Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

As if she perceived the poor impression the apartment was giving, Carol turned on all the lights and somehow managed to enliven that cold space. Standing in the middle of the sitting room, Leire was perfectly capable of imagining Ruth and her son sitting on the brown leather sofa that leaned against a brick wall. She examined the size of the place, the brown beams furrowing the ceilings. A couple of large abstract paintings were a contrast to the somber sofa, and an immense rug-one of Ruth’s designs-brightened the wooden floor, which was crying out for a good polish. There were books piled in the corners, but the overall effect didn’t create a feeling of chaos, rather a cozy disorder that emanates from places where people live calmly, relaxed, carelessly happy.

“The studio is at the end of the corridor. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait here for you.”

Leire understood. She was sure Ruth and Carol had shared more time in this work area, bedroom and bathroom included, than in the sitting room. From the little she knew of her, she guessed that Ruth valued her privacy; she couldn’t imagine her cavorting with her lover, whichever sex, on the sitting-room sofa, beside her son’s bedroom.

The studio was what you would expect of an illustrator. Two desks, one supplied with a computer and another, bigger one, resembling the one Leire had used in art classes at school; resting on it were stacks of files, all labeled. Ruth Valldaura was an organized person, no exaggeration. Sensible, thought Leire, not tolerating mess or excessive tidiness. She glanced at the pieces of work on the table, for the most part illustrations for a book of haiku.

The same elegance she displayed in the few photos Leire had seen of her came through in those drawings in simple but expressive strokes. Ruth spoke through her drawings: each one that lay before Leire told a brief story.

“Excuse me.” Carol’s voice came from the other end. “Are you going to be much longer?”

The question was the well-mannered translation of “Can we go, please?” and Leire decided to pretend she hadn’t heard her for a few minutes. Then she realized that if she wanted to really look at all of it she’d need more time than she had just then. That’s the worst of investigating off your own back, she told herself. She moved toward the big files on the ground, not really knowing what she was looking for or what they could contribute. Probably nothing … And yet part of Ruth’s nature had to be reflected in her work, no doubt about that. Leire began moving the files and looking at the labels. Ruth’s more commercial work didn’t interest her; she was relying on finding something else, a more personal, more private trove … the designs an artist would do for herself, not to order.

Carol was insistent, and this time Leire answered her with a vague “Just a second, I’m almost done.” She was starting to get flustered and considered the possibility of asking for the keys so she could come back another day, when a small file, the kind used to keep receipts, appeared inside a much bigger one. It had no label, so she opened it and took a quick look inside. Leire had never had many scruples: she checked that it would fit in the enormous bag she was carrying, put it in and went back to Carol. She was so ready to go she didn’t even pay attention.

They turned off the lights and went out to the landing. The door closed with a resigned whine, the assumed sadness of one who knew their best days were behind them.

Carol insisted on seeing her home and Leire barely protested, though what she was carrying in her bag made her feel like an ungrateful thief. They spoke little during the journey-there wasn’t much to say-and when they arrived it was obvious the driver wanted to be gone as soon as possible.

“By the way,” Carol said before wishing her good-bye, “I don’t know what was going on with your phone when I arrived, but murderous desires won’t make you feel better.”

Taken aback, Leire took a few seconds to react. She had completely forgotten Tomás’s text.

“Well,” she said, looking at her belly, “it wouldn’t be good to leave this baby fatherless so soon.”

Carol smiled and said nothing. From the pavement, Leire watched her leave and then headed toward her building. She went up in the lift, alone, thinking that for once it would be nice if someone were waiting for her at home. Perhaps the conversation with Carol was to blame: the love of others always provokes envy. And if there was one thing she didn’t doubt, it was that this woman had lived a true love story with Ruth. Requited or not, it didn’t matter. Carol had loved Ruth, and so had Héctor. To be honest, she wasn’t sure anyone had ever loved her that way, and an enormous desire to know the object of these passions overcame her: to ask her what was her secret, her potion, her spell that managed to bewitch men and women so. And then she became firmly convinced, with no proof to support it, that the people who possess this charm unknowingly live in danger, because there’s always someone who loves them from afar, or loves them too much. Or simply can’t bear loving them that way.

Sitting on the sofa, Leire opened the file with the intimate feeling of committing a reprehensible act, all the more so because she certainly wouldn’t gain anything useful from it other than satisfying her ever-growing curiosity about Ruth. Although maybe everyone would be equally interesting if their lives were examined under a microscope: details enrich even the most anodyne of existences.

Inside the file were drawings, receipts, exhibition catalogs, magazine clippings on various subjects, old photographs, piled up with no order or coordination. Leire looked through them all with the patience of a collector. Although those who knew her would confirm she was a woman of action, if there was one facet of her work that characterized Agent Castro it was her obsession with not leaving a single fact, a single link, without close examination. So, tired but not sleepy-by the end of the day her feet were so swollen she barely recognized them-she slowly sorted the photos from the drawings, the receipts from the scraps of paper with a phone number or address scribbled on them. A little later she had several distinct piles, and to eliminate them she began flicking through the pile of receipts and catalogs, which, as expected, contributed little information. That Ruth liked art and photography and design exhibitions she knew already. She moved on to the photos, because there were only a few. Computers have taken the place of photo albums, she said to herself, thinking of the ones her mother had at home. And instantly she remembered her mother had called her that afternoon, and made a mental note to get in touch with her first thing in the morning. If she didn’t, the scolding might be epic.

There were some strange photos, she supposed taken by Ruth herself. A shadow on the floor, a drain, a cloudy sky. Of course there were a few of her with Carol, very few; and some even older, of Ruth and Guillermo and Ruth and Héctor. Leire paused a moment to observe her boss, younger but with the same sad-dog expression. Even when he was smiling. Beside him, Ruth was splendid, in one photo in particular; he looked at her from the corner of his eye, as if incredulous that this woman was at his side through anything other than luck. On the other hand, she was looking at the camera with the intensity of someone who is happy. There were one or two other photos of that same day, which had to have been five years before, because Guillermo didn’t look more than eight or nine. A serious kid, resembling his father in his expression and his mother in his appearance.

Leire went through the family photos and noticed that, leaving those aside, only one much older picture remained. Two little girls in gymnastic leotards; the outfits and combed hair made them appear almost identical, yet looking closely Leire recognized one of them as Ruth, with a friend or classmate beside her. Luckily, the date was written on the back: Barcelona, 1984. Ruth would have been thirteen then.