by Antonio Hill
“Wait, don’t go. Yes? Fuck! Tell her I’ll call her back. Then tell her again!”
“Problems?” asked Héctor when his boss had hung up.
“What would life be without them?” Savall fell silent for a few seconds. This usually happened when an idea suddenly seized him and he needed time to translate it into words. “Listen,” he said very slowly. “I think there’s something you can do for me. Unofficially.”
“Do you want me to beat someone up? Fine with me.”
“What?” Savall was still absorbed in his deliberations, which exploded like bubbles in an instant. “Sit down.” He inhaled, nodding and smiling with satisfaction, as if he were convincing himself of his brilliant idea. “The person who called was Joana Vidal.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you were away when it all happened. It was the night of San Juan.” Savall opened one or two files on the desk until he found what he was looking for. “Marc Castells Vidal, nineteen. He was celebrating the festival in his house, just him and two friends. At some point during the night, the boy fell through the window in his room. He died instantly.”
“A Superman complex after a couple of lines?”
“There were no drugs in his blood. Alcohol yes, but not in great quantities. It seems he had the habit of smoking a cigarette sitting on the windowsill. Maybe he lost his balance and fell, maybe he jumped . . . He was a strange boy.”
“Everyone’s strange at nineteen.”
“But they don’t fall from windows,” replied Savall. “The thing is that Marc Castells was the son of Enric Castells. That name ring a bell?”
Héctor meditated for a few seconds before answering. “Vaguely . . . Business? Politics?”
“Both. He used to run his own company with over a hundred employees. Then he invested in the property market, and he was one of the few who knew to get out before the bubble burst. And recently his name has cropped up repeatedly as the possible number two of a party. There’s quite a lot of movement in the lists for the next local elections and they say new faces are needed. At the moment nothing’s confirmed, but it’s clear that a couple of right-wing parties would like to have him in their ranks.”
“Successful businessmen always sell.”
“Even more at times of crisis. Well, the case is that the boy fell, or jumped from the window. Full stop. We have nothing else.”
“But?”
“His mother won’t accept it. It was she who called just now.” Savall looked at Héctor with the friendly attitude he did so well from time to time. “She’s Castells’ ex-wife . . . Bit of a murky story. Joana abandoned her husband and son when the boy was one or two years old. She only saw him again at the funeral.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yes. I knew her. Joana, I mean. Before she left. We were friends.”
“Oh yeah. The Barcelona old guard. Polo companions? I always forget how much you stand by each other.”
Savall made a disparaging gesture with his hand.
“Same everywhere. Look, like I said, officially we have nothing. I can’t put anyone on it to investigate, and I’m not so flush with inspectors that I can keep them busy with something that definitely won’t go anywhere. But . . .”
“But I’m free.”
“Exactly. Just take a look at the case: speak to the parents, the kids who were at the party. Give her a definitive answer.” Savall lowered his head. “You have a son too. Joana is only asking that someone dedicate more time to the boy’s death. Please.”
Héctor didn’t know if his boss was asking a favor of him, or if he’d guessed what he intended to do and was preventing it before it happened.
Savall passed him the file with a pained smile.
“We’ll sit down with Andreu tomorrow. She opened the case with the new girl.”
“We have a new girl?”
“Yeah, I put her with Andreu. A little bit green, but on paper she’s very clever. First in all the tests, a meteoric rise. You know how the young push.”
Héctor took the file and got up.
“I’m delighted to have you back with us.” Here was the solemn moment. Savall had numerous registers. At these times, his face reminded Héctor of Robert Duvall’s. Paternal, hard, condescending, a little bit slick. “I want you to keep me posted on how it goes with that shrink.” All that was missing was a “Behave yourself,” an “I hope I don’t regret this.”
They shook hands.
“And remember.” Savall squeezed his subordinate’s hand lightly. “The Castells case is unofficial.”
Héctor let go, but the echo of the phrase stuck in his mind, like one of those bluebottles that insist on bumping their heads against the glass.
2
For the first time in days Joana Vidal felt something akin to peace. Even satisfaction, or at least relief. Someone had responded to her call, someone had assured her that they’d continue investigating until they reached a conclusive answer. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Joana, I promise you,” Savall had assured her. And that was all she wanted, the reason she’d stayed in Barcelona, the city she’d fled and to which she’d returned to attend the funeral of a son whom, to all practical purposes, she didn’t know.
Now it was a matter of waiting, she told herself as she wandered around the high-ceilinged flat, which had been her grandmother’s and had been closed for years. Ancient—that is old—furniture, covered with sheets that in their day had been white, gave an overall ghostly air. She’d taken them off in the bedroom and dining room, but she knew that on the other side of the long wide corridor other rooms remained full of immobile, off-white shapes. Her steps led her to the balcony where a half-broken green blind was shielding a row of flowerpots containing only dry soil from the sun. She leaned out, and the midday sun made her half-close her eyes. This balcony was the border between two worlds: on one side Astúries, the heart of the barrio of Gràcia, now converted into a pedestrian street where boisterous people dressed in vivid colors—red, green, sky-blue—were walking; on the other, the flat, faded by the years, with walls once an ivory color now appearing grayish. She had only to raise the blind, allow the light to flood the interior, mix the living with the dead. But it wasn’t the time. Not yet. First she had to decide which was the place for her.
The heat made her return inside and head toward the kitchen in search of something to drink. Although she’d never been religious, she felt at peace in her grandmother’s apartment. It was her private church. In fact, at the age of fifty, it was all she could call her own. Her grandmother had left it to her when she died, against everyone else’s wishes, probably because her mind was confused and she’d forgotten in her later years that Joana had committed the ultimate sin: the one which earned her the unanimous condemnation of her whole family. She took the plastic jug from the fridge and poured herself a glass of water. “Maybe they were right,” she thought, sitting on the Formica chair with the glass in both hands; maybe there was something cruel or even unnatural in her. “Not even animals abandon their babies,” her mother had said to her, unable to control herself. “Leave your husband if you want. But the little one?”
The little one. Marc. The last time she’d seen him was sleeping in a cradle and now she was seeing him in a box of oak. And on both occasions all she’d felt was an appalling fear at her own lack of emotion. The baby she’d created and given birth to meant as little to her as the young man with very short hair, ridiculously dressed in a black suit, lying on the other side of the mortuary glass.
“Hey, you came.” She’d recognized the voice at her shoulder instantly, but it took a few seconds for her to dare to turn around.
“Fèlix told me,” she replied, almost as an excuse.
A tense silence hung in the mortuary, which shortly afterward would unleash a torrent of whispers. She’d come in without anyone paying much attention—another middle-aged woman, dressed discreetly in dark gray—but now she felt everyon
e’s gaze fixed on her back. Surprise, curiosity, reproach. The sudden leading lady in a funeral that wasn’t hers.
“Enric.” Another male voice, Fèlix’s, which gave her the required strength to face the man before her, one step too close, invading that space one wishes to keep free.
“I wanted to see him,” she said simply. “I’m going.”
Enric looked at her with surprise, but moved aside as if inviting her to leave. The same expression she’d read on his face the last time she saw him, six months after leaving, when he came to Paris to ask her to return home. There were more wrinkles around those eyes, but the mix of incredulity and disdain was the same. Both times Joana asked herself how he could look so immaculate: well shaved, suit without a wrinkle, the knot in his tie perfect, his shoes shining. An irreproachable appearance that aroused an instinctive aversion in her.
“Come on, Joana,” Fèlix intervened. “I’ll walk you out.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the ironic smile on her ex-husband’s lips and he shrugged almost imperceptibly. As if twenty years hadn’t passed. Enric waited a few seconds before speaking, the time required for them to have a little distance between them, and he had to raise his voice slightly.
“The funeral is tomorrow at eleven. If you’re free and feel like coming. No obligation, you know.”
She guessed the look Fèlix was giving his brother, but kept walking toward the door: half a dozen paces that seemed unending to her, surrounded by a rising tide of disdainful whispers. At the threshold she stopped abruptly, turned back toward the room and had the satisfaction of hearing the murmur suddenly cease.
She gave the old fridge a thump to silence the annoying purr, but on this occasion she was less successful. The silence lasted only a moment and then the noise began again, defiant. She went toward her laptop slowly, giving thanks for the wireless connection which allowed her to stay in contact with her world. She sat at the table and opened her mail. Four messages. Two from colleagues at the university where she gave classes in Catalan literature, the third from Philippe, and the fourth from an unknown sender: [email protected]. Just as she opened it, she heard the doorbell, a musical sound from another era.
“Fèlix!” There he was, at the threshold, with one hand leaning on the doorjamb, panting from climbing the steep staircase. Suddenly, she realized she was still in her dressing-gown and was embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”
He stayed quiet, still recovering from the five flights of stairs.
“I’m so sorry, please come in. I’m not used to having visitors,” she excused herself with a fleeting smile. “I’m going to get dressed; sit down wherever you can . . . The flat was closed up, you already know that.”
When she returned he was waiting for her opposite the balcony, facing the street. He’d always been a big man, but the years had added extra kilos to his corpulence, visible around the waist. He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away sweat, and Joana thought he must be the only person still using cotton handkerchiefs.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He turned round, smiling.
“I’d be grateful for a glass of water.”
“Of course.”
He followed her to the kitchen.
“Are you all right here?” he asked her.
She nodded as she took a glass from the cupboard and rinsed it before pouring him water from the jug.
“The flat’s a little abandoned, but it’s comfortable,” she said, and handed him the glass. He drained it in one gulp. He clearly wasn’t fit. Priests mustn’t get much exercise, thought Joana.
“Why have you come, Fèlix?” The question was brusque, and this time she didn’t bother to soften it.
“I wanted to see how you were.” He smiled, unconvincingly. “I worry about people.”
She leaned against the wall. The small white tiles, more like those of a hospital than a kitchen, were cold.
“I’m fine.” And she couldn’t help adding, “You can tell Enric that I plan to stay as long as necessary.”
“I didn’t come on my brother’s behalf. I already told you: I worry about people; I worry about you.”
She knew it was true. Even at the worst times, she’d always been able to count on Fèlix. It was curious that, in spite of his priestly vocation and the collar he no longer wore in the street but that was still in his wardrobe, he’d been the only one who seemed to understand her.
“And there’s something I wanted to ask you. Did Marc get in contact with you? In the last year?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. She breathed in and held her gaze on a corner of the floor before answering. The noise of the fridge started up again.
“He sent me some emails. Oh, stop!” She gave the white wall a powerful thump; this time the noise stopped immediately. “Sorry. It’s driving me crazy.”
He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and Joana feared for a moment the old piece of junk wouldn’t bear his weight.
“I gave him your email,” he explained. “He asked me for it from Ireland. I was very unsure about doing it, but in the end I couldn’t say no. Marc wasn’t a child any longer and he had the right to know certain things.”
She said nothing. She knew Fèlix hadn’t finished.
“A week later he wrote to me again, saying he hadn’t received an answer. Is that true?”
Joana fought back her tears.
“What did you want me to tell him?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “His email came out of nowhere. At the beginning I didn’t how to answer.” She brushed her hand across her face, taking a stray tear with her. “I was thinking it over. I wrote messages without ever sending them. He kept insisting. Finally I answered and we maintained a sort of contact until he suggested coming to Paris in one of his emails.”
“You didn’t get to see him?”
She shook her head.
“You know I’ve always been a coward,” she said, with a hint of a bitter smile. “I suppose I failed him again.”
Fèlix lowered his head.
“Why are you still here? You’re only hurting yourself. You need to reclaim your life. Go back to Paris.”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do.” She didn’t move and for the first time she looked the priest in the eye, without hesitation. “I’m staying here until I know what happened that night. This vague explanation—maybe he fell, maybe he jumped— means nothing. Maybe he was pushed . . .”
“It was an accident, Joana. Don’t torture yourself with this.” She didn’t listen to him: she continued speaking as if she couldn’t stop.
“And I don’t understand how Enric accepts it. Doesn’t he want to know what happened?”
“He already knows. It’s a tragedy, but you have to move on. Wallowing in sorrow is morbid.”
“The truth isn’t morbid, Fèlix! It’s necessary. At least, I need it.”
“For what?” He sensed they were reaching the heart of the matter. He got up and went toward his ex-sister-in-law. Her knees buckled under her and she would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t held her up.
“To know how much I am to blame,” murmured Joana. “And the price I have to pay.”
“This isn’t the way to atone for blame, Joana.”
“Atone for blame?” She raised a hand to her forehead; she was sweating again. “Your jargon doesn’t change, Fèlix. Blame isn’t atoned for; it’s carried!”
The phrase echoed for a few moments of terse silence. Fèlix tried for the last time, although he was conscious that the battle was lost.
“You will hurt many people who are trying to get over this. Enric, his wife, his daughter. Me. I loved Marc a lot too: he was more than a nephew. I watched him grow up.”
Suddenly she straightened up. She took Fèlix’s hand and squeezed it. “Sometimes pain is inevitable, Fèlix.” She flashed a sad smile at him before turning round and walking to the door of the flat. She opened it and stood there, waiting for him to go. As he came
nearer, she added, “You have to learn to live with it.” Her tone changed and she pronounced her next words with a cold, formal air, free of emotion. “I spoke to Savall this morning. He’s assigned the case to an inspector. Tell Enric. This isn’t finished, Fèlix.”
He nodded, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving. Out on the landing, before starting his descent, he turned back to her.
“There are things better left unfinished.”
Joana pretended not to hear him and closed the door. Then she remembered she’d left her email open and sat down to read it.
3
It was half past twelve by the time a taxi left Héctor in front of the Post Office building. That ancient, solid mass protected a network of labyrinthine alleys that had remained immune to the wave of design that was battering nearby barrios, like the Born. These were streets where people hung out clothes on the balconies and you could almost steal them from your neighbor opposite; façades that would be difficult to renovate because there was no space for scaffolding; ground floors, previously abandoned, where now Pakistani grocers, ethnic clothes shops and a bar with tiled walls had sprung up. There, on Milans, on the second floor of a narrow, dirty building, Dr. Omar had his “clinic.” When Héctor arrived at the corner, he instinctively searched for his mobile and then remembered he’d left it dead at home that morning. Shit . . . His intention had been to call Andreu and ask her if there were Moors abroad, or if the coast was clear. He smiled at the thought that such phrases had become politically incorrect, and advanced slowly toward the building in question. Contrary to what he’d imagined, the street was empty. But that wasn’t surprising. The visit of the Mossos, Catalonia’s police force, had made many of the area’s inhabitants, who had no papers, opt for staying at home. There was indeed an agent at the door, a relatively young guy whom Héctor knew by sight, making sure that only residents could access the building.
“Inspector Salgado.” The agent seemed nervous. “Sergeant Andreu told me you might come.”