delivered a wide, lazy curve.

Thwack.

The doctor had never seen such a stupendous blast. The ball was still gaining altitude when it cleared the scoreboard. All four players trotted home as the stands went wild. When the batter reached home plate, he leaned over, stared triumphantly into the camera, and drew something in the dirt next to the batter’s box.

A fish.

That was all. Nicanor woke up.

“Now do you believe me?”

It took the doctor almost a full minute to unclench his jaw.

“That was . . . wow, I have to admit . . .”

“Impressive, right?”

“And you want these . . . episodes . . . to cease?”

“Of course not, doctor. What are you talking about? I want you to back me up scientifically. I’m planning a conversation with the Industriales management about charging them for my interventions. The fact is, however well the team has done, it’s thanks to me.”

“But you hate sports.”

“I detest them. But it would be stupid not to take advantage of this phenomenon.”

A faint smile appeared on the doctor’s face.

“Agreed. Come back tomorrow.”

As soon as Nicanor left the room, the doctor pressed a button on his intercom.

“The patient who just left my office is dangerous, he must be admitted at once. Keep him isolated, make sure he can’t listen to the radio or watch television. Above all, make sure he doesn’t fall asleep, even for a minute, until I say so. If he looks like he’s losing consciousness, give him a good jolt of electricity.”

The doctor cut off the intercom and stared into space.

He whispered, “Pinar del Río, go team, all the way.”

© Eduardo del Llano. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2016 by Dick Cluster. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

“I don’t like ballet,” the doctor admitted.

“OK,” Nicanor said, “but it’s different with me. It’s not that I don’t like sports, it’s that they don’t make any sense to me. Like I wouldn’t understand a salmon explaining why it has to migrate. I just don’t get a stadium full of people screaming with enthusiasm or outrage about eight guys who bang a leather ball around better than the other eight.”

“Nine.”

“Whatever. The point is that a playing field leaves no room for the spirit. An artist has talent, no doubt about that. So does a mathematician. But a ballplayer just runs or hits better than an ordinary guy. Tell me what that has to do with humanity.”

Nicanor was Rodríguez’s patient, but Rodríguez was out on leave. To describe Nicanor, suffice it to say he was skinny and bald with bad skin. Right away, part of the doctor took a dislike to him. The other part tried to be professional.

“Sports are a lot more than that. They’re struggle, strategy, teamwork. When a sprinter sets a record, when a guy jumps two-and-a-half meters as if he were made of rubber, there’s beauty in that. It’s about surpassing human limits.”

“OK, but in the wrong direction. You’re saying struggle and strategy. That’s the language of war.”

With apparent nonchalance, the doctor closed his newspaper, covering the sports page to which it had been turned. He checked his watch.

“O’Donnell, you’re not here to tell me your opinion about sports. That’s not a problem in itself. Maybe the fact that your position is so rabid, so reductionist . . .”

“I came to see you, doctor, because sometimes my soul leaves my body and reappears in the body of a baseball player in a tight situation.”

The doctor nodded ever so slightly, holding the patient’s eyes until he blinked.

“Your soul migrates. What did you say earlier about salmon?”

“Nothing,” the patient said curtly. “You’re not getting rid of me by telling me my mother forced me to eat fish when I was a boy. Which, by the way, isn’t true. What is true is that sometimes for a moment I transubstantiate into a baseball star.”

The doctor felt a brief attack of envy. One of these days, he thought with annoyance, I’ll have to ask Rodríguez to analyze me.

“What team?”

“Havana. The Industriales.”

“I see. And under what circumstances does this occur? Sometimes the most ordinary things can provoke fantasies. Fatigue, for instance, or problems with your wife, or sniffing ten or twelve lines of . . .”

“The weird thing is, it doesn’t happen to me. It happens to them. Typical situation: the Industriales have their backs to the wall at the end of the ninth inning, down three runs, but with the bases loaded and their last hope at bat. In that situation, it’s almost a sure thing that my soul is going to take part in the game.”

“And you strike out.”

“No. I hit a spectacular home run. I’m conscious the whole time of being an intruder in a foreign body. I’ve got this tension, you know, like I’m about to be found out. The way to dissolve the tension is by swinging. Generally I hit it out of the park.”

“And the player’s soul? Where does it go in the meantime? Into your body?”

“For me to answer that, you’d have to prove that baseball players have souls. Anyway, the thing isn’t that symmetrical. My body faints. Maybe the ballplayer’s soul sits in the grandstand and watches.”

“And does your soul choose to emigrate into any player in particular?”

“It used to, but he left the country. In fact, I think it’s thanks to my soul that he’s now a Major League star. But the thing doesn’t work over such a long distance, so now he’s got to take care of himself.”

The doctor twisted the table lamp so its beam pointed at the other man. He began waving a pencil.

“Concentrate on this. You’re getting tired. Your eyelids are heavy. You want to sleep. When I say one-two-three, you’ll fall into a deep sleep. One. Two. Three. What do you feel?”

“I’m a big fish. I’m swimming against a cold current.”

“A salmon?”

“No, a manjuarí.”

“The Cuban pike? But pike don’t migrate.”

“How should I know that? I’m just a fish, I do what my instinct tells me. If you want to discuss ichthyology . . .”

“All right, you’re a pike and you’re migrating. What’s happening now?”

“I’m in the sea. On shore there’s a group of boys playing baseball.”

“The manjuarí lives in fresh water.”

Nicanor shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“So hypnosis isn’t going to work. Give it up.”

The part of the doctor that disliked the patient now hated him intensely, and that part had become much larger. He checked his watch again.

“Look, your case isn’t as unusual as you think. It’s true that a Cuban who doesn’t like baseball is a strange phenomenon, but on a deeper level, what are we dealing with here? Rejection and fascination, desire and taboo. It’s a clear case of what we could call . . .”

“Turn on the television.”

“What?”

“Obviously you don’t believe me. I came here today for a reason. Everyone—even me—knows that the championship series just got underway and the first game is being played right now, here in Havana, against Pinar del Río. You’ve already looked at your watch several times. I know you’re dying to know the score, to watch. Turn on the TV.”

The doctor did as he was told.

The Industriales were about to lose. It was the bottom of the ninth, and they were three runs down, but they had the bases loaded. A sinewy light-skinned black man stood in the batter’s box.

“Watch,” Nicanor said, and fainted.

A subtle change seemed to come over the batter. He glanced around as if disoriented. The way he was gripping the bat didn’t even look right.

So what, the doctor thought. Naturally the batter is nervous. It’ll take more than this, Nicanor O’Donnell, to get me to fall for the act you’re putting on.

The pitcher delivered a wide, lazy curve.

Thwack.

The doctor had never seen such a stupendous blast. The ball was still gaining altitude when it cleared the scoreboard. All four players trotted home as the stands went wild. When the batter reached home plate, he leaned over, stared triumphantly into the camera, and drew something in the dirt next to the batter’s box.

A fish.

That was all. Nicanor woke up.

“Now do you believe me?”

It took the doctor almost a full minute to unclench his jaw.

“That was . . . wow, I have to admit . . .”

“Impressive, right?”

“And you want these . . . episodes . . . to cease?”

“Of course not, doctor. What are you talking about? I want you to back me up scientifically. I’m planning a conversation with the Industriales management about charging them for my interventions. The fact is, however well the team has done, it’s thanks to me.”

“But you hate sports.”

“I detest them. But it would be stupid not to take advantage of this phenomenon.”

A faint smile appeared on the doctor’s face.

“Agreed. Come back tomorrow.”

As soon as Nicanor left the room, the doctor pressed a button on his intercom.

“The patient who just left my office is dangerous, he must be admitted at once. Keep him isolated, make sure he can’t listen to the radio or watch television. Above all, make sure he doesn’t fall asleep, even for a minute, until I say so. If he looks like he’s losing consciousness, give him a good jolt of electricity.”

The doctor cut off the intercom and stared into space.

He whispered, “Pinar del Río, go team, all the way.”

© Eduardo del Llano. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2016 by Dick Cluster. All rights reserved.

Contra la Corriente

– A mí no me gusta el ballet- confesó el médico.

– Sí –dijo Nicanor- pero lo mío es distinto. No es que no me agrade el deporte, es que no lo entiendo. Como si un salmón tratara de explicarme por qué emigra. No puedo comprender un estadio lleno, gritando de entusiasmo o encabronamiento porque ocho tipos apalean mejor una bola de cuero.

– Nueve.

– Nueve. Los que sean. El asunto es que la espiritualidad no cabe en un terreno deportivo. Un artista tiene un don, eso está claro. Un matemático también. Pero un deportista sólo corre o da golpes mejor que el hombre común. Y eso, usted me dirá qué tiene que ver con la humanidad.

Nicanor era paciente de Rodríguez, pero Rodríguez estaba de licencia. Decir que era un hombre calvo, fibroso y con piel de mala calidad bastaría para describirlo. A una parte del médico le cayó mal de inmediato. La otra parte trató de actuar profesionalmente.

– El deporte es mucho más que eso. Es lucha, estrategia, trabajo de equipo. Cuando un corredor impone un record, cuando un tipo que parece de goma salta dos metros y medio, ahí hay belleza. Se trata de superar los límites humanos.

– Sí, pero en la dirección equivocada. Usted me habla de lucha y estrategia. Esa es terminología bélica.

El médico cerró como al descuido el periódico, que tenía abierto en la página deportiva. Miró su reloj de pulsera.

– O´Donnell, usted no vino a verme para decirme lo que piensa del deporte, ¿verdad? Ese no es un problema en sí. Todo lo más, una militancia feroz, reduccionista…

– Vine a verlo porque a veces mi alma abandona el cuerpo y se mete en el de un pelotero enfrentado a una situación crítica.

El médico asintió con suavidad y sostuvo la mirada del otro sin pestañear, hasta que pestañeó.

– Su alma emigra. ¿Qué me había dicho antes de los salmones?

– Nada –repuso el paciente con impaciencia- no se va a librar de mí diciéndome que de niño mi madre me obligaba a comer pescado. Lo que, además, no es cierto. En cambio, que por espacio de un minuto me transubstancio en pelotero estrella es la pura verdad.

El médico experimentó un breve latigazo de envidia. Tengo que pedirle a Rodríguez que me analice uno de estos días, pensó con fastidio.

-¿De qué equipo?

– Industriales.

– Ya veo. ¿Y en qué circunstancias le ocurre? A veces la rutina más simple puede provocar ensoñaciones. El cansancio, digamos, o problemas con su esposa, o esnifar diez o doce rayas de…

– Lo raro es que no me ocurre a mí, sino a ellos. Situación típica: el equipo está en tres y dos al final del noveno inning, dos carreras abajo y con las bases llenas. Va a batear la última esperanza azul. Bueno, ahí es casi seguro que mi alma irá a jugar.

– Y entonces se poncha.

– No. Entonces doy un jonrón espectacular. Todo el tiempo estoy consciente de ser un intruso en un cuerpo ajeno, y tengo esa tensión, ya sabe, como si en cualquier momento fueran a descubrirme. La manera de liberar la tensión es bateando. Generalmente la boto del diamante.

– Y el alma del jugador, ¿adónde va entretanto? ¿Al cuerpo de usted?

– Habría que demostrar primero que los peloteros tienen alma. De cualquier manera, la cosa no es tan simétrica. No, a mi cuerpo le da un desmayo, y el alma del pelotero me imagino que se sienta en las gradas a mirar.

-¿Y su alma tiene algún jugador predilecto?

– Había uno, pero se fue del país. De hecho, creo que fue gracias a mi alma que se convirtió en una estrella de las Grandes Ligas. Pero la cosa no funciona a tanta distancia, así que ahora tiene que arreglárselas solo.

El médico torció la lámpara de mesa, de manera que apuntara al otro, y luego esgrimió un lapicero.

– Concéntrese aquí. Usted está cansado. Sus párpados le pesan. Quiere dormir. Cuando yo diga tres, usted se dormirá profundamente. Uno. Dos. Tres. ¿Qué siente?

– Soy un pez grande. Estoy remontando una corriente fría.

-¿Un salmón?

– No, un manjuarí.

– Pero los manjuaríes no emigran.

– No sé, sólo soy un pez, hago lo que me dicta mi instinto. Si quiere discutir de ictiología…

– Está bien, es un manjuarí y está emigrando. ¿Qué hace ahora?

– Estoy en alta mar. En la orilla hay un grupo de muchachos jugando a la pelota…

– El manjuarí es un pez de río.

Nicanor movió la cabeza y abatió los hombros.

-Así no hay hipnosis que sirva. Déjelo.

La parte del médico que detestaba al paciente era ya abrumadora mayoría. Volvió a mirar el reloj.

– Mire, su caso no es tan insólito como cree. Es verdad que un cubano al que no le guste la pelota es un bicho raro, pero en un plano más profundo, ¿qué tenemos aquí? Rechazo y fascinación, deseo y tabú. Es un cuadro claro de lo que podríamos llamar…

– Encienda el televisor.

-¿Cómo?

– Es obvio que usted no me cree. No es casual que haya venido hoy. Como sabe todo el mundo, incluso yo, acaba de empezar el Campeonato Nacional, y ahora mismo hay juego en el Latino. Usted ha mirado varias veces el reloj; entiendo que está loco por verlo. Encienda el televisor.

El doctor obedeció.

Industriales estaba en tres y dos, en la parte final del noveno, tres carreras por debajo y con bases llenas. Un mulato nervudo ocupaba el cajón de bateo.

– Fíjese ahora –dijo Nicanor, y se desmayó.

Algo sutil pareció cambiar en el bateador. Miró a todas partes como desorientado. Incluso aferró mal el bate.

Eso no basta, pensó el médico. Es natural que el bateador esté nervioso. Necesitarás más que eso para hacerme tragar tu puesta en escena, Nicanor O´Donnell.

El lanzador disparó una curva abierta.

Toc.

El médico nunca había visto un jonrón así. Voló holgadamente por encima de la pizarra, y todavía siguió elevándose. Los cuatro hombres entraron a trotecillo corto, mientras las gradas hervían. Cuando el bateador alcanzó el home, se inclinó sobre el montículo, miró triunfalmente a cámara y dibujó algo sobre el polvo, junto al cajón de bateo.

Un pez.

Y eso fue todo. Nicanor volvió a despertar.

-¿Me cree ahora?

El médico necesitó casi un minuto para reajustar sus mandíbulas.

–  Eso fue… uf, tengo que admitir…

– Impresionante. Dígalo.

– Y usted quiere que esos… episodios terminen.

– Claro que no, doctor. ¿Cómo se le ocurre? Lo que quiero es que usted me respalde científicamente. Pienso hablar con la dirección de Industriales para ponerle precio a mis intervenciones. En definitiva, son lo que son gracias a mí.

– Pero usted detestaba el deporte.

– Lo aborrezco. Pero sería tonto no sacarle provecho.

El médico esbozó una sonrisa.

– De acuerdo. Venga mañana.

Cuando Nicanor hubo salido, el médico apretó un botón del intercomunicador.

– El paciente que acaba de salir de mi consulta… intérnenlo. Es peligroso. Manténganlo aislado, impidan que escuche radio, que vea la televisión. Sobre todo, procuren que no se duerma ni un minuto hasta que yo les avise. Si ven que parece perder la conciencia, suénenle un buen electroshock.

El médico cortó la comunicación y se quedó mirando al vacío.

– Pinar del Río campeón– murmuró.

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