Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

The car moved off, and Héctor waited a few seconds before taking out his mobile again and returning Martina Andreu’s calls. She answered immediately, although the conversation was brief, the sergeant’s trademark. There was nothing new regarding Dr. Omar’s disappearance, but on the subject of the pig’s head, it had been delivered by a nearby butcher. It seemed he regularly brought him entrails for his sinister tricks. With regard to the fake doctor, he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth leaving only a few traces of blood. Yes-the results hadn’t yet arrived but it was most probable that it was his. A hasty flight or a settling of accounts by someone who had taken all his papers and left only part of Salgado’s file. Which, in truth, was rather strange. Andreu said a brusque good-bye and Héctor immediately called his son, who, not wanting to break a habit, didn’t answer his mobile. I need to talk to him, Héctor thought. After a whole day with the parents of spoiled adolescents he wanted to hear Guillermo’s voice and reassure himself that everything was OK. He left a new message, and after doing so found himself on Bonanova with nothing to do and decided to walk for a while.

It had been some time since he strolled through this part of the city and, seeing it again, he was amazed at how little it had altered. More or less all of Barcelona’s barrios had undergone some sort of change in recent years, but it was clear that the exclusive areas remained immune to most of it. No tourists en masse or immigrants, except those who worked cleaning the houses of the area. He asked himself if this happened in other cities: the existence of impermeable old-fashioned areas, protected from modernizing breezes in an effective yet not hostile way. The metro didn’t reach that part of the city; its inhabitants took the trains, which to them seemed a completely different class of transport. A snobbish detail that Ruth, for example, had struggled to overcome. He smiled remembering how horrified her parents were when their only daughter abandoned the tranquil barrio of Sarrià, a few blocks away from where he was now, and went to live with an Argentine-the slur sudaca wasn’t used then-first to Gràcia, and then, horror! down there, near the sea. However much they had changed after the Olympics, the beaches of Barcelona and their surroundings were still fourth-rate destinations to them. “The humidity will kill you,” had been their comment. And he knew for certain that his mother-in-law took a taxi every time she came to see her daughter and grandson alone.

Of course Ruth’s capacity for scandalizing her family hadn’t faded. . Now separated, beginning a new life with another woman, she’d rented a loft not far from the flat she’d shared with Héctor, where she had room for her studio as well as living space. “This way you’ll still be close to Guillermo,” it had been her idea, shattering the stereotype of the vindictive ex-wife. Ruth had asked for what was fair, and he had conceded it without hesitation. In this, as in everything, they had been most civilized. I should have said that to the shrink, he thought with a smile. “Look, doctor, my wife left me for another bird. . Yes, you heard right. How do I feel? Well look, it’s a kick in the nuts. Like they might disintegrate from the blow. And you keep this so-stupid-you-can’t-even-imagine face on, because for seventeen years you’ve been proud of how good it’s been in bed for you both (proud of being almost her first and in theory only man-there’s always some casual boyfriend from before with whom ‘we hardly did anything, don’t be stupid’) and however much she insists that things changed little by little, and she swears that she discovered orgasms with you and that she has really enjoyed herself at your side, and she tells you, with disarming sincerity, that this is something ‘new she needs to explore,’ you look at her like a zombie, more bewildered than incredulous, because if she says it it must be true, and if it’s true then part of your life, of both of your lives, but mostly of yours, has been a lie. Like on The Truman Show, remember, doctor? This guy who believes that he is living his life but in fact he is surrounded by actors who play their part and his reality is nothing more than a fiction invented and represented by others. Well, that’s how you’re left, doctor, with a Jim Carrey face.” He laughed at himself with no bitterness as he waited to cross. Although lately he hadn’t been doing it too much, inventing semi-ridiculous monologues about himself, or sometimes others, had always served as therapy for him.

He was walking slowly, advancing toward the centre of this city that had been his home for so many years. It was a long way, but he felt like walking a little, putting off the arrival at his empty flat. Also, there was something about the streets of l’Eixample, that geometric grid of parallel and perpendicular roads, and those regal old façades that gave him peace and a certain feeling of nostalgia. He’d explored these streets, and many others, with Ruth; with her he’d seen as many monuments as bars. For him, Barcelona was Ruth: beautiful without harshness, superficially tranquil yet with dark corners, and with that touch of classy elegance that was as charming as it was exasperating. Both were aware of their natural charm, of having that indescribable something that many others wanted to achieve and could only admire or envy.

He arrived home wrecked after walking for almost two hours and flopped down on to the sofa. The recovered suitcase awaited him in a corner and he avoided looking at it. He should’ve eaten something en route, but the thought of dining alone in public depressed him. He smoked to kill his hunger through nicotine and felt guilty for it. He’d left the films Carmen had returned to him on the coffee table: a selection of classics starring her favorite actress. How long had it been since he’d watched Rear Window? It wasn’t one of his favorites; he liked the worrying atmosphere of The Birds or the obsessive passion of Vertigo much better, but it was the one closest to hand and, without thinking about it, he put it in the DVD player. While it was starting up he went to the kitchen to find a beer, at least: he thought he’d seen something that morning in the fridge. With it in his hand he returned to the dining room and looked at the dark screen. The disk was playing, he could see on the little green screen of the machine, but there were no images. However, finally a light appeared on the screen: weak, crude, strange, shining in the middle of a blurred background. Astonished, he watched as the cloud dissipated and the light gained ground. And then, not able to take his eyes off the television, he saw what he’d never wanted to see: himself, his face contorted with rage, ceaselessly hitting an old man sitting in a chair. A shiver ran down his spine. The phone ringing startled him so much he dropped his beer. He picked up apprehensively, eyes still fixed on that other him he hardly recognized, and heard a woman’s voice, hoarse with rage, screaming at him: “You’re a bastard, you fucking Argentine. Motherfucker.”

“I’m in Barça this weekend and want to see you. T.” That was the message Leire had read as soon as she came out of the Castells’ house. She’d answered the message positively, without hesitating, almost without thinking, carried away by the desire to see him. Something that now, after a long conversation with her best friend, she regretted with all her heart; something that, combined with the stifling summer weather and the terrible yowling of a cat on heat crossing the nearby roofs, wouldn’t let her sleep.

María was a dark beauty, with a Barcelonian father and Italian mother, and she wreaked havoc in the male population. Five foot ten inches of perfect curves, she had a smiling face, a huge sense of humor and a trucker’s mouth.