Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

“Hard going, isn’t it?” he says, smiling. “I hope they give us a good lunch.”

Gaspar nods, breathing easily, and squints in the dazzling sun. The cloud has moved and is now above the shed, tingeing the depths of the scenery a stormy gray-blue. It’s a beautiful sight: a furious sky about to unleash repressed rage over a simple cabin. On the right, defining that sort of country picture postcard, is the tree. Immense, unshakable. Stormproof. Gaspar Ródenas, who has binoculars he has brought from home hanging around his neck, brings them to his eyes to enjoy the view.

“What a cloud. Have you seen it? Fuck, all of a sudden it’s gone dark. Now it seems to be moving away. I think we should go to the hut and see what’s there before-”

César stops. Gaspar is not listening to him, but has let out an exclamation of extreme surprise. He takes the binoculars away from his eyes and blinks. Then, without saying anything, he puts them to his eyes once again and adjusts the image, as if he is seeing something shocking.

And then, before he can ask him what the matter is, César hears voices to his left and sees that Arjona and his group are moving diagonally toward the hut. Sílvia turns to him and waves, and César, not really knowing why, feeling like a schoolboy, starts running in the same direction. Brais, for his part, sets out on the race, followed closely by Amanda.

César wants to stop. He knows he’ll lose-they are closer and faster-and that his humiliation will be greater for having tried when there was no chance, but he can’t help it. The only thing that could make him more ridiculous would be to trip and fall flat on his face. And suddenly he notices his right foot is tangled in something sticking up from the ground, a treacherous root just there to fuck him over, and his whole body is propelled forward. Having foreseen it, however, helps him to cushion the fall with both hands, which just then affords some small comfort to his ego, more battered than his poor knees.

He stays still on the ground for a few moments, and hears Gaspar’s voice, more upset than normal, saying to him: “César … César, are you all right?”

It takes him a little while to answer. He is ashamed to raise his head from the ground and face Sílvia’s smiling or, even worse, compassionate expression, but when he does he meets neither. In fact, no one is looking at him. The other four, and Gaspar too, appear hypnotized by something in the tree. When he looks toward it he understands why.

Dogs are hanging from its branches. Three, as far as he can see. Ropes have been put around their necks and they move, suspended like ornaments from a profane fir tree.

“Was finding the house difficult? Sometimes at night it can be hard to navigate these towns if you don’t know them well.”

Octavi Pujades received him dressed in a blue tracksuit, which he wore with the same grace as his office suit.

“Well, just a little,” answered César, who had spent twenty long minutes going in circles on a road of detached houses all alike until he found the one he was looking for. He felt obliged to add, “Octavi, I’m sorry to turn up here like this.”

“Don’t be silly. You haven’t shown up without warning, and anyway, I’m happy you’re here. I feel very disconnected from everything these days.”

César nodded.

“How is she?” he asked, still standing in the hallway.

Octavi Pujades shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know what to tell you. In June the doctor gave her no more than six months to live and here we are almost halfway through January and still the same. I suppose it could happen any time … But go through, sit down.”

The sitting room was a big, comfortable space, with no obvious luxuries but well furnished with colonial-style pieces. César was grateful the fire was lit, as the temperature had started to drop. There, although they were only a few kilometers from Barcelona, it was much colder.

“Would you like something to drink? I’d offer you a whisky, but then you have to drive.”

César thought of the bends in the road and shook his head.

“I have alcohol-free beer for visitors,” suggested Octavi, smiling. “Sit down, I’ll bring you one.”

César watched him go toward the kitchen and thought it would be better for death to take his wife before he was consumed by the job of taking care of her. He found him older, bags under his eyes. Octavi Pujades wasn’t yet sixty, but the last half-year had aged him ten years, César told himself. If he compared him to the man who had participated in that damned team-building weekend, which had taken place in March of the previous year, the whole of him seemed to have shrunk. He was thinner and the weight loss was noticeable above all in his face: his cheeks sharp as corners and his eyes sunken, black as stubbed-out cigarette butts.

“Here, do you want a glass?”

“No need. Thanks.”

“Cheers.”

They drank and contemplated the fire for a few seconds. Octavi put the beer on a wooden side-table and took out a cigarette.

“You don’t smoke anymore, do you?”

César was going to shake his head; but he changed his mind. He’d given up smoking when it became serious with Sílvia, who profoundly detested the smell of tobacco. At that time he believed that whatever happened with his relationship, giving up wouldn’t do him any harm. “I only smoke the odd time,” he said, also taking a cigarette.

“All this stuff about health and tobacco is nonsense,” affirmed Octavi. “Eugènia has never tried a cigarette in her life. Anyway, you have to die of something.”

The last sentence wasn’t especially reassuring, and César, who’d just taken his first drag in almost eleven months, had a sudden attack of nausea. How could he have liked something that tasted so bad? And yet at the same time the flavor was like meeting up with an old friend, one you’ve known so long you’d forgive them anything. The second drag felt better. He took another gulp of beer before resolving to speak.

“You know why I’ve come. Sílvia is very anxious. Well, I suppose we all are …” The cigarette felt strange in his hand and he left it in the ashtray. A fine column of smoke rose between them.

“No wonder. The Sara thing was a terrible blow. Killing yourself in such a … bloody way.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, although it’s not just that.” César chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to be alarmist. “When the Gaspar thing happened … Well, I thought it would all end there. But now there are two: two deaths in little over four months, two people who were there that weekend. And then there’s the photos.”

Octavi continued smoking slowly. The brightness of the fire was reflected on his tired expression when he spoke.

“Did you really think Gaspar would be the end of it?”

César took a breath and looked away.

“He came to see me, did you know that?” Octavi commented. “At the end of August, when he had only a couple of days of vacation left.”

“And what did he want?”

“I thought he wanted to talk about work, of course. He was going to replace me officially until … until this whole thing with Eugènia is over. And we all know that my early retirement is coming, so in a couple of years Gaspar would have been the financial director of Alemany Cosmetics. That weighed on him a little …”

“And I suppose having to deal with Martí Clavé weighed on him too,” César suggested.

The other man shrugged.

“Clearly Martí expected to be chosen. He’s older, he’s been with the company longer … He was my natural replacement.”

Neither of them made any further comment. Octavi leaned toward the ashtray to put out his cigarette and César noticed his hand was shaking a little.