Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

He woke suddenly, startled, on feeling a rubbing on his flies. The sleep had been so deep that just then he didn’t really know where he was, or whether it was day or night. It took him a few seconds to come back completely to the conscious world, to that white sofa, the TV on. And to Emma, in a bathrobe, smiling at him with the remote.

“Good morning,” she said to him, sarcastically. “You were snoring like a wild animal in the zoo. Poor Mama-you’ll have to buy her earplugs.”

He yawned, unable to help it. He had an uncertain air that seemed to amuse her. César realized then that someone, Emma, had just turned off the television.

“I don’t think you were watching it,” she declared.

Her hair was wet, and when she left the remote on the coffee table César realized that Sílvia’s daughter wasn’t wearing anything under the bathrobe. Curled up on a corner of the sofa, she resembled a white angora cat, docile in appearance only.

“What time is it?” asked César. “Were you here when I arrived?”

“In the shower, I suppose.” She looked at the digital clock beside the TV. “And it’s early. Mama will be a while yet.”

Emma’s tone woke him fully. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Sixteen years old. “Like sixteen suns,” her mother would have said. César leaned his hands on his knees and made as if to stand up, but she extended her bare legs and left her feet on the coffee table, forming a ridiculous barrier, easily passable.

“Emma … Let me past. I’m going to the bathroom.”

She laughed.

“Only a coward would run away.” She looked down. “You should certainly throw out those shoes. They’re shabby. I’m sure Mama doesn’t like them at all. Neither do I.”

César took a few seconds to react. The cheek of the girl left him speechless.

“Fuck, Emma, enough!” The tone of annoyance sounded exaggerated, artificial. She lowered her legs, obedient. But he didn’t move. “Listen. I told you loud and clear a while ago: this isn’t funny.”

It was true. He’d repeated it often enough, especially during the previous summer, during the three weeks they spent together in a rented chalet on the Costa Brava. At first it had been nothing more than casual brushing against each other, always when they were alone, without Sílvia and without Pol. In the car, the aisle of the supermarket; on the beach, while the two were swimming … Or, with absolute nerve, one evening they stayed together in the swimming pool because Sílvia had gone to the hairdresser in town and Pol was out cycling with his friends. Then he wanted to settle the subject for the first time. A firm “no,” like you yell at a puppy who persists in chewing the cables. She had only smiled, like a perverse Gioconda, and whispered to him, almost at his ear: “And what will you do if I keep going? Tell Mama?”

It was what he should have done and he knew it. He simply didn’t dare. Emma was the perfect daughter: good marks, well mannered, responsible, punctual. Sílvia was so proud of her she wouldn’t have believed him. On the other hand, what was he going to say to her? That her adolescent daughter was harassing him? Him, an ordinary guy of forty-six? The mere idea of saying it out loud was ridiculous. And yet, Emma finding him attractive filled him with a stupid pride that often helped him masturbate between Wednesday and Saturday.

“Look, we’ve already talked about this. Find yourself a boyfriend your own age.” He tried to make light of it, play the whole thing down, although the result was that Emma twisted it, annoyed like a little girl.

“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “Do whatever you want, but leave me alone, okay?”

She laughed again.

“If you give me a kiss,” she dared him. “Just one …”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Come on … on the cheek. A kiss from Papa.”

She was beside him, closer. The bathrobe had loosened a little, enough to outline her young breasts. Emma grabbed his hand and tried to guide it to her skin. Smooth, white, smelling of soap. César closed his fist to resist and grabbed her forcefully. They looked at each other, defiant. Her lips half-open, innocently eager. Seconds passed, but in that heartbeat they understood each other. They guessed that someday the inevitable would happen.

But not then: he managed to extricate himself and she gave a cry of pain.

“You twisted my wrist, you brute.”

“I’m going. Tell your mother I had to leave. And, as you’re so brave, you can tell her why.” César spoke without thinking. This time the words worked.

“No! César, don’t go …”

He strode toward the hall, put on his jacket. Emma shouted at him from the sitting room.

“César, come back! Please … I don’t want you to go.”

César saw himself as if he were observing himself from a distance and he was only half pleased. He, who had handled himself easily in brothels and bars, was playing at being offended now, playing the role of the dignified, inflexible man, when in reality he was no more than a pathetic guy incapable of handling a young girl. Only a coward would run away, he repeated. Even so, anger overcame him and he already had his hand on the doorknob when Emma ran toward the hall and said hoarsely, “If you go, I’ll do what that Sara at the company did. I’ll kill myself. With bleach. And I’ll leave a note explaining that it’s your fault.”

César didn’t know if she was serious. He decided to turn around.

“Emma …”

Mistake. He should have left. He knew it although he was incapable of doing it. Her eyes were shining. Perhaps they were tears, of fury or frustration, but they didn’t fall. They remained in that blurry look, contained, threatening.

“Your fault and Mama’s. Both of you. I’ll leave a note that’ll sink you into misery forever.” She became more daring as she watched his face, paler every moment. “And you’ll have to explain the Sara thing as well. The reason she killed herself, if she did kill herself.”

“What are you saying?” His voice was scarcely a whisper.

“I know everything, César. Mama talks to you on the phone thinking I don’t hear her.” She laughed; it was a bitter chuckle, unhealthy, inappropriate for her age. And she repeated: “I always know everything. Don’t forget it.” She paused, took a step forward, lowered her head a little. The possible tears had disappeared, engulfed by the sensation of victory. “Now, are you going to give me that kiss? Just one … A kiss from Papa.”

For a moment he didn’t know whether to kiss her or slap her across the face. And standing there, motionless and sweaty, he understood with fear that neither did he know which of the two options excited him more.

It was an inappropriate night for the month of January. Quiet, peaceful. Deceptively warm. If you were very determined, you could even pick out the odd star that dared let itself be seen through the great veil that covered the city and had already become its only heaven. If we continue contaminating the city, thought Héctor, Christians will have to find another synonym for Paradise, some remote island or something, because no one’s going to want to stay in that sky. Maybe they’d get rid of Purgatory, a place he’d always imagined as a dirty ocher color, to keep the low-rent sinners far away. The authentic ones would still be condemned to Hell. Like suicides.

He’d always found it strange that the Church condemned them irrevocably. There was no justification that might absolve those who killed themselves. There were no good or bad suicides. The same punishment was inflicted on them all, without exception and without taking their previous path into account. Taking one’s own life was the ultimate sin. But if we don’t even have that, what is left to us? Héctor said to himself as he lit his fourth cigarette since he’d gone up to the roof terrace. Smoking and killing himself little by little, he thought. He approached the railing and exhaled a mouthful of smoke to further cloud the night sky; he hadn’t the least doubt that sleep wouldn’t come through natural means.