The Summer of Dead Toys

by Antonio Hill

  Excited, with adrenalin pumping through her body, Martina Andreu knew that she didn’t yet have all the answers, but she did have many questions to put to Rosa and Damián Fernández. And she didn’t plan to wait until the next day to start asking them.

  Héctor listened, somewhat astonished and overwhelmed, to the tale that a sergeant seemingly possessed by an inexhaustible energy was telling him at four in the morning.

  “We have them, Héctor! Maybe it would have been more difficult if we hadn’t caught them in bed together in his house. Fernández was a tough nut to crack, but she went to pieces straight away. She told us everything, although obviously she denies knowing anything about the murder. And when we put Rosa’s confession before him, he couldn’t keep putting on an innocent face.”

  “Robbery was the motive?” After thinking about curses and dark rites, the explanation almost disappointed him.

  “Well, a relatively meaty robbery for two wretches like Fernández and Rosa. We found more than a hundred thousand euros in the lawyer’s house, which no doubt were stolen from Omar’s office.”

  “How the hell did he get my house keys?”

  “He didn’t open his mouth, but Rosa told us when we leaned on her a little. He boasted to her, saying he’d passed himself off as an air-conditioning salesman. Poor Carmen showed him the house, had a nice long chat with him, and he took advantage of a moment of distraction to take those keys. He arranged a second visit for the following day and returned the originals.”

  She lowered her voice.

  “He was spying on you the whole time, Héctor. He took advantage of your movements to go into your house and leave those discs.”

  “He did that too?”

  Andreu frowned.

  “It’s strange. He recorded you beating Omar with the camera in his clinic and they were thinking of presenting it as evidence against you, so it occurred to him to use it to back up the other one, the one showing the doctor’s death. With regard to your ex . . . I don’t know what to think. Fernández says he found it among Omar’s recordings.” Andreu paused. “He added something about the doctor having been preparing something in the days before his death, one of his rituals.”

  “Against me?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, Héctor. He’s dead. Forget all this. Just think that we have enough proof to charge them both. And to exonerate you . . .”

  There was a brief silence, charged with complicity, with gratitude. With friendship.

  “I don’t know how to thank you. Really.” It was true.

  She raised her hand to her brow. The long night was catching up with her.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. It’s late . . . or early,” she added, with a smile. “What are you going to do? Go home?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to go back tomorrow. But for tonight I’d prefer to sleep in my office, believe me. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  That night Héctor didn’t sleep at all: he stayed awake, asking questions and setting out interrogations. It also helped, he knew deep down, to drive the memory of Leire Castro’s laugh out of his mind.

  SUNDAY

  37

  The airport was a seething mass of tourists pushing trolleys and suitcases on wheels. Some turned their heads for a last glimpse of that sun that had accompanied them, bronzed and hot on the beach and in front of the Pedrera; a star which, once they arrived at their northern destinations, would have disappeared or at best would appear timidly from behind a mass of clouds. Others moved toward the exits with excitement etched on their faces, although they stopped just after going through them and leaving behind the air-conditioned new terminal, with floors like black mirrors, to receive the first shock of heat.

  Leire had picked Héctor up at his house, at his request. She had been surprised to receive his call, since they’d arranged that she would go to the airport alone to search for Inés. Having gone to his house first thing—just as long as was necessary to shower and change his clothes—he seemed to be in an excellent mood. The shadows under his eyes were still there, no doubt about that, but the spirit had changed. She hadn’t slept much herself, and the bout of nausea that morning had been the worst yet. Worse than an awful Sunday hangover.

  The flight was only slightly delayed, and it took even less time to recognize the girl from the photo, although the blackand-white had definitely flattered her. The young woman moving toward the door, not very tall, with curly hair and somewhat plumper than could be seen in the photograph, had little of the enigmatic about her. Héctor got there first.

  “Inés Alonso?”

  “Yes.” She looked at the inspector apprehensively. “Is something wrong?”

  He smiled at her.

  “I’m Inspector Salgado and this is Agent Castro. We’ve come to collect you and take you to Joana Vidal’s house. Marc’s mother.”

  “But—”

  “Relax. We just want to talk to you.”

  She lowered her head and nodded slowly, then followed them to the car without saying another word. She said nothing during the journey, although she answered a couple of trivial questions politely. She sat on the back seat, pensive. She was carrying only a type of rigid backpack and kept it firmly at her side.

  She remained silent as they ascended the steep stairs leading to the flat where Joana lived. Héctor realized, with a pang of remorse, that he hadn’t heard from her since the day before, when they had breakfast together. However, as soon as Joana received them, he noticed that something had changed in her in the last few hours. Her footsteps and her voice revealed a composure he’d only briefly glimpsed before.

  She showed them to the dining room. The windows were open and the light streamed in.

  “I had to inform the police of your arrival,” said Joana, turning to this stranger, who had sat down, like the others, but with her back straight, as if she were about to undergo an oral exam.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” she murmured.

  “Inés,” Héctor interjected, “you met Marc in Dublin, didn’t you?”

  She smiled for the first time.

  “I would never have recognized him. But he saw my name on the student residence’s list. And one day he approached me to ask if I was the same Inés Alonso.”

  Héctor nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “He introduced himself and we went for a drink.” She spoke tenderly, simply. “I think he fell in love with me. But . . . of course, though we avoided it at the start, in the end we had to talk about Iris. Always Iris . . .”

  “What happened that summer, Inés? I know you were only a little girl and I understand it must be painful to think about her . . .”

  “No. Not any more.” She was flushed, tears shone in her eyes. “I’ve spent years trying to forget that summer, that day. But not any more. Marc was right about that, although he didn’t know part of the truth. In fact, I didn’t know it either until a little while ago, until last Christmas, when my mother moved flat and we packed up everything from the old house. There, in one of the boxes, I found Iris’s teddy bear. It was torn, the stuffing was coming out of a rip, but when I picked it up I noticed something inside.”

  She interrupted her story, opened her backpack and took out a folder.

  “Here,” she said, turning to the inspector. “Or would you prefer me to read it aloud? My sister Iris wrote it that summer. I’ve read it hundreds of times since I found it. The first few times I couldn’t finish but I can now. It’s a little long . . .”

  And, with a voice that wanted to be firm, Inés took out some pages and began to read.

  My name is Iris and I’m twelve. I won’t reach thirteen because before the summer is over I’ll be dead.

  I know what death is, or at least I think I do. You go to sleep and don’t wake up. You stay like that, asleep but not dreaming, I suppose. Papa was sick for months when I was little. He was really strong, he could cut down big trees with the axe. I liked watching him, but he wouldn’t let me bec
ause a splinter might come out and hurt me. While he was sick, before he went to sleep forever, his arms shrank, like something was eating him from inside. In the end he was only bones, ribs, shoulders, elbows, and a bit of skin, then he fell asleep. He wasn’t strong enough to stay awake. I’m not very strong now either. Mama says it’s because I don’t eat, and she’s right, but she thinks I want to be thin, like girls in magazines, and she’s wrong. I don’t want to be thin to be more beautiful. Before I did, but now it seems silly. I want to be thin to die like Papa. And I’m not hungry either, because not eating is easy. At least it was, before Mama focused on watching me during meals. Now it’s much harder. I have to pretend that I’m eating everything on my plate so she doesn’t get annoying, but there are tricks. Sometimes I have it in my mouth for a long time and then I spit it into a napkin. Or recently I’ve learned that the best thing is to eat it all and then vomit. You’re clean after vomiting, all that dirty food is gone and you feel calm.

  Inés stopped for a moment and Héctor was tempted to tell her not to continue, but before he could do so, the young woman took a deep breath and resumed her reading.

  I live in a town in the Pyrenees, with my mother and my little sister. Inés is eight. Sometimes I talk to her about Papa and she says she remembers, but I think she’s lying. I was eight when he died and she was only four. I think she only remembers him thin, like Jesus Christ, she says. She doesn’t remember strong Papa who cut down trees and laughed and swung you round like you were a rag doll that weighed nothing at all. Then Mama laughed more. Later, when Papa fell asleep forever, she started praying a lot. Every day. I liked praying, and then Mama insisted on us making our First Communion, Inés and I, at the same time. It was nice: the catechist told us stories from the Bible and it wasn’t hard for me to learn the prayers. But the hosts made me sick. They stuck to the roof of my mouth and I couldn’t swallow them. Or chew them because it was a sin. Inés liked them though, she said they reminded her of the layer on the top of turrón. I have the photo of the communion. Inés and I were dressed in white, with ribbons in our hair. Hardly any of the girls in school did it but I liked it. And Mama was happy that day. She only cried a little in the church but I think it was because she was happy, not sad.

  I already said I live in a small town so every day we have to catch a bus to go to school. We have to get up very early and it’s very cold. Sometimes it snows so much the bus can’t come to get us and we stay at home. But now it’s summer and it’s hot. In summer we move because Mama is in charge of cooking in a house for camps. I liked it a lot because the summer house is much bigger and it has a pool and is full of children. They come in groups of twenty on a bus from Barcelona. And they stay for two weeks. It’s annoying, because sometimes you make friends and you know that in a few days they will leave. Some come back the next year and others don’t. There is a boy who stays all summer, like us. Mama told me it’s because he has no mother and his father works a lot, so he spends half the summer at camp. With his uncle, who is in charge of everything. And the monitors who help him. I have to help Mama too, but not much, just a bit in the kitchen. Then I am free to swim or take part in the games. Before I did but now I don’t feel like it. And Mama keeps telling me it’s because I don’t eat. But she doesn’t know anything. She lives in the kitchen and doesn’t know anything about what happens outside. She only thinks about food. Sometimes I hate her.

  It’s the third summer we’ve spent here and I know there won’t be a fourth. I’ve seen him looking at Inés out of the corner of his eye without anyone noticing. Only me. I have to do something. He looks at her when she is swimming in the pool and says things like: “You look a lot like your sister.” And it must be true because everyone says so. Sometimes we both stand in front of the mirror and look at ourselves, and we come to the conclusion that we don’t look so alike. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t want her to be his new doll. Or at least I don’t want to be here to see it.

  Joana got up and went toward the girl to sit by her side. She thanked her with a brief smile, but continued reading.

  It started two summers ago, at the end of July, when there was only one group of kids left to arrive. We always have a few days alone between groups. Alone means Mama, Inés and I, and the priest and a monitor. For those days Inés and I have the whole pool to ourselves. It’s like we’re rich and live in a house like the ones on American programs. But Inés doesn’t like the water very much, so that day I was swimming on my own. I liked swimming and I was good at it. Front crawl, backstroke, breaststroke . . . all the strokes except butterfly, which I couldn’t do. Because of that, he offered to teach me. He came to the side of the pool and showed me how to move my arms and legs. He is quite good-looking and is very patient. He hardly ever gets angry, even when the kids are bad and don’t listen to him. We were there for a while, me swimming and him at the side of the pool, until I got tired. Then he helped me out of the water even though he didn’t need to. It was late and there was no sun, so he said it was better that he dry me straight away so I didn’t catch cold. He stood behind me, wrapped me in a towel and began to dry me with pleasure. He was tickling me and I was laughing. He laughed at the beginning too. Then he didn’t: he was drying me more slowly and breathing loudly, like when someone is asleep. I didn’t dare move even though I was completely dry, but I started to feel strange. I was still wrapped in the towel and he was caressing me through the fabric. Then he put his hand underneath. And then I did try to get away but I couldn’t. He didn’t say anything: just shhh, shhh, even though I wasn’t talking. Then he said: I won’t hurt you. I was surprised because it hadn’t occurred to me that he could. His finger was going up my leg, the inside of my thigh, higher and higher like a spider. He stopped where my thigh ended and breathed in. It was a few seconds: his finger went to the edge of my swimsuit. I squirmed. And then he breathed deeply and let me go.

  “God!” exclaimed Joana, but Héctor’s look silenced her. Leire remained quiet, watching this young woman sinking into a horrifying, brutally poignant story.

  I didn’t tell Mama. Or anyone. I felt like I’d done something very bad but I didn’t know what. And he didn’t say anything else. Except: go and get dressed, it’s late, in a half-angry voice. As if I’d distracted him. As if suddenly he didn’t want to see me any more. The next day he didn’t come to the pool. I saw him pass by from the water and I called him: I wanted to show him that I’d been practicing and I was doing it better. He looked at me, very serious, and left without saying anything. I didn’t want to swim any more and I got out of the pool. It was earlier than the day before and it was hot. I lay down on the towel, letting the sun dry me. I think I was hoping he would appear but he didn’t. He must be angry with me. I said to myself that if he dried me again I wouldn’t be so silly. But the next day the next group of kids arrived and the other monitors, and he didn’t have time for swimming classes any more. I kept practicing every evening, when the pool was empty, because the kids were doing other activities, and I told him one day that I was getting better at it. He smiled at me and said: I’ll come and see you, I want to check your progress.

  And he came: the last day, after the kids had left. And he clapped. I was proud: Mama didn’t care if I swam well or not, she knows nothing about sports, so I was very happy. When I got out of the water I stayed still, hoping he would dry me. But he only gave me the towel. From a distance. And then he said I deserved a prize for having made such an effort in the pool. What prize? I asked him. He smiled. You’ll see. It will be a surprise. Tomorrow go to the cave in the wood after lunch and I’ll give it to you, OK? But don’t tell Inés, or she’ll want one too. It was true. Inés always complains on my birthday when I get presents. She complains so much that my mother and grandparents always end up buying her something even though it’s not her party, it’s mine. So I didn’t tell her, and the next day I managed to go without her seeing me. I didn’t tell Mama either because if I did I’d get stuck with Inés.

  “You don
’t have to do this,” murmured Joana, but Inés’s glance was determined.

  “I know. But I want to do it. I owe it to her.”

  That was two summers ago. Now I hardly ever go down to swim. I don’t want to. I just want to sleep. Really sleep, without dreaming. I’ve asked everyone how to avoid dreams and no one has been able to explain how. No one knows anything really important. Anything really useful. Mama only knows how to cook and watch me. She watches me every time we sit down to eat. I can’t bear her. I don’t want her food. Every time I vomit after eating I feel happy. Maybe this way she’ll learn to leave me alone.

  The cave is twenty minutes from the house. You have to walk a good bit uphill, through the wood, but I know the way perfectly. Every group of kids hikes there, so that summer alone I’d been there four times. Sometimes a monitor goes ahead and hides in there to frighten the little ones or things like that. So that day, at siesta time, I went there as we’d planned. When I arrived I couldn’t see anyone. Caves don’t frighten me, but I didn’t want to go in alone either and I sat waiting on a rock, in the shade. I like the wood: the light slips in between the branches and makes designs on the ground. And there’s a silence that isn’t complete silence, as if it has music. There was a slight breeze which was pleasant after the steep climb. I looked at my watch, although I wasn’t sure what time I had to come. But he wasn’t long. He arrived about ten minutes later. He was carrying a rucksack on his back and I said to myself that my present must be inside. He seemed nervous and he was looking behind him the whole time. He was sweating, and I guessed he must have run there. He let himself fall down beside me and almost smiled. I asked him: Did you bring my present? And then he really smiled. He opened the rucksack and took out a bag. I hope you like it. It wasn’t wrapped so I looked inside the bag. Take it out! he said. It was a pink bikini with little strawberries. I loved it. Then he said: Put it on. Let’s see if it’s your size. I must have hesitated because he insisted: Come on, I want to see how you look in it. Change in the cave if you are embarrassed. His voice was hoarse. Then I didn’t know if that voice came out when he wanted to play or when he was angry. Slower, slurring words. And when he has that voice he always looks away, like he’s not talking to you. As if he’s embarrassed.