Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

And the night had started on a promising note. For Christmas, in an indirect and completely unsubtle way, he’d bought Guillermo some trainers, a gift his son contemplated with the same interest as if it were a knitting machine. However, the day before, at breakfast, in the turnaround that was clearly the distinct feature of adolescence, the boy had asked him when he would be going running and Héctor had hastened to seal the deal, before his son could change his mind. Tuesday evening, around eight.

And so it was. A reticent Guillermo was waiting for him at home, already changed and ready to go out when he arrived after half past eight. Not paying too much attention to the protests about the delay, Héctor put on shorts and running shoes, fearing in advance that the plan to “do things together” wasn’t as good an idea as he’d thought at the time of buying the present. Damn modern pedagogy which turns us all into imbeciles, he thought just before leaving. Guillermo’s bad-tempered face didn’t bode well.

And his foreboding turned out to be accurate. The kid was partly to blame, and so was Héctor. As always. He wasn’t accustomed to having company while he was running, and being constantly obliged to wait for someone put him on edge. On the other hand, Guillermo seemed embarrassed to be doing exercise with his father, who, moreover, was fitter than he. Certainly one doesn’t usually talk much while running, but a tense silence built up between them. Héctor had chosen a short route, a straight line, parallel to the sea. However, his rhythm was faster and, although he limited his pace, he left his son behind every few meters. Finally, when it occurred to him to say, out loud and in a mildly teasing voice, “Guille, son, speed up a bit,” the boy looked at him as if he had just subjected him to the worst humiliation, and with a sullen expression turned around and ran off in the opposite direction, really running then. Héctor hesitated between following him and continuing his route. In the end, knowing it was better to let time pass and tempers calm, he opted for the second.

When he arrived home, his son had already showered and shut himself in his room. He deduced that he’d also eaten, given that he found plates in the sink, unwashed. Adding another reproach seemed excessive and he pretended not to see them. But when he saw the shoes in their box, on the table, in a gesture that to all appearances was a challenge, he knocked on his son’s bedroom door. No answer. He opened it and Guillermo didn’t seem perturbed by his entry: the computer was on, of course, and the headphones connected. Héctor had to make a Herculean effort his therapist would have been proud of to refrain from disconnecting all the electronic equipment to make him pay attention.

Then they had a chat that, in hindsight, it would have been better to avoid. The content and form didn’t matter; the result had been that Guillermo had invited him to leave the room-“Would you mind leaving me alone?”-and he’d responded with a typical caveman father phrase, in the Argentine accent that only emerged when he was angry, and that he had never thought he would say. To top it all, when the clichés were in full flow, each of them playing their role, Carmen had called.

The landlady didn’t seem to realize she was interrupting a father-son encounter. She was excited, nervous even. A state which, Héctor knew, could be due to only one thing: yes, Carmen’s son, Carlos, Charly to everyone, had called her that evening after years of not giving any sign of life. Every stray bullet finds a hole in which to lodge, Héctor reflected. And Charly was a long-range bullet who always ended up causing damage. Nevertheless, a mother is a mother, and although Carmen wasn’t foolish and knew what her son was like, the woman was happy, and Héctor spent some time talking to her. Charly was to arrive on Friday to stay for a while. Obviously he had no job, no money and hadn’t worked out a concrete plan. No doubt the crisis suited the return of thirtysomething prodigal sons.

After Carmen left, restarting the argument with Guillermo seemed absurd, so he ate a little, watched the TV for a while and, finally, he went up to the roof terrace, laptop under his arm. Nothing was as it should be, he thought: not fathers, not sons, not this winter night.

Convinced he wouldn’t sleep, he switched on the computer and launched into the search for information. It was a little ridiculous, given that he could obtain all this the following day from Roger Fort, but he wanted to do something and the name Alemany Cosmetics kept reverberating in his head. He didn’t feel like reading the history of the company just then, although he did watch a corporate video, skillfully done, on the values that defined the company: youth, freedom and inner beauty … “Inner,” an adjective that seemed to be on the increase.

The video included brief interviews with members of the company, and he recognized some from the group photograph among them. Sara, and the other suicide, Gaspar Ródenas, didn’t feature in it. Víctor Alemany did, of course, and his sister Sílvia, one of the women in the photo. With the copy of the photo in his hand and a second viewing of the video, he also identified Brais Arjona, brand manager of the Young line, and Amanda Bonet, a beautiful young woman who, according to the subtitles, was responsible for design and packaging for the same line. Three people remained nameless: three men who appeared in the photo but not in the video and must belong to technical departments. No, one of them was there: Manel Caballero, deputy technical director. He was almost unrecognizable, but yes, it was him: the same slightly longhaired boy who had spoken about “innovation and development” with little ease. Much less, of course, than Brais Arjona, a guy who demonstrated an enviable aplomb. In cinematic jargon, the camera loved him, although not as much as it loved Amanda Bonet. Amanda was certainly one of the most beautiful women Héctor had ever seen, and she spoke slowly, clearly and with no affectation.

He carried out another search. “Gaspar Ródenas.” Not many links appeared, since the press were usually careful about mentioning surnames. He didn’t mind: the following day he’d have the official report. He was going to leave it-it was hardly the time to be reading stories of fathers killing their one-year-old daughters-when an article caught his eye. The title “A Normal Family” suggested a note of irony he liked, although the real surprise was the name of the journalist who signed it: Lola Martínez Rueda. Lola. Fuck, Lola … After all this time.

He smiled, remembering. Her carefree appearance, her contagious laugh, those hands that were never still. Lola … He hadn’t thought of her in years. He’d learned to relegate her to a remote space in his mind, bury her under the weight of the decision made. However, at that moment, in that falsely warm early morning, he saw her face as if it were before him and the memory dissolved his bad mood.

Cities, like dogs, are never fully asleep. At the most, they doze, relax, gather strength to endure the coming and going of cars and pedestrians who await them the following morning. Their streets breathe a little more freely, occupied only by the reduced number of people who move in the early hours. Nocturnal animals of a different fur, strolling on almost empty pavements or roads, always colder, more silent. There are hours in which any noise, however petty, becomes a roar. A car door being closed becomes an explosion, firm steps provoke echoes, voices seem like sirens.

For years Brais Arjona had belonged to that world of shadows. He was used to going out alone and coming home alone, but that didn’t matter to him. What he sought, what he needed, was to fill those hours with anonymous faces and unknown bodies. Unfortunately, even in a city like Barcelona, the night animals always tended to be the same and sometimes, discovering guys he already knew by sight among the fauna, he felt uncomfortable, sickened by this atmosphere of dark corners and solitary individuals. He would pass older men and look away, not to ignore them but so as not to see himself when he was no longer as young, as attractive. As desirable. So, invariably, despite many firm late-night resolutions to cut down on these escapes, to go out only with his friends, to stay at home watching a film, the scent of the night awoke an almost irrepressible urge within him. And, past twelve, when the majority of responsible workers were getting into bed, he would take to the street. Like a wolf. In search of his pack. In search of prey. In search of something to assuage his hunger.