The Summer of Dead Toys

by Antonio Hill

Gina kept staring at the screen for a few more seconds, asking herself why Aleix only spoke like that when he was doing it through a keyboard. Was it just him, or did it apply to all guys? Of course people didn’t go around saying how much they loved each other—it was embarrassing. That was something only her mother did, not realizing that repeating the phrase made it lose its value. It wasn’t possible to love a daughter who didn’t stand out in any way. People had to be loved for something. Marc, for example: he was tender, affectionate and he really smiled, with his whole face, and he explained maths problems, which for her were indecipherable hieroglyphs, with infinite patience. Or Aleix, who was handsome, clever, brilliant. Even when he was stoned. But her? She had no special gift, good or bad. She wasn’t pretty or ugly, tall or short; thin, yes, but not with the sensual slimness of a model, just thin: flat with no curves. For the second time that day she opened the photos she had uploaded to Facebook on San Juan. They were from the beginning of the night. From when they were still friends. From before the fight. But something strange was already in the air. In the afternoon, she and Aleix had agreed definitively not to go ahead with Marc’s plan. Now she couldn’t even remember the arguments Aleix had used to convince her, but at the time they had seemed reasonable. And she’d believed, naïvely, that this same reasoning would work to persuade Marc as well. But nothing had gone right. Marc had been furious. Really furious. As if they were betraying him. Gina closed her eyes. What had that nosy police officer said? “He’d met another girl, hadn’t he? In Dublin, maybe?” Gina hadn’t known what jealousy was until Marc returned. It was an emotion unfamiliar to her and nothing had prepared her for its force. It poisoned everything. It made you wicked, twisted. It made you say things that never would have occurred to you, do things that had never crossed your mind. She’d never thought of herself as a passionate girl: that was for films, novels, songs . . . women capable of stabbing their boyfriends because they cheated on them. Ridiculous. Almost laughable. And in this case she didn’t even have the consolation of being the betrayed girlfriend: not in the strict sense of the word. It wasn’t his fault. Gina had spent months making believe they were boyfriend and girlfriend and telling herself over and over that some day, soon, he’d realize affection had turned into something more. How could she have been so stupid? So she’d had no choice but to swallow her jealousy, pretend it didn’t exist, force a smile disguising hatred as admiration. She’s pretty, isn’t she? Of course she was. Pretty, and blonde, and languid. A fucking Renaissance madonna. But the worst thing about this photo—the one Marc had shown her the day after he arrived, just after she confessed that she’d missed him very much, to which he responded, “Yeah, Gi, me too,” not looking at her, not making the phrase any more meaningful while he searched the file for said photo—wasn’t that the girl in question was pretty. The worst, most painful thing was seeing Marc’s eyes as he looked at it. Like he wanted to learn her by heart, like he felt the softness of her hair by touching the paper, like he discovered something new and marvellous in that face every time he looked at it.

  Lucky she’d taken that photo. Surprisingly, it was the first thing she’d done after seeing Marc broken on the patio floor. So no meddler would find it, like that cop who was pretending to be nice and to whom it would confirm what she was already guessing. That Gina wasn’t good enough for Marc. That there was another girl. That on San Juan she’d asked her mother to help her choose a dress and put on make-up for the first time in years. Why not? This Iris might be beautiful, but she was just a photo. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t there. In a way, she wasn’t even alive. But Gina was.

  She took the photo from her drawer and leaned it against the keyboard. She’d have liked to burn it, but she had nothing with which to do so in her room, so she settled for cutting it with scissors: first through the middle at nose height, and then she continued cutting it into pieces until it was reduced to one of those jigsaws with hundreds and hundreds of pieces, each so diminutive that they are unrecognizable in themselves.

  13

  If a man’s study is a reflection of his personality, Enric Castells was a sober and organized individual like few others. His study could have been the set of a legal thriller starring Michael Douglas, thought Héctor, as he sat on the stiff yet comfortable black leather chair and waited for his host to decide to tell him why exactly he’d wanted to speak to him. Castells took his time: he lowered the blind carefully, pulled back the chair on the other side of the glass-topped, aluminium desk, and after sitting down he moved a shiny black antique telephone at one end slightly, barely millimetres. Héctor wondered if it was a calculated choreography to unnerve or exasperate his interlocutor, but Castells’ face showed intense concentration, a worry difficult to feign. He must have been an attractive man before the years and responsibilities left him with that bitter sneer on his thin, slightly turned-down lips, and an expression of perpetual dissatisfaction which spoiled his appearance. His eyes were small and a faded, tired blue, tending to gray. Suddenly, Enric Castells exhaled slowly and leaned back. For a moment, his wrinkles relaxed and showed the face of someone younger and more insecure: definitely more like young Marc.

  “This afternoon I spoke to my ex-wife.” The irritated expression had once again taken over his appearance. “It upsets me to say it, but I think she’s mad. On the other hand, it was to be expected.”

  “Oh?” Héctor stuck to his technique of saying as little as possible. Apart from which he didn’t really know what to say to something like that.

  “Inspector Salgado,” continued Castells in a dry tone, “I know things seem to have changed a lot in recent times, but there are actions that simply go against human nature. Abandoning a son before he has even begun to walk is one of them. And nobody will convince me that actions such as these won’t have a price to pay, sooner or later. Above all when tragedies like the one we’ve just gone through happen.”

  Héctor was surprised by the rancour exuding from these words, both from what was said and from how it was said. He asked himself if this grudge had always been there or if it had resurfaced now, after the death of the son the couple had in common. Castells seemed to find comfort in giving free rein to a hatred he hadn’t fully overcome.

  “What I mean by that is that I’m not going to allow the suspicions of a neurotic to hurt my family. To inflict more damage than it has already suffered.”

  “I understand, Señor Castells. And I promise you we will respect your grief as much as possible. But at the same time,” Héctor looked the man opposite in the eyes, gravely, “we have to do our job. In good conscience.”

  Castells held his gaze. He was evaluating him. At that moment Héctor felt annoyed: his patience was running out. However, before he could say anything else, Castells asked:

  “Do you have children, Inspector?”

  “One boy.”

  “Then it will be easier for you to understand me.” No, it

  isn’t, thought Héctor. “I raised mine the best way I knew. But in life one has to accept failures.”

  “Marc was a failure?”

  “Not him; me as a father. I let myself be persuaded by modern theories, assumed the absence of his mother was a difficult obstacle to overcome, something that justified his apathy . . . his mediocrity.”

  Héctor felt almost offended in a way he didn’t fully understand.

  “You’re looking at me as if I’m a monster, Inspector. But believe me when I say I loved my son, as much as you love yours. I have nothing to reproach him for, only myself. I should have been able to prevent something like this happening. Yes, I know you think accidents happen by chance, and I’m not denying it. But I won’t fall into the trap of everyone absolving themselves of their responsibilities: young people drink, young people do stupid things, adolescence means tolerating your son doing whatever he wants and waiting for the cure, as if he has the flu. No, Inspector: our generation made many mistakes and now we have to bear the consequences. For ourselves and our children.”
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br />   Salgado saw the sorrow then. A real sorrow, as genuine as that of a devastated mother in tears. Enric Castells wasn’t crying, but that didn’t mean he suffered any less.

  “What do you think happened, Señor Castells?” he asked quietly.

  He took his time answering. As if extracting the words was an effort.

  “He could have fallen. I don’t deny it. But sometimes in accidents there is an element of carelessness, indifference.”

  Héctor nodded.

  “I don’t think Marc had the audacity or motive to commit suicide, if that’s what you’re thinking. And, although she doesn’t say it, what Joana seems to fear. However, I think he was irresponsible enough, rash enough to do something stupid. Just to have done it. To impress that little girl or feel more of a man. Or simply because it was all the same to him. Almost twenty and they’re still playing like children, as if there are no limits. Nothing matters, it’s all good, think about yourself: this is the message we’ve passed on to them. Or that we’ve let them absorb.”

  “I understand what you mean, but it seems Marc returned more adult from Dublin . . . or didn’t he?”

  Castells nodded.

  “I thought so too. He seemed to have matured. To have a clear goal in life. Or at least so he said. I learned that, with him, I had to wait to see actions, not words.”

  “He’d lie?”

  “Not the way most would, but yes. For example, the school expulsion, that story of the video posted on the internet.”

  “Yes?”

  “At the beginning I thought it was both aspects: the boy masturbating in a public place and the boy who records it and shares it with the whole world. Disgusting from start to finish.”

  Although he saw qualitative differences between the two acts, Salgado said nothing and waited: Castells hadn’t finished.

  “However, once it was over, and the matter seemed forgotten, one day Marc came to see me here, in my study. He sat down on that very chair where you are now and asked me how I could have believed him capable of a thing like that.” “He’d confessed to it.”

  “So I told him.” He smiled bitterly. “But he insisted, almost with tears in his eyes. Do you really think I did it? he asked. And I didn’t know how to respond. When he left, I thought it over. And the worst thing is I didn’t come to any conclusion. Look, Inspector: I’ve not misled you with respect to Marc. He was lazy, apathetic, spoiled. But at the same time, because of all that, I sometimes think he was incapable of doing something so cruel. He might have mocked that boy, or rather, allowed him to be mocked, but I don’t think he’d ever have humiliated someone in cold blood. That wasn’t typical of him.”

  “Do you mean he took the blame for someone else?”

  “Something like that. Don’t ask me why. I tried to talk to him but he refused to listen. And you know something? While we were burying him, I cursed myself again and again for not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that no, in reality I didn’t believe he could have committed such a dishonorable act.”

  A silence descended which Héctor maintained. He couldn’t agree with this man, but a part of him understood him. For Enric Castells there was someone responsible for everything, and he’d taken on himself the role of guilty party for his son’s death. For that reason he was rejecting any kind of investigation: to him it was pointless.

  “You know something, Inspector?” continued Castells, in an even lower voice. “When we got the call first thing in the morning on San Juan, I knew something terrible had happened. I think it’s what every father fears: the call in the middle of the night that splits your life in two. And in one way or another I’d been expecting this to happen, praying that it wouldn’t.” Héctor could barely hear him by then, but suddenly his interlocutor returned to his normal tone. “Now I must decide what to do with this new half of my life. I have a wonderful wife and a daughter I must care for and protect. So it is time to reconsider many things.”

  “Are you going into politics?” asked Salgado, remembering what Savall had said to him.

  “Possibly. I don’t like this world we’re living in, Inspector. People may consider certain values outdated, but what is definite is we haven’t managed to replace them with others. Perhaps they’re not so bad after all. Are you religious?”

  “I’m afraid not. Although you know what they say: “ ‘In the trenches there are no atheists.’ ”

  “It’s a good saying. Very descriptive. Atheists think we never doubt, that faith is like a helmet that prevents us seeing further. They’re deluded. But it’s at moments like these that believing acquires its true meaning, the feeling that there is a plank to cling to so as to keep swimming instead of giving up and being carried by the current. That would be easier. But I don’t expect you to understand.”

  His last phrase held a note of contempt which Héctor decided to overlook. He hadn’t the least intention of arguing about religion with a resolute believer who had just lost his son. Enric Castells waited for a moment, and seeing that the inspector wasn’t saying anything moved on.

  “Can you tell me why you wish to take Marc’s belongings? Is there something that might be useful?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, Señor Castells.” He elaborated a little about the bloodstained T-shirt and his hunch that something had occurred between the boys that night. He didn’t want to place too much importance on it, but at the same time he knew the victim’s father had a right to be informed. “With regard to the laptop, mobile and other things . . . I don’t think we’ll get anything useful out of them but it will help us complete the investigation. They are diaries nowadays: emails, messages, calls. I doubt they’ll clarify what happened but it’s worth giving them a look.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get much information from his laptop. It looked broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “Yes. I suppose it might have been dropped. I didn’t notice until four or five days afterward.”

  Somehow, Enric Castells suddenly felt uncomfortable, so he rose from his chair, signalling that the interview was over. Already at the door, however, he came back to the inspector.

  “Take my son’s things if you want. I doubt they’ll give you any answers, but take them.”

  “We’ll return them to you as soon as possible. I give you my word.”

  Castells’ expression was slightly indignant.

  “They’re just things, Inspector,” he said coldly. “In any case, I ask that if you need anything else you contact me at my office. Glòria is very worried about the little one. Natàlia is small, but she notices everything: she’s been asking for her brother and it’s very hard to explain what has happened in a way she can understand.”

  Héctor made a gesture of assent and followed him to the corridor. Castells was moving forward, shoulders upright and back ramrod straight. Any trace of weakness had evaporated on crossing the threshold. He was back to being the man of the house: firm, balanced, self-assured. A role, Héctor was certain, that had to be exhausting.

  Meanwhile, Leire had remained seated in the lounge, watching how Natàlia finished drawing after drawing before her mother’s tireless admiration. Father Castells had left shortly after Enric and the inspector had shut themselves in his study, and once she’d confiscated the bloodstained T-shirt, she’d sat down on a chair, waiting for them to emerge. For a moment she imagined herself like this, stuck at home on a summer afternoon, contemplating the artistic progress of a little boy or girl, and the idea horrified her. For the umpteenth time since the night before she did the fateful test, she tried to imagine herself with a baby in her arms, but her brain didn’t succeed in forming the image. No. People like her didn’t have children. That—and financial independence—was the basis of her life, of how she conceived it. How she liked it. And now her whole future was tottering because of one careless slip-up. At least, she told herself with a certain satisfaction, the guy had been worth it . . . Unfortunately, he wasn’t one of the hot-chocolate boys and he valued his f
reedom as much as she did. Relative freedom, she thought, since he was a slave to a job that took him all over the continent.

  “Look.” The little girl had come over to her and was showing her latest drawing, an indecipherable smudge, to Leire. “It’s you,” she explained.

  “Ah. Is it for me?”

  Then Natàlia hesitated and her mother spoke for her. “Of course. You are giving it to her, aren’t you?” Leire put out her hand, but the little girl hadn’t decided to

  give up the drawing.

  “No,” she said at last. “A different one.” And she ran to the

  table in search of another of her works of art. “This one.” “Thank you. And what is it?” asked Leire, although in this

  one it was more obvious.

  “A window. Bad dodo.”

  Glòria Vergès went to her daughter. She looked deeply

  worried.

  “She’s taken to calling upstairs that now,” she whispered, turning to the agent. “I suppose she feels it’s bad because he’s

  not there.”

  “Bad,” repeated Natàlia. “Bad dodo.”

  “OK, sweetheart.” Her mother crouched down and stroked

  her straight, shiny hair. “Why don’t you fetch your doll? I’m

  sure that . . .”

  “Leire.”

  “. . . Leire would love to see her.” She threw Agent Castro an

  apologetic smile and the little girl hastened to obey. “I’m sorry,” said the agent. “I suppose it’s very complicated

  for her. For everyone.”

  “It’s horrible. And the worst is you don’t really know how

  to explain it. Enric is in favor of telling her the truth, but I

  can’t . . .”

  “Was she very attached to her brother?”

  Glòria hesitated.

  “I would like to say yes, but I’m afraid the age gap was too

  wide. Marc basically ignored her, and I suppose that’s normal.

  But lately, since he came back from Dublin, he seemed to have