Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

“I was going to take a look at Sara’s room,” he told her without turning his head.

Kristin took a couple of steps, but hesitated before crossing the threshold.

“This is only the second time I’ve gone in without her being there,” she said by way of an excuse. “Sara told me very clearly when I arrived.”

Roger nodded. Sara must have been a fairly imposing woman to have her rules still stand even after her death. He had only seen her passport photo, so he went over to the ones pinned on a corkboard, on the wall beside the computer screen, thinking his sister had had an identical one when she was a teenager. He’d never understood the value of a train ticket, a cinema stub, or any of the small objects his sister kept on that kind of juvenile altar. It seemed it might be a female custom, because Sara Mahler, at the age of thirty-four, did the same.

He was surprised to see a smiling Sara, not alone. On the contrary, the photos showed a somewhat stout girl, radiant, with very black hair; beside her, in different images, almost all the first-team players for Barça, the manager included.

“Oh yeah,” said Kristin. “She was passionate about football. I think that’s why she rented this apartment, because it’s close to Camp Nou. She was a real fan of his,” pointing to the image in which Sara appeared with Pep Guardiola.

“Did she often go to the ground?”

“No. Some matches, but not many.”

He observed Sara’s face closely. It was clear that suicide didn’t form part of her plans, nor was it even a remote thought at that point. Her eyes were shining and her smile lit up her face.

“I’m going to go. I’m taking this photo, all right?”

Kristin shrugged her shoulders, doubtful.

Another photograph caught the agent’s attention, firstly because there were no footballers with her. A group of men and women, dressed informally, were posing in front of a minibus. He took it down and showed it to Kristin.

“No idea,” she said. “Work colleagues, I suppose.”

“Sara didn’t belong to a hiking group or anything like that?”

She burst out laughing, as if the very idea were ridiculous. He looked at the photo again, peering attentively at Sara; she was smiling enthusiastically in this one too, and the expression of happiness gave her an almost childlike appearance. She was wearing knee-length beige shorts that didn’t suit her at all. He took the photo, not asking permission this time.

Roger looked around him. There was little more to see in the room. He opened the wardrobe, with few expectations by now, and found nothing more or less than what it should contain: clothes, carefully hung up or folded. Indeed, Sara had been a more than organized woman: the shelves were arranged by color and the order was of pinpoint accuracy. Beside the computer there were shelves of paperbacks, the majority in German or English. On the bedside table he saw a novel by an author called Melody Thomas, which Sara was halfway through, judging by the bookmark. She would never know how it ends, thought Fort. He left the room somewhat depressed, with the photos of Sara in his hand.

“And what do I do with her things?” asked Kristin, as if the thought had just occurred to her that very instant. “Do I have to put them in boxes?”

The young woman’s face was worried and, not for the first time since Thursday night, Agent Fort, who came from a large, relatively united family, felt overwhelmed by a painful sadness to think that Sara Mahler had no one to collect her belongings apart from this roommate who’d known her for little more than two months and, in any case, would do so out of mere obligation. Neither did he believe that Herr Joseph Mahler would have much interest in his daughter’s things.

Kristin was waiting for an answer, so Fort opted for a compromise.

“I suppose that would be best, if you don’t mind. When you’re done, call me and I’ll come to get your roommate’s boxes.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing.” He didn’t want to show this girl the photo of the dogs: she was already upset. Nevertheless, he should ask. “Did Sara ever talk about dogs? Was she frightened of them or anything?”

She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“Dogs?” She shook her head. “No. Not at all. I don’t know if she liked them or not, but what has that got to do with her suicide?”

She’d said the word for the first time. It was strange, Fort reflected, how hard it was to say certain things. People spoke freely of sex, for example, and yet the subject of death, above all when it was self-inflicted, continued to be a taboo difficult to overcome.

“I don’t know. Probably nothing,” he responded, not giving her any more information.

Seconds afterward Agent Roger Fort headed toward the door, not knowing if he’d taken anything definite from that chat, apart from two photographs and a feeling of melancholy that seemed to weigh on his chest.

“Excuse me,” Kristin said to the agent when he was already on the landing. “I said ugly things about Sara before. They weren’t lies. But then I remembered when I was sick and she called the doctor and took care of me. She made soup and brought it to me in bed.” She lowered her head, as if she were ashamed. “It’s silly. I just wanted you to know. Sara was strange, but she wasn’t a bad person.”

Roger Fort nodded and smiled at her. The door of the lift opened and out came a person that he assumed was Kristin’s Catalan boyfriend. Just as young but much less blond. While descending, Agent Fort studied both photos. And thought the Dutch girl’s last sentence was a good epitaph, although it could be applied to a large part of the world’s population. He put away the photos before leaving. Sara Mahler’s smile, that childlike expression on the face of a woman, had become lodged in some corner of his mind, along with a sense of despondency that suddenly made the Barcelona streets, overflowing with vehicles and passersby, seem a strange and hostile place.

There are pieces of news you are happy to give because you know they’ll be well received; other totally disastrous ones you’re forced to deliver with a serious expression. And then a third, more ambiguous category exists, which generates a feeling somewhere between satisfaction and nostalgia; at least to me, thought Héctor while he was preparing to explain the “opportunity” being presented to Martina Andreu.

Martina was intrigued, no doubt. Since the previous afternoon, Salgado’s words had been going around in her head, like an annoying sting too small to pull out. To top it all, he’d spent the whole morning with Savall once more and he wasn’t free until after lunch.

“Spit it out, Héctor,” she blurted as soon as she sat down opposite him. “You have me on tenterhooks and I won’t put up with it. You know surprises make me nervous.”

He did know. Sometimes Héctor sympathized with the sergeant’s husband, whom he barely knew. Having someone at your side who was always right could be annoying at times.

Salgado took a deep breath.

“You saw I was in a meeting with Savall yesterday?”

“Of course I did. Don’t play hard to get,” she warned him with a smile.

“Wait. Don’t be impatient.” He’d considered the most appropriate words, but at that moment, with her sitting opposite looking at him with her usual frankness, he ditched them completely. “Well, Calderón was here. You know him, from the National’s organized crime unit.”

Martina knew him by sight. They’d worked together on the Nigerian women-trafficking case the year before, although it had been Héctor who’d worked more closely with him.

“I’ll sum it up briefly. Now he’s involved in various things, although he is focusing on one thing in particular. Eastern mafia. Ukrainians, Georgians, Romanians … and Russians.” The emphasis on the last word was clear. “Until now, the Russians have used Spain as a site of investment, not crime.”