2. Chapter I
Dr. Adams’ mobile phone started ringing, but she just stared at it, not daring to answer. She questioned
answering because right at that moment she was relishing her vacation. And like anyone else in the same
circumstances, she was not happy to be receiving any calls; much less so if they were work related. She knew
that the reason for the call would not exactly be to give her good news, but rather the opposite. A feeling of
frustration took hold of her, because she realized that even from thousands of kilometers away, it was
impossible to avoid the annoying routine that awaited her back home. She sensed that the moment she
answered the call, that whole childlike dream of starting over again from scratch right there where she found
herself, would hopelessly go up in smoke. For the past few months, she had allowed herself to imagine what
her life would be like somewhere else, surrounded by people she didn’t know. Nevertheless, the ringing of the
phone reminded her that her reality was quite removed from her fantasies. In spite of all that, she tried, with
much effort, to compose herself because there was no choice but to accept the inconveniences inherent in her
profession. It was nothing new; she was aware of it from the day she decided to enroll in medicine, despite of
the fact that her real interested was in architecture. But, as in many other occasions, her decision had
capitulated to the demanding pressure that her parents wielded over her, more than to her own desires, in all
matters relating to her future. In any event, she now had no choice but to answer quickly, before the phone
stopped ringing.
Finding herself in the midst of an impulsive internal struggle and rare rebellion –desiring to ignore her
obligations –from the depths of her conscience, a little voice, which was sporadic at first, began to resonate
louder and louder until it become even more discomforting and more constant than the annoying ringing of the
phone. It was the voice of obligation that spoke to her, and she knew that she could ignore all other voices but
this one. She then tried putting into practice the meditation exercises that she had learned the previous day;
she inhaled deeply and then, in a like manner, she exhaled. To her misfortune, she realized that this relaxing
breathing exercise only worked when she was in the Lotus position, listening to the ocean waves on the soft
sand, watching the sunrise, while on the other hand, it had no positive effect inside of a hotel room with a
phone that would not stop ringing. She tried to relax once more, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Finally, although
still disillusioned, she picked up the phone and made her best effort to feign a tone that would be as reasonably
courteous as possible.
“Hello,” she said curtly, almost with anger. And immediately the idea passed through her mind that the classes
on meditation she had recently taken hadn’t done her a bit of good.
“Dr. Adams?” asked a somewhat hesitant voice.
“And who else could it be, the Queen of England?” she answered unable to conceal the sarcastic tone that had
slipped out almost without trying. She felt a little bad, but it was too late for regrets.
“As always you are so kind,” joked the Director of the hospital in a fatherly tone.
“I’m sorry,” her voice softened to become more like an innocuous childlike melody. “It's just that I‘ve been
having such a good time the last few days that I don’t want to deal with anything that has to do with work. As
you know, this trip is very important to me... I've been planning it for several months and everything is going
just exactly as I had imagined... Yesterday, for example, I signed up for a course on meditation, and you don't
know, Dr. Olivier, how invigorating it is to do yoga on the beach; at this very moment I’m getting ready for my
second lesson... I think I'm finally starting to feel better after several difficult months; you’re aware, about my
divorce… And also about...” Suddenly, she realized that she was rambling and recognized in a second that
3. nothing that she was saying could change the course of events. So she thought it better to keep silent, in order
to resignedly find out the reason for the call. She let out a long sigh as she felt her eyes filling with tears. She
had no recourse but to make a silent promise to herself to return.
“Hello?... Dr. Adams?... Are you okay?”
“You’re going to ask me to return because there’s an emergency, isn’t that right, Dr. Olivier?” she remarked
without emotion.
“It’s not just an emergency. It’s a one–of–a–kind case,” clarified the hospital director in a condescending tone.
“What’s it about?” and in a nearly mechanical manner she began to remove her comfortable sandals and
replaced them with a pair of sneakers that were under the bed. She also removed from her right wrist a bracelet
that had bought the previous night and in its place she put on the old–fashioned wristwatch that she wore
daily.
“Dr. Adams”, said Dr. Olivier, “have you ever heard or read about Damián Martel?”
“The scumbag who occasionally appears in gossip magazines, nearly always involved in some scandal?” she
answered somewhat surprised and unsure why they were talking about him.
“Yes, that’s the one. I see that you know something about ‘celebrities’,” commented Dr. Olivier in a familiar
tone. “But, that’s not the issue. The issue is that Damián Martel was admitted to the hospital this very morning.
Apparently he fell off his bicycle and, although he has no serious injuries, it seems to be a case of temporary
memory loss, according to what the paramedics tell me; but with rather strange characteristics, like
anosognosia.”
“Are you sure?” asked Dr. Adams, with a tone of disappointment, while folding and packing the white dress
that had planned to wear that evening –that very same dress that her ex–husband detested–.
“At this very moment I have in my hands the chart that the paramedics who attended him did me the favor of
getting to me,” said Dr. Olivier compassionately, as if he felt bad about ruining her vacation. “Ana,” he changed
his tone to be more personal, “Damián Martel is sedated right now but we don't know how long we can keep
him like that. There are already several reporters outside there constantly asking ridiculous questions, and a
girl who claims to be his girlfriend asking us to give her details about the status of his health. And as I already
mentioned to you, he’s physically okay, but his memory loss... As you know, there are hospital policies; and in
these matters, it’s the head of the Department of Neurology, in other words you, who should respond in this
case; especially dealing with him... I don’t know what to say to those people. You better than anyone else know
that it’s not every day that people like him show up, and believe me, those gossip reporters are more irritating
than anyone could possibly imagine. I have nothing to say about the private lives of my patients…. On top of
that, I'm not used to celebrities…. San Francisco isn't Los Angeles. Here we don't run specials on plastic surgery
and that’s why none of the celebrities come here,” he concluded in a casual tone trying to at least get a smile
out of her.
“I’ll take the next flight. I’ll be back in the hospital as soon as possible,” replied Dr. Adams seriously and
resignedly while making sure not to forget anything in the hotel room. Her vocation and professional ethics
took priority over any beach paradise. What she wasn't completely sure of was how she felt about the fact that
the patient in question was Damián Martel. What she had heard said about him, rather than excite her,
distressed her a bit. It was indeed a very unique case she would face upon her return. “See you soon,” she said
with a hint of sympathy. She picked her suitcase off the floor to head out of the room, but not before making
sure that all the lights in the room were turned off.
4. Chapter II
Damián Martel had become what people call a 'celebrity' by pure chance; or fate, whatever you might wish to
call it. In reality, he had never done anything, at least not on purpose, to deserve that title. He never acted or
participated directly in any movies; nor had he composed the score of a single song, and much less had he
written anything even resembling a poem. His rise to fame was due to a series of fortuitous events. His father
had been the founder and CEO of an advertising agency whose worldwide success was indisputable. As a
result, practically since childhood, he had had contact with all things celebrity and with the Socialité. His first
appearance in the tabloids, still at a very young age, resulted from an affair he had with a debutant model, who
had had high expectations in the catwalk world. However, a couple of weeks after having ended her
relationship –if you could call that a relationship– with Damián Martel, inexplicably and for no clear reason,
she began to stumble through life until, on one occasion, she was arrested in Los Angeles for speeding with
enough alcohol in her system to inebriate five British rock bands. The news came out on television and it was
a big scandal for days, but Damián Martel never publically said a word about it. Nevertheless, whenever that
embarrassing incident was mentioned on some gossip program, his name always came up prominently. It
certainly wasn’t the best way to become famous, but that's how he gained celebrity status, immediately
arousing the tabloids to an insane curiosity about him. Months later after his debut in the celebrity world, he
was seen, accompanied by one of the most renowned singers of the United Kingdom, affectionately strolling
through a mall in San Francisco, an event which, inevitably, aroused the attention of the media resulting in
attracting the paparazzi back into his life. So once or twice a year he would appear on some society page or in
some celebrity gossip magazine, and of course, the press was relentless with him because he never responded
to their foolishness, nor even tried to be moderately friendly to them; and that, of course, made them furious.
On the other hand, Damián Martel seemed to be indifferent to everything that was said about him, be it good
or bad, absolutely nothing at all was able to rattle him in the least. From childhood on he had experienced
firsthand the trappings of "show business" since he frequently accompanied his father to the recording studios
or the locations where commercials or public announcements were filmed. What attracted everyone’s
attention was the fact that, even as a child, he paid so much attention to all the details pointed out by his father
concerning his work. Thus, at the age of twenty–five, obligated by the unexpected loss of his parents, he had
to assume the onerous task one might suppose it to be of running a business of that size. And the transition
from being the son who listened, to being the boss who thinks and gives orders, was not complicated in the
least. The ad agency continued to operate as if nothing had happened, and its upward progression followed the
same impetus as before. From little on, it had very clear to him that what appeared on television was one thing,
and that real life was something completely different. He had learned this as a child and he knew that someday
his job would be to create, for the public in general, an illusory representation of life itself. In fact, he was some
sort of genius in the field of marketing and advertising, and perhaps for this reason, he always tried to keep his
private life apart from that whole surreal world that he himself invented in his advertising campaigns for
magazines or television.
Some of their more frequent clients since when his father was still alive were soft drink companies and gigantic
corporations that would spend millions of dollars on advertising every year. His agency also produced
documentaries and promotional campaigns for foundations devoted to the preservation of the planet or the
promotion of recreational and social causes. In addition to all this, he had done business with many of the most
sought after actors and actresses in the film industry, as well as with important entrepreneurs and famous
athletes with whom, from time to time, he would establish friendly personal relationships outside of work. In
some other instances, when the situation permitted, a brief romance.
The latest series of commercials that he had done for an auto maker had caused such an uncommon commotion
in the media that even more prominent companies sought him out to work with him. His father had already
won a prestigious place in the world of mass media communication, and he was starting to earn, through work
and dedication, his very own place.
5. He was meticulous and was always on top of all the details relating to the production of his commercials, from
filming, editing, casting, and even costumes. In a nutshell, he was completely professional. The only awkward
detail and the reason he was so pursued, and sometimes even besieged, was that bad reputation given to him
by the sensationalist tabloids; a reputation which, by the way, he had deservedly earned. In one of the latest
bits of news about him published in a London Magazine, he had been seen accompanied by Siena Mayer, a
glamorous English actress, dining in a luxurious restaurant whose terrace had been reserved for just the two
of them. They never imagined that a composed teenager, who had been dining on the lower level, would outfox
the security fence leading to the terrace in order to leisurely photograph them for more than ten minutes before
being discovered by restaurant employees. The magazine earned thousands of pounds when these photographs
became public, and Siena Mayer had no choice but to divorce, since there was no way to deny what had
happened, or even to soften it a little. The images were very explicit, which the video reaffirmed, leaving no
doubt about what had occurred there. For the umpteenth time, the front page of several magazines read that
once again Damián Martel had been up to his tricks, blaming him additionally for having destroyed the lovely
marriage between Siena Mayer and an important New York businessman.
It should be mentioned that the opinion of him held by the tabloids did not always coincided with reality,
much less now that he was lying in a hospital bed under the effects of a sedative. At first glance, it did not seem
to be the same Damián Martel whom everyone knew; he now looked helpless, vulnerable and even gave the
impression of not being the one who had often appeared on the front page of some magazine in the middle of
an indecent scene. Nevertheless, there he was, surrounded by nurses who carefully tended him waiting for him
to open his eyes.
Chapter III
The only two people in the hospital waiting room awaiting the doctors’ diagnosis were Damián Martel’s
current girlfriend, and a man about thirty some years–old, who silently and patiently waited sitting in one of
the stuffed sofas. Hisgirlfriend, in thecorner, tried unsuccessfully to gounnoticed, since her hugeglasses meant
to conceal her, made her presence in the room even more noticeable. And although the presence of reporters or
the press was not permitted, one or another of the nurses or hospital employees secretly photographed her
whenever they had the chance to do so. It seemed not to disturb her at all, and behind her huge glasses one
could glimpse even a gesture of pride for being there. And like every woman in love, one could also tell that she
was hoping that when he awoke, he would blurt out her name before anything else. However, when Damián
Martel finally did open his eyes, the first thing he did was to ask them to leave him alone. Somewhat
confounded by that gesture, the Director of the hospital entered his room a half hour later.
“Good afternoon Mr. Martel. I’m Dr. Olivier, Director of this Hospital.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” he answered amicably but a bit disoriented.
“How do you feel? Are you hungry?” asked the doctor cheerfully.
“Well, I guess I have felt better on an infinite number of occasions, but for being in a hospital, I feel great,” and
he winked in a sign of camaraderie. “You know, I think that I'm thirsty, not hungry,” he responded in a direct
and familiar manner.
“I’ll ask them to bring you an orange juice. Now, tell me do you remember anything about what happened this
morning?”
“I only remember a few things…” he paused as if he didn’t know where to start. “If I asked to be alone it was
precisely because I needed to figure out what was happening to me. At first I didn't know exactly why I was
here. I sensed that this was a hospital but I don’t quite remember how it was that I got here. I remember that I
was going full speed on my bicycle and that on a curve, doing fine at first, I skidded and I went flying to who
6. knows where. Then, a buzzing in my head that almost made me deaf caused me nausea and severe pain. From
there on out, I don't remember many things clearly. I only have distorted images that come to me from time to
time, but I'm not sure if they’re part of some memory or my hallucinations... I remember that in the ambulance
someone took my arm and injected me with something that I’m guessing was morphine, because I started
feeling really good and the pain suddenly disappeared.”
“Temporary and partial memory loss,” said Dr. Olivier as if he were talking to himself. “Interesting, do you
know who are you?”
“Mr. Martel. At least that’s what you called me,” giving hint of a cynical smile.
“And your name?”
“Damián, it’s written on the folder you’re carrying under your arm,” he pointed at the folder with his index
finger.
“Do you know where you live?”
“Near here I suppose. I was riding a bicycle.”
“Try to remember what you like to eat, for example. Or what your favorite beverage is.”
“I don’t know,” his eyes seemed suspended somewhere, but he showed no signs of panic nor did he appear to
be alarmed, which would have been normal in those cases. “What a strange sensation,” he said softly, and once
more a tiny smile appeared on his face.
“Yes. The human brain is a complete mystery,” commented Dr. Olivier, still a bit impacted by the serenity
demonstrated by the man who was before him. “Mr. Martel, would you mind spending the night here?
Tomorrow you could leave in the morning. As you will understand I cannot discharged you until someone signs
a form assuming responsibility. It is not very safe to go out there with your memory messed up. What’s more,
it’s Dr. Adams who will follow–up on your case; she’ll be here tomorrow first thing in the morning. By the way,
speaking of women, there is a girl outside who wants to see you; she claims to be your girlfriend.”
“My girlfriend? How weird. I don’t remember her,” he commented in carefree tone. “Is she good looking?”
“Mmmh, yes,” said the doctor with difficulty in the middle of a nervous cough he couldn’t hide. “About twenty–
two, brown hair, green eyes... Sound familiar?”
“Not at all,” he replied straightforwardly.” “And Dr. Adams, is she good looking?” he winked his eye cynically.
“Well, you needn’t answer that question because in any event, I'd rather not see anybody. Tomorrow will be a
new day. For now, I prefer to sleep. Please, don't forget about my juice; and make it apple if it’s not too much
to ask. One more thing, Doctor, you said temporary memory loss, isn't that right?”
“Yes. It’s very common in cases of contusions like yours. In a couple of weeks, if all goes well, your memory will
be regenerating. But it’ll be necessary to undergo treatment for that. Dr. Adams will soon explain it to you
better.”
“Okay Dr. …” and he hesitated momentarily, as if he didn’t remember his name. “Don’t makethat face, I'm joking,
Dr. Olivier, right?”
“I admire your sense of humor,” he said in a good–natured tone. You really don't know who you are?”
“No. But it will be a matter of days until I can remember, won't it?”
“Let’s hope so. Or maybe… it would be better not be able to remember,” but he immediately corrected himself.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I will leave you alone, and tomorrow we’ll talk again. By the way, before I
forget, while you were sedated we did an MRI scan of your head to make sure you don’t have any internal brain
damage; as soon as the results are ready, I'll let you know. Normally it would be ready by now, but just this
morning, almost at the same time that you were admitted to the hospital, wehad a power outage on our internal
power generator that damaged some medical equipment, including the MRI printer. Perhaps by now it’s
7. already working again, but I don't know. We hope your results are ready in a couple hours and we'll talk about
it tomorrow.”
“Okay, Doctor. Thanks a lot.”
Chapter IV
A bit pensive and surprised by what had transpired in the room where Damián Martel was staying, Dr. Olivier
headed toward his office, when suddenly in the middle of the hall an affable–looking man approached him.
“Doctor, could I speak with you?” the man said with determination while politely extending his hand in
greeting. “I’m Damián Martel’s best friend, and given the condition he’s in, I’m guessing it’ll be impossible for
me to talk to him. Do you have five minutes?”
“Of course,” he replied in a gentlemanly and professional manner.
“How is he doing?”
“Stable. He suffered a contusion on his head, which has caused temporary memory loss,” he paused briefly.
“There is nothing to worry about… for the moment.”
“And when will he be discharged?”
“Not until we’ve seen the results of his MRI. Let's just say that for now, his memory is messed up. He can’t tell
the difference between a memory and his imagination,” he said kindly.
“I see,” he twisted his lips and sighed.
“Is something going on?” asked Dr. Olivier intuitively.
“Well, you’ll see, I’ll try to get straight to the point. You’ve heard everything that they say about Damián, isn't
that right?”
“Well, who hasn’t? And besides, I’m a married man and my wife loves the gossip shows and magazines,” he said
half–jokingly, half–seriously.
“I know him very well; I can tell you that Damian is just like all other men; you, me, anyone. And like everyone
else, every day he tries to be a better person and a useful member of society. You do that. I do it, and he does
that too. It’s just that for the two of us it’s much easier to be good people, or at least to pretend to be.” Dr.
Olivier listened curiously but couldn’t quite figure out the purpose for his comment. “For him it’s a bit more
complicated, because several times a day lady luck smiles upon him and places before him the most exquisite
temptations. Temptations which you and I would readily give in to if our lives were like his. You understand?’
“I think so. But go on, please,” he observed him attentively as he spoke.
“On the other hand, the same good fortune that smiles upon him most of the time also deprives him of
opportunities to show his goodness to the world,” his tone became more familiar and direct. “You know, that
goodness that all human beings are born with, and which we put into practice to the extent that we are given
the opportunities to do so, you understand?” he nodded his head in agreement. “You see, in my case, for
example, I have to be good to my mother–in–law, although I confess that sometimes I'd like to poison her,” and
he gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder to instill more confidence. “You see? Life gave me a grumpy and
disgruntled mother–in–law, and there’s nothing I can do about it, I have to treat her well and be friendly
because otherwise I’d have problems with my wife; as if just being married wasn’t already hard enough,” once
again, he patted Dr. Olivier, who seemed open–minded and relaxed, on the shoulder. “Damian, for his part,
doesn’t have to be nice to his mother–in–law simply and plainly because he rarely meets the mothers of any of
the girls he goes out with; one less opportunity for him to demonstrate that he can be a good person. You
8. understand what I mean?” Dr. Olivier nodded thoughtfully and calmly. “Another example: people say you have
to be nice to everyone, right? I, like Damian, find that proposition a bit pretentious. The difference, once again,
between him and me is that I have to pretend to be my boss’s friend, because if I don’t he’ll fire me. He doesn’t
have a boss and he never has, so he doesn't need to pretend to be friends with anyone,” he furrowed his
eyebrows indicating logic while Dr. Olivier showed an almost imperceptible smile. “His personal relationships
are completely honest; his circle of friends, for example, can be counted on your fingers and is more closed and
exclusive than even the Pope’s,” both men smiled. “He probably has ten friends altogether counting men and
women. And believe me, Doctor, that when we get together, we have a great time,” he commented casually.
“We do what all good friends do at parties: eat, drink, catch up on one another, eat and drink some more,
dance... nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I understand,” said Dr. Olivier in a decidedly affable tone. “Look, I don't want to be intrusive, but since you
are talking to me so sincerely, I have no choice but to respond to you in a like manner. I hope it doesn’t bother
you if I ask you something.”
“No, please. Feel free to ask whatever you want.”
“Well, what can you tell me about those photos that came out recently with two girls swimming naked? It
didn’t seem to be just a get together of friends, and much less something commonplace,” now it was Dr. Olivier
who gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“Ah, those photos,” he recalled without embarrassment. “I was there. They were his neighbor and a friend of
hers who went to visit him after a trip they had taken to I don’t know where. His neighbors, male and female,
love him. And it’s not his fault for having such free–spirited and attractive neighbors, is it?”
“I suppose not,” he replied in a condescending tone. “Is your friend the man who everyone says he is?” he asked
seriously but at the same time in a tone trying not to sound impertinent.
“No, not at all. The Damian I know is very different from the one who people say they know. He is eccentric,
clearly, but who wouldn’t be if they were him?”
“Yes. You’re right. I might do the same thing if I were in his shoes. Unfortunately, my wife would kill me if I
did,” he made a gesture of casual resignation.
“And mine too,” they looked each other in the eyes and exchanged a smile of complicity.
“I've often seen videos or pictures of your friend Martel on those programs that my wife watches,” the two men
were starting to converse freely, as if they had known each other for many years. Perhaps it was precisely
because they hadn’t known each other at all that they could speak with such honesty and naturalness. “And
believe me that inside I understand. We’ve got to accept that in this world there are men who are fortunate,
and others of us not so much, right?” he paused while he shrugged his shoulders and raised an eyebrow as a
gesture of equanimity. Right now I'm recalling an anecdote about your friend which happened to me not long
ago. You see, on several occasions, when some scandalous news about your friend comes out, my wife adopts a
somewhat unexpected attitude. ‘How it is possible that those girls go outwith a man like him,’ she shrieks rather upset.
At first, I thought that she said it as if indirectly warning me that if I should ever do what your friend does, she
would crucify me...”
“My wife has asked me several times to stop hanging out with him,” he interrupted as a sign of solidarity. “But
I’ve known him for so long and we’ve been through so many things together, that I can’t do it.”
“I understand. My wife is just like that; always the same old song. Nevertheless, one day I realized that my wife
wasn’t saying it for me, but for our teenage daughter who has been platonically in love with Damián Martel
ever since the morning she met him in person at a restaurant while she was eating breakfast with her friends.
I have to confess that I don't like the idea at all, but as I just said, it was, or is, an adolescent thing. So I took it
more calmly than my wife,” –as he spoke, he gestured inviting him to look for a seat in the waiting room–. The
hallway was very busy at that time. “I tell you. About a year ago more or less, my daughter came home with
some of her friends, and they were all riled up because they had personally met and had taken pictures with
9. the world champion soccer player, Andrea Morgan. Do you know her?” The man nodded his head with an
expression on his face indicating it was obvious, as if to say he knew her very well. “My daughter plays high
school soccer, and at least for now, she is still a little more interested in that than she is in boys. However, that
day Andrea Morgan was accompanied by Mr. Martel, and my daughter also seemed somewhat... shall we say
enthusiastic, about having met him.”
“I see, Doctor. That’s what those of us who know him, whenever something like that happens, call the Martel
effect.”
“What a peculiar name,” exclaimed Dr. Olivier amicably. “Well, I was telling you that my daughter got all
excited and immediately showed us the pictures that minutes earlier she had taken with Andrea Morgan.
Looking at one of the photos, I realized that the man who was by her side was Damián Martel.”
“Yes, I remember that relationship very well. They were very much in love. It was a pity that they lasted
together so little time,” he said sadly.
“It bothered my wife that my daughter and her friends, in addition to the excitement about having a photo
with their sports idol, were so very exuberant when commenting about your friend. One of them even said, and
we shouldn’t condemn her, they’re all still very young girls, that she would’ve loved to lose virginity to Damián
Martel,” they couldn’t contain their laughter and the people around looked at them inquisitively. “My wife was
redder than a tomato when she heard her say that. I almost burst laughing on the inside. You should have seen
her face.”
“You see?” he added with a smile. “We can’t blame him for that kind of thing, can we? There’s something about
that man that attracts women of all ages. Sometimes even he isn’t aware of it; at other times, he makes believe
he isn’t aware of it and plays a role that suits him very well, that of the naive man. Some women love that.”
“Yes, I can imagine. Now that I remember, judging by your friend’s expression in that photo, it didn’t seemed
to make him very happy that they had taken his picture.”
“Thank God that your daughter isn’t a paparazzi, because at the very least he would have given her a black eye
and smashed her camera,” once again they let out a loud laugh and once again they felt the disapproving stares.
“But hey, even though this conversation is quite enjoyable, I imagine you also wanted to talk to me about
something else, am I right?” said Dr. Olivier as if to give seriousness to their conversation. There was an elderly
woman in the chair across from them who was staring at them with the eyes of an assassin.
“Yes, you’re right. I want to ask you for a favor,” he replied emulating his serious tone.
“Go ahead.”
“Well you see… I want to be the one who takes him home, once Damian is released.”
“Are you afraid that the woman claiming to be his girlfriend wants to take him?”
“I not only fear it, I know it. She knows that leaving the hospital accompanied by Damián Martel would give
her a bit of fame. She’s a dancer he met only a month ago, and even though she’s a very nice girl, he doesn’t want
to be with her any more. He just told me last night during dinner. He was planning to break up with her next
weekend. As you know, Damian finds long relationships boring.”
“And who doesn’t?” the laughter returned, and this time the presence of other people who from time to time
turned to stare, no longer bothered them.
“You see? One more example: he can afford the luxury of ending a relationship that bores him to start another
that he finds more appealing. That’s how it is.” He paused and looking directly at the doctor he said, “I'm glad
I spoke with you. It seems we speak the same language. I think that you and Damian would be good friends.”
“Well, I was young once too, so I understand. And believe me, after twenty years of marriage, I can talk about
doing whatever I please; but actually doing so, gets complicated. But I don’t lose anything by allowing
suppressed thoughts to escape… from time to time.”
10. “Tell me about it,” with a pat on the knee he let him know he was sympathetic. “But as I was saying, it’s essential
that I’m the one to take him. I don’t believe that Damian is in any condition to be a good boyfriend. In fact, I
don't know if he ever was.”
“You know that he’ll need to undergo therapy to regain the memory, right? I don’t think that his case is delicate,
but even so, it’s best to follow medical recommendations to the letter.”
“Yes. A few minutes ago I spoke to a nurse who was taking care of him, and she was telling me that.”
“By the way, sir, what’s your name? I’m Dr. Alonso Olivier.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Olivier. I’m Pablo.”
“You’re Mexican too, right?”
“That’s right, and you? You have an Argentine accent.”
“I’m Uruguayan.”
“And what brought you to the United States? The American dream?”
“No. I just came to study one semester in my field; that was almost thirty years ago. But I met a gal here that I
fell madly in love with, and here I am,” he smiled raising his eyebrows.
“I imagine that this gal is currently your wife.”
“Yes, that’s right. But if you look at her now she appears to be somebody else,” they laughed once more. “No,
actually I love her very much and therefore I allow myself to make jokes like that. But you were telling me...”
“Yes. Look, I think that it would be inappropriate for Damian to return home with Paula. In any event, she
wasn’t living with him.”
“You don’t really like her, do you?”
“No, it’s not that. To be honest, I do like her. I don’t know her well, she’s not been going out with Damian for
long, and I’ve only had the opportunity to talk with her a couple of times. The thing is, as I told you, he no
longer wanted to be with her. And now that he might not even remember his own plans, the girl could take
advantage and put on a big show, sweet-talking him into letting her move in with him. In the end, she’ll be the
one to lose out, because once he recovers his memory, he’ll remember that he wanted to get rid of her and will
do so without feeling a thing. Believe me,” he assured vehemently.
“I see,” he said in a sympathetic tone.
“So will you allow me to be the one to take him back home?”
“I don't see why not. But you’ll have to leave some documentation and fill out some paperwork. They’ll explain
it all in the offices on the ground floor of the hospital.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“There is nothing to thank me for.”
“When will he be released?”
“Tomorrow, if all goes well. Your friend is one lucky guy; even when he has an accident.”
“He sure is.”
“And what will happen with the girl, that Paula lady? That’s what you said her name is, isn't it?”
“Yes. She’s a girl who, all in all, is quite sensible and understanding. She’ll have the opportunity to visit him
when he’s back home.”
“Will you speak with her?”
11. “I already have. I never take a step without my sandals, as we say in Mexico.”
“Nice expression. Well, if that’s the case, there’s nothing left but to say goodbye. I have to go to the MRI room
to see if the printer is working again.”
“Dr. Olivier, it’s been a pleasure to meet you,” rising from the stuffed sofa, they again shook hands.
“Same to you, Pablo, I’ll expect you tomorrow around ten in the morning so can take your friend home.”
“Okay, Doctor. See you tomorrow.”
Upon arriving at the MRI room, Dr. Olivier was informed that the printer had suffered serious damage, so he
would have to go, personally, to a nearby hospital to printout the results of Damián Martel’s MRI. It
immediately occurred to him to go to Sacramento, where a good friend of his was working and who would
surely allow him use that hospital’s printer without needing to go through bureaucratic channels, and thus to
avoid a ton of paperwork. The prospect did not cause him to jump for joy, but he didn’t want to send the file
by courier and even less so by internet. He went back to his office to get a jump the next day's work. Before
leaving for home, he left Dr. Adams a message written on a piece of paper on top of her desk. "Tomorrow morning
I will go to Sacramento to get patient Damian Martel’s results. Treat his case as you deem necessary. I’ll contact you as soon as I
return. Take care."
Chapter V
It hadn’t yet reached nine o’clock in the morning when Dr. Adams entered the room where she found Damián
Martel, who was still asleep. At first, she didn't want to wake him and thought it would be better to come back
later. Then she recalled that if it hadn’t been for him, she would be, at that very moment, on a beautiful
Caribbean beach contemplating the turquoise–blue of the ocean. Almost involuntarily and as if not on purpose,
she knocked over the glass that was on a nightstand next to the bed of Damián Martel, who immediately awoke
as the glass crashed against the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed when he opened his eyes.
“Don’t worry. I was having a nightmare,” he joked, his facial expression not clearly legible because a yawn
distorted it as he spoke.
“You speak English, right?”
“I do... But I’d rather speak to you in Spanish. It's more romantic,” he yawned again. “Does it matter to you?”
“No. For me it’s fine,” she said in a distracted tone because her attention was focused on thoughts that fleetingly
crossed her mind. She didn't know what to think of that man. She didn’t know if he gave the impression of
being cynical or charming. She realized that she felt a bit restless and that surely her face revealed signs of
blushing. So she picked up the phone that was by his side and asked that someone from housekeeping come to
pick up the pieces of the glass that were lying on the floor. “I’m Dr. Adams,” she said, already calmer. “I’m the
head of the Department of Neurology for this hospital. I need to talk to you about your accident and provide
you with appropriate recommendations, before I can discharge you.”
“I am at your complete disposal.”
“I'll begin with some questions to make sure that this is a typical case of partial and temporary memory loss.
Do you remember anything from your childhood?”
“Vaguely.”
12. “Well, that’s good news. It means that it is indeed a case of partial memory loss. Tell me, what is it that comes
to your mind when you think of your childhood?”
“I see myself sitting on the grass in a beautiful garden, playing with the mud... There are lots of trees around
me, and I can also see flowers of many colors and a couple dogs running around... Why are you making that
face?” he asked in a friendly tone.
“No, it’s nothing. I simply didn't expect a response like that. Could you give me more details?”
“No... It makes me feel weird not being able to remember more things... Could call you someone to bring me
some coffee? I really feel like drinking some. I’m still a little groggy,” he said with a sleepy voice.
‘Sure. I’ll do it right away,” she picked up the phone again and ordered two coffees. “I’d like to have one too,”
she explained immediately, somewhat embarrassed.
“A cup of coffee or a glass of wine, you can never say no to them. They are two of those things that go well at
any time, right?
“Well, if you say so. I'm not completely sure of that, but no matter,” she said in distant tone. “What about your
teenage years; do you remember anything?”
“A little bit more. I can see myself in different concerts, surrounded by people all singing together and clapping
non–stop. But not just in one place, I have memories of doing the same thing in lots of places. Parks, theaters,
public squares, bars, etc.”
“Yes, that’s normal. Things like music are never forgotten.” she paused before asking her next question, as if
she were trying to decide if it was relevant or not.
“Is everything ok?” he asked her, politely.
“Yes. Everything is fine. Better than I expected. Apparently your case is what in medical terms we call normal.
Your memory will be returning little by little, and I see no inconvenience in discharging you. Nevertheless, it
will be necessary to have frequent appointments to further evaluate your progress.”
“I have to keep coming to the hospital? I’ve never liked hospitals and cemeteries,” he said sounding indifferent
and spontaneous. “I’m sorry; I didn't mean to say that.” At that moment, one of the cleaning ladies opened the
door and entered the room. She kindly greeted Dr. Adams, who indicated with her finger where she needed to
clean. Silently, she began to do her work, and just at the moment she lifted the pieces of the glass with the
dustpan, her eyes crossed with Damián Martel’s, who was watching her with childlike curiosity. Involuntarily,
the woman dropped the dustpan letting it crash to the floor, and her face turned instantly pale.
“Are you okay?” asked Dr. Adams.
“Yes, doctor. It's just that I got distracted for a moment. I am sorry.”
“One would think you saw a ghost,” joked Dr. Adams. It’s only Mr. Martel. Yes, that’s him,” she made a gesture
indicating it was obvious. “You recognized him, didn’t you?
“Yes, that’s right. I recognized him,” she said in self–absorbed tone, as if she were thinking about something
else. “I’ll clean this up right away,” again she picked up the pieces of the glass. This time there was no accident
and she finished her work without a mishap. Upon leaving the room, she looked back at where Damián Martel
was lying and extended him a warm smile, which he returned in a like manner.
“Mr. Martel,” Dr. Adams resumed the conversation. “It will be necessary to undergo a psychological treatment
for the next few weeks to make sure everything is okay.”
“A psychological treatment? Why?” he asked in a whiny tone, like a spoiled child.
“It’s part of the healing process. We do this for every patient who suffers a contusion to the head. Some of them
don’t even lose their memory and still voluntarily undergo the treatment,” she said to let him know that that
13. procedure was completely normal. “I will be performing these consultations with you... if you have no
objections.”
“Are you a psychologist?”
“I’m a neurologist, but I've done plenty of graduate work in the field of psychology.”
“That’s fine, but on one condition.”
“What is it?” she asked at the same time she felt her face blushing again.
“That we meet somewhere else.”
“That’s not allowed, Mr. Martel,” she said harshly.
“Make an exception,” he proposed in a confident tone, like a father advising his son.
Dr. Adams looked at him for a few seconds without responding. Then, unable to conceal an affectionate smile,
she turned her gaze towards the room’s window. “I'll see what I can do.”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Adams,” he responded with a gesture of satisfaction. “What could possibly have
happened with that coffee?”
“I'll go and check,” she picked up her things and headed toward the door. “I’ll cancel mine. I just remembered
some other things I have to do so I can’t spend any more time with you. I’ll call you tomorrow to set up our
next meeting.”
“That’s fine. I'll be expecting your call.”
Walking down the hospital hallway she had an uncontrollable attack of laughter. Some nurses walking nearby
turned to stare at her, but didn’t dare to say anything. In any event, she hurried to get to her office. There, she
plopped down into her stuffed chair and once seated, she opened the elegant curtains covering a huge window
that was just opposite a park next to the hospital. From her position, she observed a couple having lunch on a
blanket on the grass in the park. From time to time they kissed each other tenderly; as the man pressed the girl
against his body she yielded to his embrace, her face glowing with affection. It crossed her mind, like a flash,
the idea of having the first appointment with Damián Martel on that very spot.
