Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

The flight was only slightly delayed, and it took even less time to recognize the girl from the photo, although the blackand-white had definitely flattered her. The young woman moving toward the door, not very tall, with curly hair and somewhat plumper than could be seen in the photograph, had little of the enigmatic about her. Héctor got there first.

“Inés Alonso?”

“Yes.” She looked at the inspector apprehensively. “Is something wrong?”

He smiled at her.

“I’m Inspector Salgado and this is Agent Castro. We’ve come to collect you and take you to Joana Vidal’s house. Marc’s mother.”

“But-”

“Relax. We just want to talk to you.”

She lowered her head and nodded slowly, then followed them to the car without saying another word. She said nothing during the journey, although she answered a couple of trivial questions politely. She sat on the back seat, pensive. She was carrying only a type of rigid backpack and kept it firmly at her side.

She remained silent as they ascended the steep stairs leading to the flat where Joana lived. Héctor realized, with a pang of remorse, that he hadn’t heard from her since the day before, when they had breakfast together. However, as soon as Joana received them, he noticed that something had changed in her in the last few hours. Her footsteps and her voice revealed a composure he’d only briefly glimpsed before.

She showed them to the dining room. The windows were open and the light streamed in.

“I had to inform the police of your arrival,” said Joana, turning to this stranger, who had sat down, like the others, but with her back straight, as if she were about to undergo an oral exam.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she murmured.

“Inés,” Héctor interjected, “you met Marc in Dublin, didn’t you?”

She smiled for the first time.

“I would never have recognized him. But he saw my name on the student residence’s list. And one day he approached me to ask if I was the same Inés Alonso.”

Héctor nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“He introduced himself and we went for a drink.” She spoke tenderly, simply. “I think he fell in love with me. But. . of course, though we avoided it at the start, in the end we had to talk about Iris. Always Iris. .”

“What happened that summer, Inés? I know you were only a little girl and I understand it must be painful to think about her. .”

“No. Not any more.” She was flushed, tears shone in her eyes. “I’ve spent years trying to forget that summer, that day. But not any more. Marc was right about that, although he didn’t know part of the truth. In fact, I didn’t know it either until a little while ago, until last Christmas, when my mother moved flat and we packed up everything from the old house. There, in one of the boxes, I found Iris’s teddy bear. It was torn, the stuffing was coming out of a rip, but when I picked it up I noticed something inside.”

She interrupted her story, opened her backpack and took out a folder.

“Here,” she said, turning to the inspector. “Or would you prefer me to read it aloud? My sister Iris wrote it that summer. I’ve read it hundreds of times since I found it. The first few times I couldn’t finish but I can now. It’s a little long. .”

And, with a voice that wanted to be firm, Inés took out some pages and began to read.

My name is Iris and I’m twelve. I won’t reach thirteen because before the summer is over I’ll be dead.

I know what death is, or at least I think I do. You go to sleep and don’t wake up. You stay like that, asleep but not dreaming, I suppose. Papa was sick for months when I was little. He was really strong, he could cut down big trees with the axe. I liked watching him, but he wouldn’t let me because a splinter might come out and hurt me. While he was sick, before he went to sleep forever, his arms shrank, like something was eating him from inside. In the end he was only bones, ribs, shoulders, elbows, and a bit of skin, then he fell asleep. He wasn’t strong enough to stay awake. I’m not very strong now either. Mama says it’s because I don’t eat, and she’s right, but she thinks I want to be thin, like girls in magazines, and she’s wrong. I don’t want to be thin to be more beautiful. Before I did, but now it seems silly. I want to be thin to die like Papa. And I’m not hungry either, because not eating is easy. At least it was, before Mama focused on watching me during meals. Now it’s much harder. I have to pretend that I’m eating everything on my plate so she doesn’t get annoying, but there are tricks. Sometimes I have it in my mouth for a long time and then I spit it into a napkin. Or recently I’ve learned that the best thing is to eat it all and then vomit. You’re clean after vomiting, all that dirty food is gone and you feel calm.

Inés stopped for a moment and Héctor was tempted to tell her not to continue, but before he could do so, the young woman took a deep breath and resumed her reading.

I live in a town in the Pyrenees, with my mother and my little sister. Inés is eight. Sometimes I talk to her about Papa and she says she remembers, but I think she’s lying. I was eight when he died and she was only four. I think she only remembers him thin, like Jesus Christ, she says. She doesn’t remember strong Papa who cut down trees and laughed and swung you round like you were a rag doll that weighed nothing at all. Then Mama laughed more. Later, when Papa fell asleep forever, she started praying a lot. Every day. I liked praying, and then Mama insisted on us making our First Communion, Inés and I, at the same time. It was nice: the catechist told us stories from the Bible and it wasn’t hard for me to learn the prayers. But the hosts made me sick. They stuck to the roof of my mouth and I couldn’t swallow them. Or chew them because it was a sin. Inés liked them though, she said they reminded her of the layer on the top of turrón. I have the photo of the communion. Inés and I were dressed in white, with ribbons in our hair. Hardly any of the girls in school did it but I liked it. And Mama was happy that day. She only cried a little in the church but I think it was because she was happy, not sad.

I already said I live in a small town so every day we have to catch a bus to go to school. We have to get up very early and it’s very cold. Sometimes it snows so much the bus can’t come to get us and we stay at home. But now it’s summer and it’s hot. In summer we move because Mama is in charge of cooking in a house for camps. I liked it a lot because the summer house is much bigger and it has a pool and is full of children. They come in groups of twenty on a bus from Barcelona. And they stay for two weeks. It’s annoying, because sometimes you make friends and you know that in a few days they will leave. Some come back the next year and others don’t. There is a boy who stays all summer, like us. Mama told me it’s because he has no mother and his father works a lot, so he spends half the summer at camp. With his uncle, who is in charge of everything. And the monitors who help him. I have to help Mama too, but not much, just a bit in the kitchen. Then I am free to swim or take part in the games. Before I did but now I don’t feel like it. And Mama keeps telling me it’s because I don’t eat. But she doesn’t know anything. She lives in the kitchen and doesn’t know anything about what happens outside. She only thinks about food. Sometimes I hate her.

It’s the third summer we’ve spent here and I know there won’t be a fourth. I’ve seen him looking at Inés out of the corner of his eye without anyone noticing. Only me. I have to do something. He looks at her when she is swimming in the pool and says things like: “You look a lot like your sister.” And it must be true because everyone says so. Sometimes we both stand in front of the mirror and look at ourselves, and we come to the conclusion that we don’t look so alike. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t want her to be his new doll. Or at least I don’t want to be here to see it.