by Antonio Hill
They turned off the lights and went out to the landing. The door closed with a resigned whine, the assumed sadness of one who knew their best days were behind them.
Carol insisted on seeing her home and Leire barely protested, though what she was carrying in her bag made her feel like an ungrateful thief. They spoke little during the journey—there wasn’t much to say—and when they arrived it was obvious the driver wanted to be gone as soon as possible.
“By the way,” Carol said before wishing her good-bye, “I don’t know what was going on with your phone when I arrived, but murderous desires won’t make you feel better.”
Taken aback, Leire took a few seconds to react. She had completely forgotten Tomás’s text.
“Well,” she said, looking at her belly, “it wouldn’t be good to leave this baby fatherless so soon.”
Carol smiled and said nothing. From the pavement, Leire watched her leave and then headed toward her building. She went up in the lift, alone, thinking that for once it would be nice if someone were waiting for her at home. Perhaps the conversation with Carol was to blame: the love of others always provokes envy. And if there was one thing she didn’t doubt, it was that this woman had lived a true love story with Ruth. Requited or not, it didn’t matter. Carol had loved Ruth, and so had Héctor. To be honest, she wasn’t sure anyone had ever loved her that way, and an enormous desire to know the object of these passions overcame her: to ask her what was her secret, her potion, her spell that managed to bewitch men and women so. And then she became firmly convinced, with no proof to support it, that the people who possess this charm unknowingly live in danger, because there’s always someone who loves them from afar, or loves them too much. Or simply can’t bear loving them that way.
Sitting on the sofa, Leire opened the file with the intimate feeling of committing a reprehensible act, all the more so because she certainly wouldn’t gain anything useful from it other than satisfying her ever-growing curiosity about Ruth. Although maybe everyone would be equally interesting if their lives were examined under a microscope: details enrich even the most anodyne of existences.
Inside the file were drawings, receipts, exhibition catalogs, magazine clippings on various subjects, old photographs, piled up with no order or coordination. Leire looked through them all with the patience of a collector. Although those who knew her would confirm she was a woman of action, if there was one facet of her work that characterized Agent Castro it was her obsession with not leaving a single fact, a single link, without close examination. So, tired but not sleepy—by the end of the day her feet were so swollen she barely recognized them—she slowly sorted the photos from the drawings, the receipts from the scraps of paper with a phone number or address scribbled on them. A little later she had several distinct piles, and to eliminate them she began flicking through the pile of receipts and catalogs, which, as expected, contributed little information. That Ruth liked art and photography and design exhibitions she knew already. She moved on to the photos, because there were only a few. Computers have taken the place of photo albums, she said to herself, thinking of the ones her mother had at home. And instantly she remembered her mother had called her that afternoon, and made a mental note to get in touch with her first thing in the morning. If she didn’t, the scolding might be epic.
There were some strange photos, she supposed taken by Ruth herself. A shadow on the floor, a drain, a cloudy sky. Of course there were a few of her with Carol, very few; and some even older, of Ruth and Guillermo and Ruth and Héctor. Leire paused a moment to observe her boss, younger but with the same sad-dog expression. Even when he was smiling. Beside him, Ruth was splendid, in one photo in particular; he looked at her from the corner of his eye, as if incredulous that this woman was at his side through anything other than luck. On the other hand, she was looking at the camera with the intensity of someone who is happy. There were one or two other photos of that same day, which had to have been five years before, because Guillermo didn’t look more than eight or nine. A serious kid, resembling his father in his expression and his mother in his appearance.
Leire went through the family photos and noticed that, leaving those aside, only one much older picture remained. Two little girls in gymnastic leotards; the outfits and combed hair made them appear almost identical, yet looking closely Leire recognized one of them as Ruth, with a friend or classmate beside her. Luckily, the date was written on the back: Barcelona, 1984. Ruth would have been thirteen then.
The pile of drawings was next, some simple outlines and some more elaborate. One caught her eye because the girl who appeared in it was so like the girl with Ruth in the photo. Once again, Leire admired Ruth Valldaura’s talent: some simple lines created a serious face, completely recognizable as such. In the drawing the little girl was somewhat older and dressed in a type of cloak. She was standing beside a cliff, looking down. Ruth had drawn her as if she were in front of her, as if she were suspended in the air or at the bottom of the precipice, observing her from below. Something in this drawing was disturbing, the tragic air enveloping the figure. There was something written underneath—Ruth’s handwriting no doubt, but it took Leire some time to work out what it said.
Love creates eternal debts.
The phrase remained in her head as she attacked the final pile of paper: addresses and phone numbers, press clippings and suchlike. She didn’t expect to find anything, so when she saw the street name written on a scrap of paper she paid no attention to it. A few seconds later, however, her heart beat faster on recognizing on one of the scraps the address and phone number of Dr. Omar’s clinic.
14
The next morning, after a balanced, healthy breakfast, nothing like the doughnuts she used to eat a few months before, Leire emerged onto the street. It was cool, just as the meteorologists, who had spent a few days forecasting the arrival of real winter, had warned. Although she had left in plenty of time, once on the street she decided to treat herself to a taxi to her destination. It wasn’t a visit she wanted to make at all, but she thought it necessary and, in contrast to what she’d expected, there had been no objection. Montserrat Martorell, Ruth’s mother, was expecting her at twelve. She had only requested, in a tone that had little in the way of entreaty and much of warning, that Leire be punctual: her husband was in the habit of going out at that time every day and apparently “it was better that he not be present, as he gets too upset.” No wonder.
The taxi driver left her in Plaça Sarrià, very close to the pedestrianized street where Ruth Valldaura had grown up, an area that couldn’t be more different from where she had ended up living. Despite the plaza itself looking quite ugly, the area was certainly pleasant, especially this street, which retained a village air, as if it were the main street of another, smaller, more select city, nothing to do with the rest of Barcelona.
Montserrat Martorell, Señora Valldaura, was as imposing as her name suggested, thought Leire, when the woman in question received her in the sitting room, which was the size of Leire’s entire apartment.
“It’s too cold to sit on the patio,” she said, as if it were an indisputable truth.
The woman before her, mature but in no way old, looked her up and down. In ten seconds—Leire was sure—this woman had formed an opinion of her. Only her eyes had revealed slight disapproval when resting on her bulging belly, as if she thought it improper that a woman in her condition should go to strangers’ houses. However, the expression lasted barely a second; then she smiled and adopted the role of hostess to perfection. She offered her coffee, tea or a cold drink, which Leire declined with extraordinary friendliness.
“Well then, go ahead.”
The phrase was more or less identical to the one that initiated the conversation with Carol, but on this occasion Leire answered with an elaborate explanation, the same she would have given to the headmistress in the school she’d attended if she’d had to explain not having her homework done. Señora Martorell listened to her attentively, neither interrup
ting nor making her task any easier. It was impossible to know what was going on behind those piercing gray eyes, too cold to be beautiful. Leire finished her soliloquy and awaited the verdict, but instead she received a question.
“And my son-in-law knows nothing about this?”
The fact that she still referred to Inspector Salgado as her “son-in-law,” though not with excessive affection, didn’t go unnoticed.
“It may seem strange, but no, he doesn’t know. We thought it best.” She used the plural that always disguises controversial decisions.
“I beg your pardon,” Señora Martorell said after a silence that betrayed her doubts, “I must admit that the way things are done nowadays astonishes me. My daughter’s husband is a police officer and yet you are in charge of investigating her disappearance.”
Leire was sure that there were other things in this world that astonished her more, so she merely pointed out: “Her ex-husband.”
Clearly not many people corrected Señora Martorell.
“Technically they hadn’t started divorce proceedings. Didn’t you know?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s how it is.”
“You do know that your daughter was in a relationship with—”
“Of course,” she replied, not allowing her to finish the sentence. “Ruth informed me of that.”
“Did you think it wrong?”
She hadn’t meant to be so direct, but there was something in that woman that made beating around the bush impossible. Though Montserrat Martorell might be a woman of the old school, Leire guessed she preferred frankness to being handled with kid gloves.
“What does it matter what I thought? Listen, you don’t know this yet: there comes a time when children go their own way. For better or worse, but they do it. And your role, like mine, will be to keep quiet and accept it. Sometimes it’s difficult, and you have to bite your tongue on more than one occasion. Like everything, you learn in the end.” She stopped a moment to take a breath. “Anyway, in answer to your question, I say no, I didn’t think it wrong. Are you surprised?”
Leire’s face must have looked puzzled, because Señora Martorell smiled.
“You young people, you think you invented everything. There have always been women and men who love those of their own sex. It’s not a new thing for this century, believe me. What is new is that they do it openly; however, the deed is the same, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But you must have been surprised. Just like that, all of a sudden … It would surprise my mother, for example,” she admitted sincerely. “I don’t mean she’d disapprove, but she’d certainly be surprised.”
“When your child is born you’ll see how few of the things they do surprise you.” Her tone was so haughty that Leire became irritated in spite of herself. “In any case, you haven’t come to find out what I thought about my daughter sleeping with another woman, correct?”
Leire blushed, and hated herself for not being able to help it.
“No. I came because I feel I need to know Ruth better to find out what happened to her. And the relationship with family usually reveals a lot about people.”
“I suppose that’s true,” admitted Montserrat Martorell. “I should tell you that my relationship with my daughter was good. She didn’t devote her life to us because I educated her that way: to be independent, to succeed, to find her own path. And I did it well.”
“And your husband?”
The woman made a vague gesture with her hand, as if that were a trifling detail.
“Husbands aren’t much use when it comes to raising little girls. At least at first. They only know how to spoil them.”
Leire looked at the woman in front of her. Her seeming impassivity astonished her and she had the impression that it might be hiding a terrible evil temper.
“What do you think happened to her?”
“I think what happened is that you didn’t do your job properly. Because, if you’d done a thorough investigation, we wouldn’t be talking about this now. I think that my son-in-law, or my ex-son-in-law if you prefer, has been inept both in keeping his wife and in investigating her disappearance. And I think you should be ashamed of showing up at my home, half a year later, to ask me a heap of questions from which it can only be assumed you haven’t the least idea of what happened to Ruth. Would you like to know what else I think? I think my daughter should never have lived alone in that barrio, I think this city is full of criminals doing as they please. No, it didn’t matter to me that Ruth was sleeping with another woman. Or left her husband—he deserved it. What matters to me, what drives me crazy is that … is that to this day I don’t know if I have a dead daughter or not. I don’t know if I should weep or retain some hope. I don’t know if—” She stopped herself, upset, and gave the impression of forcing herself to calm down. “If you have nothing more to say, I’d like you to leave. My husband should be about to return.”
The answer had been so sharp that, even sitting down, Leire leaned backward.
Leire stood up as quickly as her enormous belly allowed. Señora Martorell’s telling-off was by far the worst she’d had in years. Perhaps it was due to wounded pride, or maybe it was about finding a dignified exit to this visit, but when she was already on her feet, she asked: “You said before that no mother is too surprised by what a child does, and I assume by that you meant you knew Ruth well. Was there any other girl in her life? I’m talking about years ago, when Ruth was very young and still lived here.” She asked thinking of the little girl in the photo, the figure on the cliff, though with little hope of getting an answer.
Señora Martorell fixed her eyes on her, as if all of a sudden that pregnant young woman had finally said something sensible.
“Of course there was. Her name was Patricia, Patricia Alzina. She was in Ruth’s rhythmic gymnastics class. And her best friend.”
“And what happened?”
Montserrat Martorell looked away, half-closed her eyes and answered in a neutral voice, less indifferent than she would have liked.
“Patricia died aged eighteen in a car accident. She was returning from Sitges after spending a few days at home. She was an inexperienced driver and lost control of the car. She came off the highway in the Garraf mountains.”
15
With a brusque swipe, César turned off the car radio. On this part of the highway, dotted with bends, there was constant interference and the half sentences put him on edge. Moreover, neither was he in the mood to be interested in a sports panel in which the commentators dissected the lineups and analyzed the shots with the same caustic tone the panelists on a gossip program would use.
He needed silence. An absolute silence that would allow him to think about everything that was happening. About Sara, about Gaspar, the strangled dogs and, in another area, about Emma and the risk that spoiled brat posed to his relationship with Sílvia. Too many problems, he said to himself, as he moved into second to approach the next bend on the secondary road that led to the small town of Torrelles de Llobregat, where Octavi Pujades lived. All for him, thought César. He’d never understood people who complicated their lives by going to live far away from the city just to have a house with no neighbors, to enjoy this absurd peace which would end up destroying their nerves. He hadn’t even arrived and already felt daunted by the return journey on this highway through the forest. A forest hidden then by darkness, but which he guessed to be dense, threatening.
The headlights of another vehicle moving in the opposite direction warned him with a couple of flashes that he had his lights on full beam. He hadn’t even noticed and changed them immediately. From then on he moved more slowly: he could see only a few meters ahead and this made him uneasy. He was a careful, cautious man and he’d learned the best way to go through life without unpleasant surprises was to take things calmly and prevent problems. See them coming. For this reason he was going to speak to Octavi behind Sílvia’s back. There were few people César could trust, but the finance director was o
ne of them. Because of his age, his knowledge, even his life experience, he considered his opinion worth taking into account. He trusted him much more than show-off Arjona, for example, among other reasons because deep down he’d never trusted those who deviate from the norm and also make a big deal about it. He wasn’t a bad guy—each to their own in the bedroom—yet this fact traced an invisible line that, along with Brais Arjona’s arrogant self-sufficiency, made him insecure. As if he were a vulgar individual, an anodyne, limited fortysomething. And best not to speak of the others: Amanda was a child and the guy from the lab couldn’t be any weirder. There was Sílvia, of course, and he’d spoken in full and at length about it all with her, to the point of exhaustion, but César had the impression that to clarify his ideas he needed to chat with an older, responsible man. Someone solid.
Suddenly a small animal crossed the highway and César swerved out of pure instinct. Damned forest, he thought. Damned shadows. Damned dead dogs.
He is too tired for the road. He has reached the steepest stretch and just at that moment the sky suddenly darkens. It’s a cloud so sudden, so dense, that the day is extinguished before his eyes, as if in the presence of an eclipse or the effects of a biblical curse. Then, little by little, the sun recoups its strength to assert itself in the struggle and once again show its power. It is then, alone in the middle of the field extending as far as his eyes can see, that he realizes the wooden shed, the same one drawn on the stupid map they gave them in the house before leaving, is five hundred meters away. Beside a solitary tree, with a sturdy trunk and branches. César is puffing, tired, and notices his mouth filling with a bitter saliva, more like a Sunday hangover than a Saturday morning in the country. Fucking nature, he grumbles almost out loud. Fucking team-building. As if he hadn’t spent years organizing human resources for the warehouse. As if these instructors would teach him anything he didn’t already know.