Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

He wakes with a start. The image was so real he has to make an effort to erase it from his mind. To return to the present and remember that his son isn’t a little boy any more and never knew Iris. To be sure that dolls don’t speak. He finds it difficult to breathe. It’s still night, he thinks, annoyed, knowing he won’t get back to sleep. Although maybe it’s better, maybe not sleeping isn’t so bad after all. He stays lying on his back, trying to calm down, attempting to make sense of this strange, disturbing dream. Unlike most other nightmares, which fade when one opens one’s eyes, this one persists in clinging to his mind. He relives the rage, the firm decision to give this disobedient boy a slap and is grateful for not having done it, even in a dream, although he knows that if not for the terrible vision of the pool that is exactly what would have happened. Enough. It’s not fair to torment yourself about what you dream. He is sure his psychologist would agree with him on that. It’s then, thinking about the boy and his genius face, that he hears a sound which seems to be music. It’s four in the morning-who puts on music at this time? He pricks up his ears: strictly speaking it’s not music, more a drone, a chorus of voices. Not able to help it, the dolls come back to his mind, but he knows that was a dream. This is real: the voices stammer something he doesn’t quite catch, in spite of its becoming more intense. He would say it is a sentence, a rhythmic plea in a language he doesn’t recognize, and seems to be coming from the walls of his room. Unnerved, he stands up. Another noise has joined the chorus: a sort of whistling, nothing to do with the rest. Putting his bare legs to the floor his glance falls on the half-open suitcase, still abandoned next to the wall. Yes. There’s no doubt: the whistling is coming from there. For an instant he thinks of the lost valise, the broken lock, and his eyes open as wide as saucers when he makes out a whistling shadow emerging slowly from it. It’s a snake, slippery, repugnant, which drags itself over the floor in his direction. The whistle intensifies, the chorus goes up a scale. And he watches, terrified, how this slithery being inexorably approaches, head upright and tongue flickering in the air, while the voices murmur something that finally he can understand. They say his name, again and again: Héctor, Héctor, Héctor, Héctor. .

“Héctor!” Joana’s voice ended it. “Are you OK? You scared me.”

For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t recognize the walls, or the sheets, or the light on at an unfamiliar angle. He only noticed the cold sweat soaking his body.

“Fuck,” he whispered at last.

“You’ve had a nightmare.”

Two, he thought. In style.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“No problem.” She caressed his forehead. “You’re freezing.” “Sorry.” He rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

“Eight. Early for a Saturday.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“No.” She smiled at him. “I think I’m out of practice at sleeping beside someone. I’ve been tossing and turning for a while. What the hell were you dreaming?”

He didn’t feel like talking about it. In fact, he didn’t feel like talking.

“Do you mind if I grab a shower?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll be good and make coffee.”

Héctor forced himself to smile.

They’d made love with a tenderness uncharacteristic of two strangers. Slowly, carried more by a need for contact, the touch of skin, than by an unbridled passion. And now, as they had breakfast together, Héctor realized that the sex had strengthened bonds of something that resembled camaraderie. They weren’t kids, they’d had their share of disappointments and hopes, and they accepted the pleasant moments without projecting hopes or desires on to them. There wasn’t the least sensuality in this breakfast together: the light of day had returned to put them back in their places, without any pressure. He was partly grateful and partly saddened by the thought. Maybe that was the best he could hope for now: pleasant, friendly encounters which had a nice aftertaste. As comforting as this hot coffee.

“Is the shirt your size?” asked Joana. “Philippe left it here.”

The comment wasn’t wholly casual, thought Héctor. He smiled.

“I’ll give it back to you,” he told her, with a meaningful wink. “Now I must go. I have to see Gina Martí’s parents.”

She nodded.

“This isn’t over, is it?”

Héctor looked at her fondly. Would he could tell her it was. Case closed. But the image of Iris in the pool, heightened by the dream, suggested otherwise.

“There’s something I think you should read.”

That morning, more than ever, Aleix wanted to turn back time. Gina’s death had been an unexpected calamity, a harder blow than all the others he’d taken in the last few days, and lying in bed, with no energy to get up, he let his mind roll back toward a recent past that seemed almost remote now. Gina alive, insecure, easy to sway, and at the same time affectionate, fragile. All this was Marc’s fault, he thought bitterly, although deep down he knew it wasn’t wholly true. Marc, his most faithful follower, the one who’d even taken the blame for something he didn’t do just because he’d asked him to, had come back changed from Dublin. No longer a boy he could bend to his will. He had his own ideas-ideas that were becoming an obsession, ideas that could get them all into serious trouble. The end justifies the means, that was his motto. And since he’d learned at a good master’s side, he’d devised a plan that bordered on the absurd, and in itself could have unforeseen consequences. Luckily Aleix had managed to thwart it before it went too far, before one thing led to another and the truth came out. Not knowing his true motives, Gina had helped him in it: she’d been reluctant, but in the end she’d given in. Gina. . They said she’d left a note. He imagined her alone, writing on her computer like a little girl, all full stops, careful grammar and accents, haunted by having betrayed Marc. Worn out by what he’d made her do.

Explosions that sounded like thunder had kept him company all evening. On the eve of San Juan, Barcelona became an explosive city. Dangerous fireworks lurked on every corner as everyone prepared for the all-night party that marked the luminous beginning of summer: sparklers, bonfires and cava toasting the shortest night of the year. Arriving at Marc’s house, the first thing that struck him was how pretty Gina looked and he felt a stab of jealousy thinking she hadn’t dressed and made herself up like that for him. Anyway, she looked uneasy, uncomfortable in those high heels, that tight black dress. In fact, the outfit clashed with theirs: plain T-shirts with faded jeans and trainers. Gina was playing princess with two scruffy toffs, thought Aleix. Marc was nervous, but that wasn’t unusual: he’d been like that for weeks, trying to fake a decisiveness he didn’t possess. For Iris. Damn Iris.

He’d arrived calling for beer, trying to give the get-together a party vibe. He’d done a couple of lines before leaving because he sensed he’d need them, and just then he felt euphoric, full of energy, insatiable. Dinner, some pizzas Marc and Gina had seasoned and put in the oven, was ready, and for a while, as they emptied their glasses faster than their plates, it seemed like one of the parties they used to have before. When Marc went down to the kitchen for more beer, Aleix turned up the volume and danced with Gina. Fuck, that night the girl looked good enough to eat. And coke, whatever they say, was a fantastic aphrodisiac. Just ask his friend’s mother, he thought, refraining from feeling her up. As he danced with her, he almost forgot about Marc: that was the good thing about coke: it eliminated problems, made them fade away. Made you concentrate solely on what’s important: Gina’s thighs, her neck. He nibbled it jokingly, like one of those seductive vampires she liked so much would do, but Gina moved away from him a little. Of course, now she was saving herself for Marc. Poor little fool. Hadn’t she seen that her beloved Marc was hung up on another girl? He was about to come out with it, but held back: he needed Gina as an ally that night and wasn’t planning on saying anything that might turn her against him.