{"id":153811,"date":"2021-08-02T12:58:21","date_gmt":"2021-08-02T16:58:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=153811"},"modified":"2021-08-02T12:58:21","modified_gmt":"2021-08-02T16:58:21","slug":"a-great-storyteller-loses-his-memory","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/08\/02\/a-great-storyteller-loses-his-memory\/","title":{"rendered":"A Great Storyteller Loses His Memory"},"content":{"rendered":"

Rodrigo Garc\u00eda\u2019s new memoir, <\/em>A Farewell to Gabo and Mercedes<\/a>, recounts the ailing health and eventual passing of his father, the writer Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez, in close detail. Amid family discussions and trips to the doctor, Garc\u00eda explores the challenge of writing about grief while living within it. In the below excerpt, Garc\u00eda documents the aftermath of his father\u2019s dementia diagnosis and considers the emotional weight of the memory loss upon the renowned writer.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez at the Festival Internacional de Cine en Guadalajara, 2009, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

Writing about the death of loved ones must be about as old as writing itself, and yet the inclination to do it instantly ties me up in knots. I am appalled that I am thinking of taking notes, ashamed as I take notes, disappointed in myself as I revise notes. What makes matters emotionally turbulent is the fact that my father is a famous person. Beneath the need to write may lurk the temptation to advance one\u2019s own fame in the age of vulgarity. Perhaps it might be better to resist the call and to stay humble. Humility is, after all, my favorite form of vanity. But as with most writing, the subject matter chooses you, and so resistance could be futile.<\/p>\n

A few months earlier a friend asked how my dad was doing with his loss of memory. I told her he lives strictly in the present, unburdened by the past, free of expectations for the future. Forecasting based on previous experience, which is believed to be of evolutionary significance as well as one of the origins of storytelling, no longer plays a part in his life.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo he doesn\u2019t know he\u2019s mortal,\u201d she concluded. \u201cLucky him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course, the picture I painted for her is simplified. It is dramatized. The past still plays a part in his conscious life. He relies on the distant echo of his considerable interpersonal skills to ask anyone he meets a series of safe questions: \u201cHow is everything?\u201d \u201cWhere are you living these days?\u201d \u201cHow are your people?\u201d Occasionally he\u2019ll venture an attempt at a more ambitious exchange and become disoriented in the middle of it, losing the thread of the idea or running out of words. The puzzled expression on his face, as well as the embarrassment that crosses it momentarily, like a puff of smoke in a breeze, betrays a past when conversation was as natural to him as breathing. Creative, funny, evocative, provocative conversation. Being a great conversador <\/em>was almost as highly regarded among his oldest group of friends as being a good writer.<\/p>\n

The future is also not completely behind him. Often at dusk he asks, \u201cWhere are we going tonight? Let\u2019s go out to a fun place. Let\u2019s go dancing. Why? Why not?\u201d If you change the subject enough times, he moves on. <\/p>\n

He recognizes my mother and addresses her as Meche, Mercedes, La Madre<\/em>, or La Madre Santa<\/em>. There were a few very difficult months not long ago when he remembered his lifelong wife but considered the woman in front of him claiming to be her to be an impostor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy is she here giving orders and running the house if she is nothing to me?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother reacted to this with anger.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is wrong with him?\u201d she asked in disbelief.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not him, Mom. It\u2019s dementia.\u201d She looked at me like I was trying to pull a fast one. Surprisingly, that period passed, and she regained her proper place in his mind as his principal companion. She is the last tether. His secretary, his driver, his cook, who have all worked in the house for years, he recognizes as familiar and friendly people who make him feel safe, but he no longer knows their names. When my brother and I visit, he looks at us long and hard, with uninhibited curiosity. Our faces ring a distant bell, but he cannot make us out.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are those people in the next room?\u201d he asks a housekeeper.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour sons.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally? Those men? Carajo<\/em>. That\u2019s incredible.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was an uglier period a couple of years earlier. My father was fully aware of his mind slipping away. He asked for help insistently, repeating time and time again that he was losing his memory. The toll of seeing a person in that state of anxiety and having to tolerate their endless repetitions over and over and over again is enormous. He would say, \u201cI work with my memory. Memory is my tool and my raw material. I cannot work without it. Help me,\u201d and then he would repeat it in one form or another multiple times an hour for half an afternoon. It was grueling. That eventually passed. He regained some tranquility and would sometimes say, \u201cI\u2019m losing my memory, but fortunately I forget that I\u2019m losing it,\u201d or \u201cEveryone treats me like I\u2019m a child. It\u2019s good that I like it.\u201d<\/p>\n

His secretary tells me that one afternoon she found him standing alone in the middle of the garden, looking off into the distance, lost in thought.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing out here, Don Gabriel?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCrying.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCrying? You\u2019re not crying.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I am. But without tears. Don\u2019t you realize that my head is now shit?\u201d<\/p>\n

On another occasion, he said to her: \u201cThis isn\u2019t my home. I want to go home. Home to my dad. I have a bed next to my dad\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

We suspect he was referring not to his father but to his grandfather, the colonel (and the inspiration for Colonel Aureliano Buend\u00eda), with whom he lived until he was eight. The colonel was the most influential man in his life. My father slept on a small mattress on the floor next to his bed. They never saw each other after 1935.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the thing about your father,\u201d his secretary says to me. \u201cEven ugly things he can talk about beautifully.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rodrigo Garc\u00eda was born in Colombia, grew up in Mexico City, and studied history at Harvard University. His features as writer and director include <\/em>Nine Lives,\u00a0<\/em>Albert Nobbs,\u00a0and <\/em>Last Days in the Desert. Garcia has directed for television series such as <\/em>Six Feet Under,\u00a0<\/em>The Sopranos, and <\/em>Big Love, for which he received an Emmy nomination. He also directed several episodes of HBO\u2019s <\/em>In Treatment, where, in addition to directing, he served as writer, executive producer, and series showrunner. Garcia currently resides in Los Angeles with his family.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Excerpted from <\/em>A Farewell to Gabo and Mercedes: A Son\u2019s Memoir of Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez and Mercedes Barcha<\/a>,<\/em> by Rodrigo Garc\u00eda. Published by HarperVia. Copyright \u00a9 2021 HarperCollins.<\/em><\/p>\n

Read Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez\u2019s Art of Fiction interview<\/a>, which appeared in the Winter 1981 issue.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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