Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

“You’re going to L’Illa, Mama, ten minutes away,” grumbled Gina. “By car. Not running in the country.” If any doubt remained that the countryside didn’t feature in her mother’s plans, a look at her attire was all that was required: a white dress cinched at the waist with a belt of the same fabric; white sandals with a heel high enough to elevate her five-foot-five stature to a respectable five foot seven; hair, naturally blonde, shining, brushing her shoulders. Against a background of palm trees she would have been the perfect image for a shampoo ad.

Regina Ballester ignored the sarcasm. It had already been a while since she’d become hardened to the biting comments of this daughter, who, in pyjamas at half one in the afternoon, looked more like a little girl than ever. She went over and gave her a kiss on the head.

“You can’t go on like this, sweetheart. I’m not leaving with an easy mind. .”

“Mama!” She didn’t want to start another fight: these days her mother barely left her alone and she had to talk to Aleix. Urgently. So, overcoming how that intense fragrance bothered her, she let herself be hugged, and even smiled. To think that there’d been a time when she sought those arms spontaneously; now she felt they were smothering her. Her mother had even put perfume on her breasts! She smiled, with more malice than inclination. “Are you going to the swimwear shop?” It didn’t fail: giving her mother something to do that included the words “shop” and “buy” was usually a sure route to peace. And although she couldn’t swear to it, the perfumed breasts indicated that the shopping centre was a secondary destination in her mother’s plans. “Get me the one we saw in the window.” Taking into account that she wasn’t planning on going to the beach all summer and the fucking swimsuit didn’t matter to her at all, she managed to give a fairly convincing ring to the request. She even pleaded in a spoiled-little-girl voice that she herself hated with all her heart. “Go on-please.”

“The other day you didn’t seem so enthusiastic. When we were both outside the shop,” replied Regina.

“I was bummed, Mama,”. . “Bummed” was a phrase Regina Ballester hated deeply, because as well as sounding rather vulgar, it described any of her daughter’s moods: sad, worried, grouchy, bored. . “Bummed” seemed to encompass them all, without distinction.

Gina fiddled with the computer mouse. Would she never go? She extricated herself smoothly from the embrace and played her trump card.

“Fine, don’t buy it for me. It’s not like I feel much like going to the beach this year-”

“Of course you’re going to the beach. Your father gets back from his promotional tour tomorrow and next week we’re going to Llafranc. Not for nothing have I taken holiday this month.” This was something Regina usually did: implicit reminders of how much she did for others. “I can’t stand Barcelona any more this summer! The heat is unbearable.” Regina looked discreetly at her silver watch: it was getting late. “I’m going or I won’t have time to do everything,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be back before five. If the Mossos get here before me, don’t say anything to them.”

“Can I open the door to them? Or would you prefer me to leave them out in the street?” asked Gina, with feigned innocence. She couldn’t help it: these days her mother drove her crazy.

“There’ll be no need. I’ll be here. I promise.”

The tap of her heels echoed on the stairs. Gina was about to maximize the Messenger screen when those same footsteps came back toward her, hurriedly.

“Have I left-?”

“Here’s the remote, Mama.” She picked it up from the table where Regina had left it to hug her, and threw it smoothly, without moving from the chair. Her mother caught it. “You should wear it around your neck.” And, when she was sure her mother could no longer hear her, she murmured, “Of course it would scramble in that stench.”

Click. The little screen shone before her once again.

gi, what’s up? u there???

okaaaay, im bored

see u babe, chat l8r!!!!:-)

No, no, no, no. .

My mother was here, I couldn’t talk.

Fuck, answer, Aleix, please.

heyyyyy!!! thought so. still droning away then?

Gina exhaled. Minor relief. She launched herself at the keyboard at top speed. And not to criticize her mother.

Have the cops called you?

cops? no, y?

Shit, they’re coming to see me this afternoon. I don’t know what they want, seriously. .

A pause of a few seconds.

definitely nothing. same as always. dont u worry. I’m scared. . and what if they ask me about. . they’re not going to ask anything, they dont have a clue. How do you know?

i just know. anyway, we didnt do it in the end, remember?

Gina’s frown signalled an intense mental effort.

What do you mean?

Gina could almost see Aleix’s annoyed face, the one he put on when he was forced to explain things that seemed obvious to him. An expression which, at times-sometimes-irritated her, and usually calmed her down. He was cleverer. That no one doubted. Having the school prodigy as a friend meant putting up with certain condescending looks.

we thought about doing something but we didnt do it. not the same thing, right? doesnt matter what we planned, in d end we backed out.

Marc didn’t back out.

The cursor was blinking as if it were waiting for her to continue writing.

gi, WE DIDNT DO ANYTHING.

The capitals rang out like an accusation.

Yeah, you stopped it. .

and i was right. or was i not? you and i spoke about it and we agreed. it had to be stopped.

Gina nodded as if he could see her. But deep down she knew she had no fixed opinion on the matter. Realizing it like this, so crudely, filled her with a profound self-loathing. Aleix had convinced her that afternoon, but in her heart of hearts she knew she’d failed Marc in something that had been very important to him.

u def have the USB, right?

Yes.

ok. listen, want me to come to ur house this afternoon? for the cops thing.

Gina did want him to, but a stab of pride stopped her admitting it.

No, no need, I’ll call you.

weird they’re coming to your house. .

She changed the subject.

By the way, my mother put perfume on to go out;-) hahaha. . and my father’s not coming home for lunch!

Gina smiled. The supposed affair between her mother and Aleix’s father was something they’d come up with out of boredom one afternoon, while Marc was in Dublin. They’d never bothered to confirm it, but over time, on the strength of repeating it, the hypothesis had become an absolute certainty for them. It amused them to think that her mother and Miquel Rovira, the serious, ultra-Catholic Dr. Rovira, were at that moment fucking furtively in a hotel room.

im gonna have something to eat, gi! talk soon, ok? Kisses

He didn’t wait for her to answer. His icon suddenly went gray and left her alone in front of the screen. Gina looked around: the unmade bed, the clothes dumped on one of the chairs, the shelves still full of teddies. It’s a little girl’s room, she said to herself scornfully. She bit her lower lip until it bled, and she passed the back of her hand over the injury. Then she got up, took an enormous empty cardboard box from the wardrobe, which until recently had contained all her schoolbooks- all of them, kept out of feigned affection for years-and put it in the centre of the room. Then she went along grabbing the teddies one by one and throwing them face down into the box, almost without looking at them. It didn’t take long. Barely fifteen minutes later the sealed box rested in a corner and the walls looked strangely empty. Naked. Sad. Soulless, her father would say.