The Summer of Dead Toys

by Antonio Hill

  The image was so powerful, so disturbing that Héctor minimized the screen automatically. He looked for his packet of cigarettes and lit one, contravening all the rules. He took a deep drag and slowly exhaled. While he calmed down, blessed nicotine, his brain began to put this new piece in a puzzle becoming ever more macabre. And he knew, with the certainty given by years in the job, that until he learned exactly how this Iris had died, he wouldn’t understand what had happened to Marc at the window or Gina in the bathtub. Too many dead, he said to himself again. Too many accidents. Too many young people who’d lost their lives.

  The telephone interrupted his musings and he looked at the screen, somewhere between annoyed and relieved.

  “Joana?” he answered.

  “Is it very late? Sorry . . .”

  “No. I was working.”

  “Fèlix called me.” She paused. “He told me about the girl.”

  “Oh?”

  “Is it true? This girl left a note saying she killed Marc?” There was a note of disbelief and hope in her voice.

  Héctor delayed a few seconds before responding, and spoke with extreme caution.

  “So it seems. Although I wouldn’t be too sure. There are . . . there are still lots of questions.”

  Silence. As if Joana was going through that vague response, as if she was thinking about what to say next.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she said finally.

  He looked at the screen; he thought of his hostile flat, the absence of Ruth, Joana’s mature and beautiful face. Why not? Two loners keeping each other company on a summer night. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that.

  “Me neither,” he replied. “I’m coming over.”

  SATURDAY

  23

  Deep in his mind Héctor knows he’s dreaming, but he dismisses the idea and dives into this landscape of lively colors, this childish drawing supposed to be a wood: green, almost round splotches, blue rays dotted with lovely white bits of cotton, a yellow sun with an unfinished smile. A naïf set designed by Tim Burton and colored with Crayola. However, as soon as he steps on the brown stones forming the path, the whole space changes, as if his human presence transforms the environment all of a sudden. The green splotches become trees with high branches, thick with leaves; the clouds become fine threads and the sun really is warming. He hears the crunch of his steps on the gravel and moves decisively, as if he knows where he’s going. He is surprised on looking and seeing that the birds are still fake: two curved lines joined at the centre suspended in the air. This is the proof he needs to reinforce his belief that it’s all a dream and keep going forward, as if he’s suddenly become the main character in an animated film. It’s then the wind begins to blow: at the beginning it is a dull murmur that grows little by little, until it forms a grayish gale that sweeps these false birds away and shakes the branches from the trees without the least mercy. He can barely keep going; every step is a struggle against this unexpected whirlwind which has darkened the painting: leaves come shooting off the trees and form a green blanket that obscures the light. He must go on, he can’t stop and suddenly he knows why: he has to find Guillermo before this hurricane carries him off forever. Damn it . . . He told him not to wander off, not to go into the forest alone, but as usual his son took no notice. This mixture of worry and irritation gives him strength to keep moving forward in spite of this unexpected whirlwind and a road that is now rising in the form of a steep slope. He surprises himself thinking of how his son must be punished. He has never raised his hand to him, but this time he’s gone too far. He shouts his name, although he knows with this whirlwind of leaves shouting is useless. He ascends with difficulty, on his knees when the intensity of the gale prevents him continuing on foot. For some reason, he knows that he just has to reach the summit of this rocky road and everything will be different. Finally he manages to stand up again and, after a momentary stagger, he manages to get going and keep ascending. The wind has ceased to be an enemy and has become his ally: it pushes him upwards and his feet barely graze the ground. He can make out the end of the road and mentally prepares himself for what might be ahead. He wants to see his son safe and sound, but at the same time he doesn’t want the relief to stifle his irritation completely, as always happens. No, not this time. One last push precipitates him to the other side of the road and he gathers all his strength to remain standing. As soon as he goes past the summit the wind dies down and the scene changes. The sun shines. Yes! He was right. There he is. The figure of Guillermo, standing in a meadow with his back to him, innocently unaware of all his father has gone through to find him. He can’t help a sigh seeing his son is there perfectly well. He rests for a second or two. He realizes, without the least surprise, that the rage that has carried him here is beginning to evaporate: it seems to leave with each breath, melt in the air. And then he tightens his jaw and tenses his shoulders. He closes his fists. He focuses on his anger to revive himself. He walks rapidly and decidedly, crushing the soft tufts of grass, and approaches the boy, who remains immobile, distracted. This time he’s going to teach him a good lesson, whatever the cost. It’s what he must do, what his father would have done in his place. He grabs him by the shoulder and Guillermo turns around. To his surprise, he sees his face is soaked with tears. The boy points silently ahead. And then Héctor sees what his son sees: the swimming pool of blue water, and a little blonde girl floating among dead dolls. “It’s Iris, Papa,” whispers his son. And then, as they slowly approach the edge of that pool dug out of the plain, the dolls turn over, slowly. They look at them with wide eyes and their plastic lips murmur: “Alwaysiris, alwaysiris.”

  He wakes with a start. The image was so real he has to make an effort to erase it from his mind. To return to the present and remember that his son isn’t a little boy any more and never knew Iris. To be sure that dolls don’t speak. He finds it difficult to breathe. It’s still night, he thinks, annoyed, knowing he won’t get back to sleep. Although maybe it’s better, maybe not sleeping isn’t so bad after all. He stays lying on his back, trying to calm down, attempting to make sense of this strange, disturbing dream. Unlike most other nightmares, which fade when one opens one’s eyes, this one persists in clinging to his mind. He relives the rage, the firm decision to give this disobedient boy a slap and is grateful for not having done it, even in a dream, although he knows that if not for the terrible vision of the pool that is exactly what would have happened. Enough. It’s not fair to torment yourself about what you dream. He is sure his psychologist would agree with him on that. It’s then, thinking about the boy and his genius face, that he hears a sound which seems to be music. It’s four in the morning—who puts on music at this time? He pricks up his ears: strictly speaking it’s not music, more a drone, a chorus of voices. Not able to help it, the dolls come back to his mind, but he knows that was a dream. This is real: the voices stammer something he doesn’t quite catch, in spite of its becoming more intense. He would say it is a sentence, a rhythmic plea in a language he doesn’t recognize, and seems to be coming from the walls of his room. Unnerved, he stands up. Another noise has joined the chorus: a sort of whistling, nothing to do with the rest. Putting his bare legs to the floor his glance falls on the half-open suitcase, still abandoned next to the wall. Yes. There’s no doubt: the whistling is coming from there. For an instant he thinks of the lost valise, the broken lock, and his eyes open as wide as saucers when he makes out a whistling shadow emerging slowly from it. It’s a snake, slippery, repugnant, which drags itself over the floor in his direction. The whistle intensifies, the chorus goes up a scale. And he watches, terrified, how this slithery being inexorably approaches, head upright and tongue flickering in the air, while the voices murmur something that finally he can understand. They say his name, again and again: Héctor, Héctor, Héctor, Héctor . . .

  “Héctor!” Joana’s voice ended it. “Are you OK? You scared me.”

  For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t recogn
ize the walls, or the sheets, or the light on at an unfamiliar angle. He only noticed the cold sweat soaking his body.

  “Fuck,” he whispered at last.

  “You’ve had a nightmare.”

  Two, he thought. In style.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered.

  “No problem.” She caressed his forehead. “You’re freezing.” “Sorry.” He rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

  “Eight. Early for a Saturday.”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No.” She smiled at him. “I think I’m out of practice at sleeping beside someone. I’ve been tossing and turning for a while. What the hell were you dreaming?”

  He didn’t feel like talking about it. In fact, he didn’t feel like talking.

  “Do you mind if I grab a shower?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll be good and make coffee.”

  Héctor forced himself to smile.

  They’d made love with a tenderness uncharacteristic of two strangers. Slowly, carried more by a need for contact, the touch of skin, than by an unbridled passion. And now, as they had breakfast together, Héctor realized that the sex had strengthened bonds of something that resembled camaraderie. They weren’t kids, they’d had their share of disappointments and hopes, and they accepted the pleasant moments without projecting hopes or desires on to them. There wasn’t the least sensuality in this breakfast together: the light of day had returned to put them back in their places, without any pressure. He was partly grateful and partly saddened by the thought. Maybe that was the best he could hope for now: pleasant, friendly encounters which had a nice aftertaste. As comforting as this hot coffee.

  “Is the shirt your size?” asked Joana. “Philippe left it here.”

  The comment wasn’t wholly casual, thought Héctor. He smiled.

  “I’ll give it back to you,” he told her, with a meaningful wink. “Now I must go. I have to see Gina Martí’s parents.”

  She nodded.

  “This isn’t over, is it?”

  Héctor looked at her fondly. Would he could tell her it was. Case closed. But the image of Iris in the pool, heightened by the dream, suggested otherwise.

  “There’s something I think you should read.”

  24

  That morning, more than ever, Aleix wanted to turn back time. Gina’s death had been an unexpected calamity, a harder blow than all the others he’d taken in the last few days, and lying in bed, with no energy to get up, he let his mind roll back toward a recent past that seemed almost remote now. Gina alive, insecure, easy to sway, and at the same time affectionate, fragile. All this was Marc’s fault, he thought bitterly, although deep down he knew it wasn’t wholly true. Marc, his most faithful follower, the one who’d even taken the blame for something he didn’t do just because he’d asked him to, had come back changed from Dublin. No longer a boy he could bend to his will. He had his own ideas—ideas that were becoming an obsession, ideas that could get them all into serious trouble. The end justifies the means, that was his motto. And since he’d learned at a good master’s side, he’d devised a plan that bordered on the absurd, and in itself could have unforeseen consequences. Luckily Aleix had managed to thwart it before it went too far, before one thing led to another and the truth came out. Not knowing his true motives, Gina had helped him in it: she’d been reluctant, but in the end she’d given in. Gina . . . They said she’d left a note. He imagined her alone, writing on her computer like a little girl, all full stops, careful grammar and accents, haunted by having betrayed Marc. Worn out by what he’d made her do.

  Explosions that sounded like thunder had kept him company all evening. On the eve of San Juan, Barcelona became an explosive city. Dangerous fireworks lurked on every corner as everyone prepared for the all-night party that marked the luminous beginning of summer: sparklers, bonfires and cava toasting the shortest night of the year. Arriving at Marc’s house, the first thing that struck him was how pretty Gina looked and he felt a stab of jealousy thinking she hadn’t dressed and made herself up like that for him. Anyway, she looked uneasy, uncomfortable in those high heels, that tight black dress. In fact, the outfit clashed with theirs: plain T-shirts with faded jeans and trainers. Gina was playing princess with two scruffy toffs, thought Aleix. Marc was nervous, but that wasn’t unusual: he’d been like that for weeks, trying to fake a decisiveness he didn’t possess. For Iris. Damn Iris.

  He’d arrived calling for beer, trying to give the get-together a party vibe. He’d done a couple of lines before leaving because he sensed he’d need them, and just then he felt euphoric, full of energy, insatiable. Dinner, some pizzas Marc and Gina had seasoned and put in the oven, was ready, and for a while, as they emptied their glasses faster than their plates, it seemed like one of the parties they used to have before. When Marc went down to the kitchen for more beer, Aleix turned up the volume and danced with Gina. Fuck, that night the girl looked good enough to eat. And coke, whatever they say, was a fantastic aphrodisiac. Just ask his friend’s mother, he thought, refraining from feeling her up. As he danced with her, he almost forgot about Marc: that was the good thing about coke: it eliminated problems, made them fade away. Made you concentrate solely on what’s important: Gina’s thighs, her neck. He nibbled it jokingly, like one of those seductive vampires she liked so much would do, but Gina moved away from him a little. Of course, now she was saving herself for Marc. Poor little fool. Hadn’t she seen that her beloved Marc was hung up on another girl? He was about to come out with it, but held back: he needed Gina as an ally that night and wasn’t planning on saying anything that might turn her against him.

  “Have you done what I asked?” he whispered in her ear. “Yes. But I don’t know—”

  He put a finger on her lips.

  “It’s decided, Gi.”

  Gina exhaled.

  “OK.”

  “Listen, this whole thing is mad.” He’d said it a thousand

  times the afternoon before, and having to do so again was driving him crazy. He mustered all his patience, like a modern father with a stubborn child. “Madness that could have enormous consequences, for you and for Marc above all. Can you imagine what people would think if they found out the truth? How were you going to explain what was on that USB stick?”

  She nodded. Actually she was fairly sure Aleix was right. Now they just had to convince Marc.

  “And also, what’s it for? Are we going to get into trouble to help out this girl from Dublin? Fuck, as soon as her hold on him passes even Marc will be grateful to us.” He paused. “He’ll be grateful to you. I’m sure of it.”

  “What will I be grateful for?”

  Aleix noticed then that he’d raised his voice. Well, whatever. They had to tell him, and the sooner, the better.

  The usual sounds of the house in the mornings didn’t change at all on Saturdays. His father had breakfast at half past eight, and his brother had followed this routine since he came home during the summer. Someone knocked at his bedroom door.

  “What?”

  “Aleix.” It was Eduard. He opened the door and stuck his head in. “You should get up. We have to go to the Martís’.”

  He was tempted to cover his head with the sheet, to hide from it all.

  “I’m not going. I can’t.”

  “But Papa—”

  “Fuck, Edu! I’m not going! Get it?”

  His brother stared at him and nodded.

  “Fine. I’ll tell Papa that you’ll go later.”

  Aleix turned over in bed and stared at the wall. Papa, Papa. Fuck, his brother would still be taking his father’s word as gospel when he was forty. Eduard hovered on the threshold for a few seconds, but seeing that the figure was staying still, he closed the door without making a sound and went. Good. He didn’t want to see Edu, or his parents, and definitely not Regina. He preferred to look at that blank wall like a screen where his mind could project other images.

  “What will I thank you for?” repea
ted Marc, this time with a note of suspicion in his voice.

  Gina hung her head. A bang from outside startled all three of them. She let out a scream.

  “I’m sick of the fireworks!” She went toward the table and poured herself another vodka and orange. It was her third that night. Plastic cup in hand, she watched her friends, who face to face looked like two gunmen poised to fire.

  “Marc,” said Aleix at last. “Gina and I have been talking.”

  “What about?”

  “You know.” Aleix fell silent, then walked over to the table to join Gina. He got there and stood at her side. “We’re not going ahead with this.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it, Marc,” Aleix went on. “It’s too risky. You could get into trouble, you could destroy us all. And you’re not even sure if it’s going to work.”

  “It worked before.” It was Marc’s retort, his constant refrain of recent days.

  “Fuck, man, this isn’t school! We’re not talking about playing a prank on a silly teacher here. Don’t you see that?”

  Marc didn’t move. Between him and the others, the open window showed a bit of sky that from time to time lit up with vividly colored fire.

  “No, I don’t see that.”

  Aleix sighed.

  “You say that now. In a few days you’ll thank us.”

  “Oh really? I thought it was you who had something to thank me for. You owe me one! And you know it.”

  “I’m doing you a favor, man. You don’t see it, but that’s how it is.”

  For an instant Marc seemed to hesitate. He lowered his head, as if he’d run out of arguments, as if he were tired of fighting. Gina had remained quiet throughout the whole conversation, and she chose that moment to take a step toward Marc.