The Summer of Dead Toys (21 page)

Héctor couldn’t help shuddering and his eyes went to the black-and-white photo of that little blonde girl. Sitting in an empty office that had become alien to him, in a half-lit station, he forgot about everything and became absorbed in Marc’s tale. In the story of Iris.

I remember the floor was cold. I noticed when I got out of bed barefoot and ran quickly to the door. I’d waited for daybreak because I didn’t dare leave that big deserted room in the night, but I’d already been awake for a while and I couldn’t put it off any longer. I took a few seconds to close the door carefully without making a sound. I had to take advantage of this moment, when everyone was asleep, to achieve my goal. I knew there was no time to waste, so I went quickly; however, before walking the long corridor I stopped and took a deep breath before daring to go forwards. The downstairs blinds let a weak line of light in, but the upstairs corridor was still dark. How I hated that part of the big house! Actually, I hated the whole house. Above all on days like this, when it was almost empty until the next group of kids with whom I’d have to share the next ten days would arrive. Luckily this was the last one: then I could go back to the city, to that familiar room just for me, to new furniture that didn’t creak in the night, and white walls that protected rather than scared me. I exhaled without noticing and had to breathe in once again. It was something Iris had taught me: “Breathe in and breathe it out as you run, so you blow out the fear.” But it didn’t help me much: maybe because my lungs didn’t hold enough air, although I never told her because I was embarrassed. I tried to move ahead clinging to the wooden railing placed along the length of the corridor so no one would fall down and keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead to avoid seeing the stiff, big, ugly bird who, from the little table against the wall, seemed to be watching my steps. By day it wasn’t so horrible, sometimes I managed to forget about it, but in the shadows that owl with glass eyes was terrifying. I must have clung even tighter to the banister because it creaked and I let go immediately: I didn’t want to make a sound. I walked straight ahead, following the pattern of the cold tiles, and I clearly remember the feeling of treading on something rough when I stepped on a broken one. Not much further: Iris’s room was the last one, at the end of the corridor. I had to see her before everyone else got up because if not, they wouldn’t let me. Iris was being punished, and although deep down I thought she deserved it, I didn’t want another day to go by without talking to her. I’d barely had time to the evening before, when one of the monitors found her after she had run away and spent a whole night in the wood. Just thinking about the idea of it, that wood peopled with shadows and immobile owls, gave me goosebumps. But at the same time I was dying with curiosity for Iris to tell me what she’d seen there. Maybe she’d behaved badly, but she was brave and that was something I couldn’t help admiring. Of course it was precisely for that reason she was being punished; her sister and her mother had told me so. So she wouldn’t run away again. Frighten them like that.

At last I got to the door and although I’d always been taught to knock before entering, I told myself it wasn’t necessary: Iris was sleeping and also the main thing was to not make a noise. She was sharing the room with her sister instead of with the other children because they weren’t at camp: they were the cook’s daughters. And that night her sister was sleeping with her mother. I’d heard Uncle Fèlix say so. Iris had to spend two days locked in her room, alone, to learn her lesson. Opening the door I saw that the windows were completely closed: they were strange, different to the ones in my house in Barcelona. They had glass, then a wooden board that didn’t let even a tiny bit of light in. “Iris,” I whispered, feeling my way. “Iris, wake up.” As I couldn’t find the light switch, I moved closer to the bed and felt it blindly, from the foot up. Suddenly my hands brushed against something soft and woolly. I jumped back and in doing so I stumbled into the nightstand, which shook a little. Then I remembered that there was a lamp on that nightstand, which Iris usually had on until the early hours of the morning to read. She read too much, her mother said. She threatened to take away her books if she didn’t finish her dinner. The little lamp was there. I followed the cable up with my hand until I found the switch that lit the light bulb. It wasn’t a very strong light, but enough to see that the room was almost empty: the dolls weren’t on the shelves, or Iris in the bed, of course. Only the teddy bear, the same one Iris had lent me for the first few nights so I wouldn’t be afraid, but I returned to her when one of the kids laughed at me. He was there, on the pillow, disembowelled: his stomach was open as if he’d had an operation and a green stuffing was showing.

I breathed in again and knelt down to check if there was someone underneath the bed: there was only dust. And suddenly I was also annoyed with Iris, like everyone. Why did she do these things? Run away, disobey. That summer her mother was scolding her every minute: for not eating, for answering back, for not studying, for continually pestering her sister Inés. If she’d run away again while she was being punished, Uncle Fèlix was going to be really angry. I remember for a moment I thought of telling him, but I told myself that wouldn’t be good: we were friends, Iris and I, and in spite of her being older than me she never minded playing with me. Then I spotted the window and thought maybe she had gone down to the patio at first light, like I had, while everyone was asleep. It was hard, but I managed to move the metal latch which held the wood in place. It was already day. Before my eyes the wood rose, lines of very tall trees reaching up the slopes of the mountains. By day it didn’t scare me; it was even pretty, with different shades of green. I didn’t see anyone on the patio and I was already closing the window when it occurred to me to look in the direction of the swimming pool. I could only see a little piece, so I leaned a little further out to have a wider view. I remember as if it were right now the happiness I felt on seeing her: that intense, childhood happiness that soars with things as simple as an icecream or a visit to a fairground. Iris was there, in the water. She hadn’t run away, she’d just gone for a swim! I had to stop myself shouting and I limited myself to waving to get her attention, although I realized it was silly since from where she was she couldn’t see me. I’d have to wait until she got to the opposite side of the pool, the part where the water was shallower, where the little kids swam and those not daring to get in at the deep end.

And now, years later, thinking of all this, reliving every detail of that early morning, the same cold astonishment as then overcomes me. Because barely seconds later, I realized that Iris wasn’t moving, that she was still in the water, as if she was playing dead but the reverse. I know suddenly I didn’t care if they heard me and I ran down to the pool, but I didn’t dare go into the water. Even at six years old I knew Iris had drowned. And then I saw the dolls: they were floating, face down, like little dead Irises.

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.”

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 . . .