Free Turing's Delirium by Edmundo Paz Soldán

body. You took money out of your savings account to pay for her lodging, to buy her clothes, so that she doesn't have to see other men (but you suspect you don't have enough money to buy her exclusivity). Once, without Ruth's knowledge, you let her sleep in the Toyota. Your visits to the El Dorado after work are now daily; you had to find excuses to explain your late arrivals to Ruth. And you didn't leave Carla even after you found marks on her right forearm one afternoon: the smiling prostitute did drugs. How naive you were not to have realized that from the beginning. No wonder her moods changed so quickly, her eyes were so vacant, her jaw sometimes trembled faintly.
    You asked her. Kneeling in front of you, she stayed perfectly still and seemed to vacillate between whether to tell you the truth or not. All of a sudden she began to cry. In between sobs, she told you that a friend had got her addicted to heroin. She had done everything she could to stop, including a methadone treatment program. She was now hooked on methadone and worked as a prostitute to pay her debts.
    "Please, help me," Carla had implored. Only ghostly similarities with your daughter remained. You stroked her tear-stained cheeks. You wondered exactly what methadone was, what its effects were. You now knew where the majority of the money you gave her went. The marks on her forearm were in the shape of a cross; you weren't religious, but you knew to pay attention to the world when it spoke to you. You held her, pitied her. You would help her, you wouldn't abandon her.
    Your Ericsson rings. You are tempted not to answer. You are even more tempted to answer. Carla continues to devote herself to your member, her expression becoming annoyed when you interrupt her. You see the number on the screen—a call from your house—and turn off your phone.

Chapter 8
    F LAVIA AND HER MOM are eating dinner in faint, flickering candlelight. Dad, who is always late these days, says he has to work overtime. Obviously the rules can be changed when it suits him. There had been times when she wanted to take her dinner to her room, but Dad had forbidden it. The only rule that had to be respected at home was the one regarding dinner—everyone had to be together and the abundant wires that connected them to the world had to be disconnected.
    Ruth spills her glass of red wine on the white tablecloth. She watches the dark stain spread, making no effort to stop it. On the rug at Flavia's feet, Clancy lifts his head, startled, then goes back to sleep.
    "Are you OK?" Flavia asks, taking a sip of her guarana juice, trailing her fork through her pasta from side to side.
    "I had a bad day. Don't ever teach. Learn everything you possibly can, but don't teach it to anyone. Ingrates. It just gets worse and worse. What a waste of time."
    "You're right. I don't know how our teachers put up with us."
    Flavia knows that her mom's problems are not just today's. Her laughter has been absent for a long while now, laughter that used to cause glass to rattle (she recalls a scene from the frantic movie
Run Lola Run,
one of her favorites). And she is drinking more and more, behind everyone's back. The maid has shown Flavia the empty vodka bottles in the garage—that clear alcohol, which lets Miguel think she is drinking water. How can Flavia tell her mom that she might understand, that she's willing to listen if her mom feels comfortable confiding in her? She can't. It's impossible to break down those barriers. The same with Dad. Adults live in another world, where things are done differently. Would that be her fate too? Would she one day cross the border separating that strange land from her own? Would she become just another adult, unable to understand adolescents?
    "I keep getting nosebleeds," Ruth says. "At first it didn't worry me, but it's happened several times. I went to the doctor today for a checkup. They did a few tests, an endoscopy. They think it's a vein in my nose that's