The Summer of Dead Toys (4 page)

For the first time in days Joana Vidal felt something akin to peace. Even satisfaction, or at least relief. Someone had responded to her call, someone had assured her that they’d continue investigating until they reached a conclusive answer. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Joana, I promise you,” Savall had assured her. And that was all she wanted, the reason she’d stayed in Barcelona, the city she’d fled and to which she’d returned to attend the funeral of a son whom, to all practical purposes, she didn’t know.

Now it was a matter of waiting, she told herself as she wandered around the high-ceilinged flat, which had been her grandmother’s and had been closed for years. Ancient—that is old—furniture, covered with sheets that in their day had been white, gave an overall ghostly air. She’d taken them off in the bedroom and dining room, but she knew that on the other side of the long wide corridor other rooms remained full of immobile, off-white shapes. Her steps led her to the balcony where a half-broken green blind was shielding a row of flowerpots containing only dry soil from the sun. She leaned out, and the midday sun made her half-close her eyes. This balcony was the border between two worlds: on one side Astúries, the heart of the
barrio
of Gràcia, now converted into a pedestrian street where boisterous people dressed in vivid colors—red, green, sky-blue—were walking; on the other, the flat, faded by the years, with walls once an ivory color now appearing grayish. She had only to raise the blind, allow the light to flood the interior, mix the living with the dead. But it wasn’t the time. Not yet. First she had to decide which was the place for her.

The heat made her return inside and head toward the kitchen in search of something to drink. Although she’d never been religious, she felt at peace in her grandmother’s apartment. It was her private church. In fact, at the age of fifty, it was all she could call her own. Her grandmother had left it to her when she died, against everyone else’s wishes, probably because her mind was confused and she’d forgotten in her later years that Joana had committed the ultimate sin: the one which earned her the unanimous condemnation of her whole family. She took the plastic jug from the fridge and poured herself a glass of water. “Maybe they were right,” she thought, sitting on the Formica chair with the glass in both hands; maybe there was something cruel or even unnatural in her. “Not even animals abandon their babies,” her mother had said to her, unable to control herself. “Leave your husband if you want. But the little one?”

The little one. Marc. The last time she’d seen him was sleeping in a cradle and now she was seeing him in a box of oak. And on both occasions all she’d felt was an appalling fear at her own lack of emotion. The baby she’d created and given birth to meant as little to her as the young man with very short hair, ridiculously dressed in a black suit, lying on the other side of the mortuary glass.

“Hey, you came.” She’d recognized the voice at her shoulder instantly, but it took a few seconds for her to dare to turn around.

A tense silence hung in the mortuary, which shortly afterward would unleash a torrent of whispers. She’d come in without anyone paying much attention—another middle-aged woman, dressed discreetly in dark gray—but now she felt everyone’s gaze fixed on her back. Surprise, curiosity, reproach. The sudden leading lady in a funeral that wasn’t hers.

“Enric.” Another male voice, Fèlix’s, which gave her the required strength to face the man before her, one step too close, invading that space one wishes to keep free.

Enric looked at her with surprise, but moved aside as if inviting her to leave. The same expression she’d read on his face the last time she saw him, six months after leaving, when he came to Paris to ask her to return home. There were more wrinkles around those eyes, but the mix of incredulity and disdain was the same. Both times Joana asked herself how he could look so immaculate: well shaved, suit without a wrinkle, the knot in his tie perfect, his shoes shining. An irreproachable appearance that aroused an instinctive aversion in her.

From the corner of her eye she saw the ironic smile on her ex-husband’s lips and he shrugged almost imperceptibly. As if twenty years hadn’t passed. Enric waited a few seconds before speaking, the time required for them to have a little distance between them, and he had to raise his voice slightly.

“The funeral is tomorrow at eleven. If you’re free and feel like coming. No obligation, you know.”
She guessed the look Fèlix was giving his brother, but kept walking toward the door: half a dozen paces that seemed unending to her, surrounded by a rising tide of disdainful whispers. At the threshold she stopped abruptly, turned back toward the room and had the satisfaction of hearing the murmur suddenly cease.

She gave the old fridge a thump to silence the annoying purr, but on this occasion she was less successful. The silence lasted only a moment and then the noise began again, defiant. She went toward her laptop slowly, giving thanks for the wireless connection which allowed her to stay in contact with her world. She sat at the table and opened her mail. Four messages. Two from colleagues at the university where she gave classes in Catalan literature, the third from Philippe, and the fourth from an unknown sender: [email protected]. Just as she opened it, she heard the doorbell, a musical sound from another era.

“Fèlix!” There he was, at the threshold, with one hand leaning on the doorjamb, panting from climbing the steep staircase. Suddenly, she realized she was still in her dressing-gown and was embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”

He stayed quiet, still recovering from the five flights of stairs.
“I’m so sorry, please come in. I’m not used to having visitors,” she excused herself with a fleeting smile. “I’m going to get dressed; sit down wherever you can . . . The flat was closed up, you already know that.”
When she returned he was waiting for her opposite the balcony, facing the street. He’d always been a big man, but the years had added extra kilos to his corpulence, visible around the waist. He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away sweat, and Joana thought he must be the only person still using cotton handkerchiefs.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He turned round, smiling.
“I’d be grateful for a glass of water.”
“Of course.”
He followed her to the kitchen.
“Are you all right here?” he asked her.
She nodded as she took a glass from the cupboard and rinsed it before pouring him water from the jug.
“The flat’s a little abandoned, but it’s comfortable,” she said, and handed him the glass. He drained it in one gulp. He clearly wasn’t fit. Priests mustn’t get much exercise, thought Joana.
“Why have you come, Fèlix?” The question was brusque, and this time she didn’t bother to soften it.
“I wanted to see how you were.” He smiled, unconvincingly. “I worry about people.”
She leaned against the wall. The small white tiles, more like those of a hospital than a kitchen, were cold.
“I’m fine.” And she couldn’t help adding, “You can tell Enric that I plan to stay as long as necessary.”
“I didn’t come on my brother’s behalf. I already told you: I worry about people; I worry about you.”
She knew it was true. Even at the worst times, she’d always been able to count on Fèlix. It was curious that, in spite of his priestly vocation and the collar he no longer wore in the street but that was still in his wardrobe, he’d been the only one who seemed to understand her.
“And there’s something I wanted to ask you. Did Marc get in contact with you? In the last year?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. She breathed in and held her gaze on a corner of the floor before answering. The noise of the fridge started up again.
“He sent me some emails. Oh, stop!” She gave the white wall a powerful thump; this time the noise stopped immediately. “Sorry. It’s driving me crazy.”
He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and Joana feared for a moment the old piece of junk wouldn’t bear his weight.
“I gave him your email,” he explained. “He asked me for it from Ireland. I was very unsure about doing it, but in the end I couldn’t say no. Marc wasn’t a child any longer and he had the right to know certain things.”
She said nothing. She knew Fèlix hadn’t finished.
“A week later he wrote to me again, saying he hadn’t received an answer. Is that true?”
Joana fought back her tears.
“What did you want me to tell him?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “His email came out of nowhere. At the beginning I didn’t how to answer.” She brushed her hand across her face, taking a stray tear with her. “I was thinking it over. I wrote messages without ever sending them. He kept insisting. Finally I answered and we maintained a sort of contact until he suggested coming to Paris in one of his emails.”
“You didn’t get to see him?”
She shook her head.
“You know I’ve always been a coward,” she said, with a hint of a bitter smile. “I suppose I failed him again.”
Fèlix lowered his head.
“Why are you still here? You’re only hurting yourself. You need to reclaim your life. Go back to Paris.”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do.” She didn’t move and for the first time she looked the priest in the eye, without hesitation. “I’m staying here until I know what happened that night. This vague explanation—maybe he fell, maybe he jumped— means nothing. Maybe he was pushed . . .”
“It was an accident, Joana. Don’t torture yourself with this.” She didn’t listen to him: she continued speaking as if she couldn’t stop.
“And I don’t understand how Enric accepts it. Doesn’t he want to know what happened?”
“He already knows. It’s a tragedy, but you have to move on. Wallowing in sorrow is morbid.”
“The truth isn’t morbid, Fèlix! It’s necessary. At least, I need it.”
“For what?” He sensed they were reaching the heart of the matter. He got up and went toward his ex-sister-in-law. Her knees buckled under her and she would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t held her up.
“To know how much I am to blame,” murmured Joana. “And the price I have to pay.”
“This isn’t the way to atone for blame, Joana.”
“Atone for blame?” She raised a hand to her forehead; she was sweating again. “Your jargon doesn’t change, Fèlix. Blame isn’t atoned for; it’s carried!”
The phrase echoed for a few moments of terse silence. Fèlix tried for the last time, although he was conscious that the battle was lost.
“You will hurt many people who are trying to get over this. Enric, his wife, his daughter. Me. I loved Marc a lot too: he was more than a nephew. I watched him grow up.”
Suddenly she straightened up. She took Fèlix’s hand and squeezed it. “Sometimes pain is inevitable, Fèlix.” She flashed a sad smile at him before turning round and walking to the door of the flat. She opened it and stood there, waiting for him to go. As he came nearer, she added, “You have to learn to live with it.” Her tone changed and she pronounced her next words with a cold, formal air, free of emotion. “I spoke to Savall this morning. He’s assigned the case to an inspector. Tell Enric. This isn’t finished, Fèlix.”
He nodded, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving. Out on the landing, before starting his descent, he turned back to her.
“There are things better left unfinished.”
Joana pretended not to hear him and closed the door. Then she remembered she’d left her email open and sat down to read it.

It was half past twelve by the time a taxi left Héctor in front of the Post Office building. That ancient, solid mass protected a network of labyrinthine alleys that had remained immune to the wave of design that was battering nearby
barrios
, like the Born. These were streets where people hung out clothes on the balconies and you could almost steal them from your neighbor opposite; façades that would be difficult to renovate because there was no space for scaffolding; ground floors, previously abandoned, where now Pakistani grocers, ethnic clothes shops and a bar with tiled walls had sprung up. There, on Milans, on the second floor of a narrow, dirty building, Dr. Omar had his “clinic.” When Héctor arrived at the corner, he instinctively searched for his mobile and then remembered he’d left it dead at home that morning. Shit . . . His intention had been to call Andreu and ask her if there were Moors abroad, or if the coast was clear. He smiled at the thought that such phrases had become politically incorrect, and advanced slowly toward the building in question. Contrary to what he’d imagined, the street was empty. But that wasn’t surprising. The visit of the
Mossos
, Catalonia’s police force, had made many of the area’s inhabitants, who had no papers, opt for staying at home. There was indeed an agent at the door, a relatively young guy whom Héctor knew by sight, making sure that only residents could access the building.

“Inspector Salgado.” The agent seemed nervous. “Sergeant Andreu told me you might come.”
Héctor raised an eyebrow and the boy nodded.
“Go on up. And I haven’t seen you. Sergeant’s orders.”
The stairwell smelled of damp, of urban poverty. He met a black woman who didn’t raise her eyes from the floor. On the second-floor landing there were two doors, each of a different wood. The darker was the one he was looking for. It was closed and he had to touch the bell twice before it decided to ring. When he remembered the events of that fateful evening, everything came back to him in the form of flashes: the destroyed body of the little black girl and a dense, bitter rage that could be neither swallowed nor spat out; then his closed fist, pitilessly striking a guy he’d only seen in the interrogation room once. Hazy images he’d have preferred not to remember.

Stationed at the corner, Héctor waits for the fourth cigarette he’s lit in the last half an hour to be consumed. He feels a pain in his chest and the taste of tobacco is starting to make him sick.

He goes up to the second floor. He pushes the office door. At first he doesn’t see him. The room is so dark that instinctively he’s on his guard. He stays still, alert, until a noise indicates that there is someone seated on the other side of the desk. Someone who lights a lamp.
“Come in, Inspector.”
He recognizes the voice. Slow, with an indefinable foreign