Alexandre Xavier

My schedule remained packed, even though my mind was caught between the pain of betrayal and a full agenda of surgeries. Keeping busy seemed like the best way out. Avoiding a conversation with Maria Clara, at that moment, was the only way to maintain some sanity, avoiding conflicts that would hurt us even more. So, I went to the capital, Rio de Janeiro, for an important lecture.

The auditorium at the federal university was packed. It was the end of the semester at that college. Medical and nursing students from all stages crowded into the uncomfortable plastic chairs, some frantically taking notes, others just pretending to be interested. I was used to it: lectures, congresses, opening ceremonies. The same cycle of catchphrases and impactful graphs.

But that night, there was something different in the air. Perhaps it was the fatigue from the trip or the discomfort of being back in Rio, where past memories still whispered at every corner, reminding me that our forever was never meant to be with me. Maria Clara had betrayed me, and that hurt deeply.

"...and the most important point of modern surgical approach," I concluded, after a detailed explanation, "is not just the technique, but the listening to the patient. In what they don’t say. In the story that the body reveals before the mouth does."

Some students clapped out of courtesy. The senior professor thanked me for being there, praised my career. I was ready to wrap up when he stepped forward. “We’ll now have a moment for questions. If anyone wants to take advantage of Dr. Alexandre Xavier's presence, please raise your hand."

Hands went up. I chose two and answered quickly. Nothing that required much effort. Then I saw a student with dark brown hair raise her arm. With a notebook on her lap and an expression far too calm for someone about to interrogate a guest speaker.

There was something about her that bothered me.

It wasn’t her face. It was a gesture or way of looking. The way she crossed her arms, lifted her chin. An echo of someone my memory still resisted admitting. A disturbing déjà-vu that crawled under my skin.

"You, in the white blouse," I pointed, thinking it would be another protocol question, even though my heart was racing for no reason. She had brown eyes, almost honey.

She stood up slowly, had a serene, yet provocative air. She wore loose jeans and a white sleeveless top. Her small breasts stood out, subtly. Beautiful, as if her face had been sculpted with fine brushstrokes. When she grabbed the microphone, her voice was clear, firm. Young, but without hesitation.

“Dr. Xavier, you mentioned that the body reveals truths that words often hide. I would like to know… what do you do when it is the doctor’s own body that lies? When signs of loss of control come from him, and not from the patient?”

The silence in the auditorium was immediate. It was a different question. Uncomfortable. Personal. Almost... intimate.

My gaze locked onto her. The brown eyes with dark edges, inquisitive. There was something familiar there. A barely buried memory. And, by the persistent way she looked at me, I felt as if she was reading me from the inside out.

My mouth opened, but I needed a second to find my voice.

“Uhm...” I cleared my throat. “An excellent question.” I smiled a little, tense.

Pause.

“The doctor is human too. And when the body lies, when fatigue, desire, or fear try to interfere... that’s when ethics comes in. And the courage to stop. To... to acknowledge one's own failure.”

She smiled. Just the corner of her mouth. As if to say: “I know you understood.”

“Thank you, doctor,” she said, handing over the microphone.

I realized I was curious, alarmed: was my state of desolation really that visible?

“What’s your name?” I asked before she sat down.

“Maria Vitória Bocci,” she said with a polite smile, looking at me.

The world stopped for a second.

She sat down as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in that auditorium. But I knew. The name, the look... That girl seemed to be reading me instinctively.

Or was it just in my head?

I left the stage under applause and a false reverence. Inside, something in me was crumbling. And for the first time in a long time, I found myself without an answer. Was it time to stop? To rest? Just like I answered.

I spent two days in Rio de Janeiro seeking rest, escapes, between Maria Clara’s insistent calls.

“Xande, we need to talk,” her voice said in the first voicemail. I ignored it for days, trying to occupy my mind, trying to avoid fights. Trying not to be consumed by the rising anger. Trying to stop us from going beyond everything we had already been through.

When I finally answered, her voice invaded my ears. I didn’t want to be a coward anymore.

“I don’t see a way out for us. You know that betrayal, for me, is unforgivable. I want…”

“Let me explain!” I interrupted. “It was a moment of weakness, Xande. Haven’t you ever made a mistake? Never…”

“Not with you. I never betrayed you, never lied. I gave you the best of these twenty years of marriage,” my voice came out choked, and it wasn’t just from crying. It was from the pain. The anger.

“I don’t want to talk to you over the phone, please, let’s meet, let’s understand each other, my love.”

I ended the call, hung up with a trembling hand and a tight chest. The anger was an animal I held by the collar, always keeping control over it, and this time, I tried with all my strength not to let it consume me. I needed to breathe. I needed to run away.

That’s when I decided to get away from everything. I grabbed the car and drove aimlessly until a sign by the side of the road caught my attention: Hotel Fazenda São Bartolomeu – 7 km.

Without thinking, I turned right.

The place was isolated, surrounded by green hills, bungalows, with an old manor at the center, a wooden porch, hammocks swaying in the wind, the smell of wet earth, and silence. It was exactly what I needed: time away from everything. Away from Maria Clara. Away from medicine. Even away from myself.

I checked in under my full name, but without fanfare. The receptionist, a friendly young woman without excessive curiosity, handed me the key and said dinner was served until nine. I simply nodded, took the key, and went straight to the room.

It was simple, rustic. A double bed with clean cotton sheets, a desk, an open window with a view of a field where horses grazed in the fading light of the afternoon. I sat on the edge of the bed and stayed there for a few minutes, just listening to the sounds of nature.

That night, I didn’t sleep right away. I took a long bath. Then, I sat on the porch with a glass of cheap red wine from the restaurant and stared at the starry sky. The memory of her question came to me like a whisper.

"When it’s the doctor’s body that lies?"

That’s what I was now. A lying body. A broken man, pretending to be sane between surgical cuts and packed lectures. I wondered if she had asked that question by intuition or malice. If it was just a coincidence.

On the second day, I walked down the dirt trail to a small stream hidden among the rocks. I sat down, took off my shoes, and let my feet touch the cold water. Nature seemed to laugh at my pretense of control. Me, the surgeon with steady hands, now vulnerable even in my breathing.

It was relieving not to have a ringing phone, persistent calls. To go all the way to the town center to get phone service, only internet worked, the signal failed constantly. It was, indeed, an isolation without being isolated.

On the third day, I thought about leaving. But my body didn’t respond. It was as if something there, in that isolation, was preparing me for something. As if I needed to understand the silence before I could face the noise of the world again.