by Antonio Hill
“Inspector Salgado? My husband told me you were coming. He should be here any minute.” Héctor understood instantly why Glòria Vergès and Regina Ballester couldn’t move beyond a superficial friendship. “We should wait for him,” she added, with a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Mama! Look!”
A little girl of four or five claimed Glòria’s attention and she didn’t hesitate in giving it to her immediately.
“It’s a castle!” announced the little one, waving a drawing in the air.
“Wow, the castle where the princess lives?” asked her mother.
Seated at a small yellow table, the little girl looked at the drawing and thought about the answer.
“Yes!” she exclaimed at last.
“Why don’t you draw the princess? Walking in the garden.”
Glòria had crouched down beside her and from there she came back toward Salgado and Castro. “Would you like something to drink?”
“If you don’t mind, we would prefer to go up to the attic,” said Salgado.
Glòria hesitated again: it was obvious her husband had given her precise instructions and she didn’t feel comfortable disobeying them. Luckily, at that moment someone entered the lounge. Salgado and Castro turned toward the door.
“Fèlix,” said Glòria, surprised but relieved. “This is my husband’s brother, Father Fèlix Castells.”
“Inspector.” The man, very tall and rather stout, extended his hand to greet them. “Enric just rang me: something has come up unexpectedly and he’ll be a little late. If you need anything in the meantime, I’ve come to be of use to you in any way I can.”
Before Héctor could say anything, Glòria approached them.
“I beg your pardon, would you mind talking somewhere else?” She gave a sidelong glance at the little girl. “Natàlia has had a very bad time recently; she’s had some appalling nightmares.” She exhaled. “I don’t know if it’s best, but I’m trying to bring everything back to normal,” she added, almost as an excuse. “I don’t want to remind her of it again.”
“Of course.” Fèlix looked at her affectionately. “Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”
“I’ll go up with you,” said Héctor. “Would you mind if Agent Castro had a look at Marc’s room?” He lowered his voice on saying the boy’s name, but even so the little girl turned toward them. Evidently she was following the conversation although she seemed absorbed in her drawing. How much of what was going on around them did children understand? It must be very difficult to explain a tragedy like this to a little girl of her age. Maybe her mother’s choice was the best: returning to normal, as if nothing had happened. That is, if that were even possible.
Enric Castells’ unwelcome thing that has come up unexpectedly is at this moment observing him from the other side of the table with a mixture of curiosity and scorn. It’s a tranquil bar, above all in summer, because the soft armchairs and tables of dark wood give off a feeling of heat that the air-conditioning can’t quite dispel. Waiters are dressed in uniforms of an oldfashioned formality, and a pair of old-timers sitting at the bar clearly spend every afternoon there since their health is the topic of conversation. And them, of course, sitting in the back, almost crouching, as if they are hiding from anyone who might come in by chance. On the table there are two cups of coffee with their respective saucers and a little white jug.
Seen from the other side of the glass, their gestures are those of a couple in crisis facing an imminent and unavoidable break-up. Although their words can’t be heard, there is something in the posture of the woman which suggests extreme tension: she spreads her arms and shakes her head, as if the man opposite her is disappointing her once again. He, for the most part, seems immune to anything the woman may say to him: he looks at her with irony, with an ill-concealed indifference. His rigid posture, however, contradicts this indifference. The scene continues thus for a few minutes. She insists, asks, demands, pulls out a piece of paper with something printed on it and throws it on the table; he looks away and answers in monosyllables. Until suddenly something she says makes its mark: it is immediately obvious in his darkened expression, in the fist he makes before clasping both hands, tense, on the table; in his manner of getting up, as if he’s no longer prepared to endure any more. She looks out of the window, pensive, turns to add something but he’s already gone. The piece of paper is still on the table. She picks it up, re-reads it. Then she folds it carefully and puts it back in her bag. She suppresses a bitter smile. And, as if doing so is a great effort, Joana Vidal gets up from her seat and walks slowly toward the door.
The word attic brings to mind sloping roofs, wooden rafters and old rocking chairs, forgotten toys and dusty chests: an intimate space, a refuge. The one in the Castells’ house must be the pasteurized version: spotless, with white walls, in perfect order. Héctor didn’t know how the room had looked when Marc was alive, but now, two weeks after his death, it was a perfect extension of the harmonious atmosphere of the floor below. Nothing old, nothing out of place, nothing personal. An empty table of pale wood, arranged at a right angle to the window to take advantage of the light; a modern, almost officelike chair; shelves full of books and CDs, slightly illuminated by the evening light coming through the window, situated at waist height. A large, impersonal room, nothing standing out. The only thing that evoked real attics was a large box leaning against the wall opposite the table.
Héctor went toward the only window, opened it and leaned out. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the victim’s movements: seated on the windowsill, legs hanging, cigarette in hand. A little drunk, just enough for his reflexes to be less quick than usual, probably thinking about the girl awaiting him in his room, although, it seems, without too much enthusiasm for following her to bed. Maybe he is mustering up the courage to turn her down, or the reverse, taking in air to give her what she wants. It is his moment of peace: a few minutes in which he puts the world in order. And, when he finishes his cigarette, he puts one leg inside, intending to turn around. Then the alcohol has its effect; a momentary but fatal dizziness. He falls backward, his arms moving through space; the foot on the floor slips.
Fèlix Castells had stayed on the threshold, observing him in silence. Not until Héctor had moved away from the window again did he close the door and turn to him.
“You have to understand Glòria, Inspector. All this has been very hard for Enric and the little one.”
Héctor nodded. What had Leire said before? “After all, she’s not his mother.” It was true: Glòria Vergès might mourn her stepson’s death—and no doubt she did—but her priorities were her daughter and her husband. Nobody could reproach her for that.
“How did they get on?”
“As well as could be expected. Marc was at a difficult age and he tended to retreat into himself. He was never a very talkative boy: he spent hours in here, or in his room, or rollerblading. Glòria understood him and in general left Enric to worry about his son. That’s not hard: my brother tends to take charge of almost everything.”
“And Marc and your brother?”
“Well, Enric has a strong personality. Some would describe him as old-fashioned. But he loved his son very much, of course, and worried about him.” He paused as if he had to expand on his answer and didn’t know how. “Family life isn’t easy these days, Inspector. I’m not so reactionary as to be nostalgic for other times, but it’s clear that ruptures and separations provoke . . . a certain imbalance. In all those affected.”
Héctor said nothing and went toward the box. He guessed its contents, but was surprised: Marc’s mobile, his laptop, various chargers, a camera, cables and a torn teddy bear, completely out of place among the other objects. He took it out and showed it to Father Castells.
“Was it Marc’s?”
“I really don’t remember. I suppose so.”
Well-guarded possessions, placed in a box like their owner.
“Do you need anything else?”
Trut
hfully no, thought Héctor. Even so, the question came out without thinking:
“Why was he suspended from school?”
“That was a long time ago. I don’t see what good remembering it now could possibly serve.”
Héctor said nothing: as he hoped, the silence spurred the desire to speak. It made even a man of Fèlix’s age, an expert in blame and absolution, uncomfortable.
“It was a stupid thing. A joke in bad taste. Very bad taste.” He leaned on the table and looked Héctor in the eye. “I don’t know how such a thing occurred to him, if I’m honest. It seemed so . . . out of character for Marc. He was always a rather sensitive boy, not cruel at all.”
If Father Castells wanted to intrigue him, he was doing a good job, thought Héctor.
“There was a boy in Marc’s class. Óscar Vaquero. Fat, not bright, and . . .” he searched for the word, which clearly made him uncomfortable, “. . . a little . . . effeminate.”
He inhaled and continued talking, now without pausing. “It seems Marc recorded him naked in the showers and put the video on the internet. The boy was . . . well, you know, excited, it seems.”
“He was masturbating in the changing room?”
Father Castells nodded.
“Some joke.”
“The only thing that can be said in my nephew’s defense is that he owned up straight away to being the one who did it. He apologized to the other boy and took the video down only a few hours after putting it up. Because of that the centre decided to only suspend him temporarily.”
Héctor was about to answer when Agent Castro knocked at the door and entered without waiting for a response. She was carrying a blue T-shirt in her hand.
“It’s been washed, but it’s the one in the photo. Definitely.”
Father Castells watched them both, ill at ease. Something in his bearing changed and he stood up from the table. He was a big man, four inches taller than Héctor, who at five foot ten wasn’t exactly short, and no doubt thirty kilos heavier.
“Listen, Inspector, Lluís . . . . Savall told us that this was an unofficial visit . . . to reassure Joana more than anything.”
“So it is,” replied Héctor, somewhat surprised at hearing the superintendent’s name. “But we want to be sure to tie up all loose ends.”
“Inspector, look here, at the top of the T-shirt, just below the collar.”
Some reddish stains. They could be many things, but Salgado had seen too many bloodstains not to recognize them. His tone also changed.
“We’ll take it. And,” pointing to the box, “that too.”
The voice from the door surprised them all.
“What are you taking?”
“Enric,” said Fèlix, addressing the recent arrival, “this is Inspector Salgado and Agent Castro . . .”
Enric Castells was in no mood for formal introductions.
“I thought I’d made it clear that we didn’t want to be disturbed any more. You were already here and rummaged through everything you wanted. Now you’re back and expect to take Marc’s things. May I simply ask why?”
“This is the T-shirt Marc was wearing on San Juan. But not the one he had on when he was found. For some reason he changed his clothes. Probably because this one was stained. And if I’m not mistaken they are bloodstains.”
Both Enric and his brother received the news in silence.
“But what does that mean?” asked Fèlix.
“I don’t know. Probably nothing. Perhaps he cut himself by accident and changed his clothes. Or perhaps something happened that night that the kids haven’t told us. Either way, the first thing is to have the T-shirt analysed. And speak to Aleix Rovira and Gina Martí again.”
Enric Castells’ attitude suddenly changed.
“Are you telling me something happened that night that we don’t know about? Something to do with my son’s death?” He spoke steadily, but it was clear the phrase had pained him.
“It’s too early to say. But I think we all want to get to the bottom of this matter.” He said it as delicately as he could.
Enric Castells lowered his eyes. His face clearly indicated that he was thinking about something, deciding what to do. Seconds later he seemed to come to a decision and, not looking at anyone, he said in a clear voice:
“Fèlix, Agent Castro, I’d like to speak to Inspector Salgado. Alone. Please.”
12
Aleix contemplated the food on his plate with a feeling of helplessness, but even so he forced himself to begin. Slowly. He felt like his stomach would expel any food as if it were a foreign body. Dinner at the Rovira home was served at half past eight, winter or summer, and his father required that everyone— namely him—should be seated at the table at that hour. These days, however, his older brother had returned from Nicaragua, so at least his parents had someone to entertain them during dinner. He watched in silence, not really listening to what they were saying, thinking how stunned they’d be if they knew where he’d been, what they’d done to him. The idea amused him so much he had to make an effort to suppress a roar of laughter. Wasn’t that what his father always said? Family is for sharing problems: a motto floating in the atmosphere of this house for as long as he could remember. And at that moment he realized that, despite his longing for rebellion, that phrase had marked him more than he thought. It didn’t matter what might happen behind closed doors: from the outside the Roviras had to be a unit, an army of ranks closed against the world. Maybe he should interrupt his father and say it right there, out loud: “Know what, Papa? I’m not hungry because I was beaten up an hour ago. Yes, well, it’s just that I was carrying a few grams of coke around to sell, you know, and I lost it. Well to be honest, that idiot Marc took it off me and flushed it down the toilet, and now I need a little dough so they don’t beat me again. Nothing excessive, about four thousand euros . . . a little more to make sure they don’t scar my face. But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson: I won’t do it again. Also, it’s certain the person who took it from me will never do it again. Will you help me? After all, as you always say, family comes first.” Imagining his father’s face, the temptation to laugh was so strong that he grabbed the glass of water and drained it in one gulp. His mother rapidly refilled it, with a smile as mechanical as her action. His father was still talking and in a moment of lucidity, surely due to the effect of the cocaine, Aleix realized he wasn’t the only one not paying attention: his mother was mentally somewhere else, he could read it in her expression, and his brother . . . Well, who knew what Edu was thinking? He watched him out of the corner of his eye: he was nodding at what their father was saying, attentive to the words of Dr. Miquel Rovira, reputable gynaecologist, devout Catholic and fierce defender of values like family, life, Christianity and honor. Suddenly, Aleix felt as if he were travelling in an inexorably accelerating train carriage. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. His hand was shaking and he had to clench his fist to stop it. A profound desire to cry came over him, something he hadn’t felt since he was a little boy in his hospital bed: that fear that the door would open to admit the doctor; nurses who treated him with a refined cheerfulness that even he at his young age recognized as false; the treatment as painful as it was inevitable. He’d been lucky that he could count on Edu. He didn’t ask him to be brave, or pretend that what was happening to him wasn’t terrifying: he sat beside him all of the afternoons, many of the nights, and read him stories or told him things, or simply gave him his hand to show he was there, that he could always, always, count on him. He didn’t doubt that his parents had been there in those long months in hospital, but it was Edu he remembered most. It was with him that he’d forged a bond that proved his father’s phrase: family comes first. He raised his hand to his pocket and checked that the USB Gina had given him was still in its place. He exhaled slowly on feeling that it was.
The breath must have been louder than he’d thought because all eyes at the table were fixed on him. Aleix tried to turn his exhale into a cough with even worse res
ults. The parental eyes went from surprise to distaste. And then, only then, he noticed a sour smell that seemed to be coming from him, and seconds later he saw that he’d just vomited up the little he’d eaten.
hey gi, you there?
Yeah
howd it go with the cops?
OK, good, I suppose. they left a while ago.
whatd you tell them?
Nothing, don’t you trust me?
yes, of course.
. . .
. . .
gi, love you a lot really.
:-)
really . . . youre the only girlfriend i have. and i feel bad . . . im bad.
Are you still taking? You’re still taking, right?
im going to bed. kisses
Fuck, aleix, what’s wrong? It’s only nine!
nothing, dinner didnt go down well. shit, its my brother. gotta go, talk tmrw.
Eduard enters his room with a serious expression, closes the door and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Feeling better? Mama was worried.”
“Yes. Just stomach cramp from the heat.”
His brother’s silence is obvious proof of his disbelief. Aleix knows it and for a moment he is tempted to unburden himself.
“You know you can trust me, don’t you?”
No, Aleix screams inside. I can’t.
Edu gets up from the bed and puts a hand on his shoulder. And all of a sudden Aleix is that frightened little boy again, waiting for the doctors in his hospital bed. The tears flow down his cheeks but he can’t do anything to stop them. He’s ashamed to be sobbing like a child but it’s too late. Eduard repeats in a whisper: “You can trust me. I’m your brother.” And his embrace is so warm, so comforting, that Aleix can’t hold back any longer and cries openly, without the least shame.