Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

It was half past twelve by the time a taxi left Héctor in front of the Post Office building. That ancient, solid mass protected a network of labyrinthine alleys that had remained immune to the wave of design that was battering nearby barrios, like the Born. These were streets where people hung out clothes on the balconies and you could almost steal them from your neighbor opposite; façades that would be difficult to renovate because there was no space for scaffolding; ground floors, previously abandoned, where now Pakistani grocers, ethnic clothes shops and a bar with tiled walls had sprung up. There, on Milans, on the second floor of a narrow, dirty building, Dr. Omar had his “clinic.” When Héctor arrived at the corner, he instinctively searched for his mobile and then remembered he’d left it dead at home that morning. Shit. . His intention had been to call Andreu and ask her if there were Moors abroad, or if the coast was clear. He smiled at the thought that such phrases had become politically incorrect, and advanced slowly toward the building in question. Contrary to what he’d imagined, the street was empty. But that wasn’t surprising. The visit of the Mossos, Catalonia’s police force, had made many of the area’s inhabitants, who had no papers, opt for staying at home. There was indeed an agent at the door, a relatively young guy whom Héctor knew by sight, making sure that only residents could access the building.

“Inspector Salgado.” The agent seemed nervous. “Sergeant Andreu told me you might come.”

Héctor raised an eyebrow and the boy nodded.

“Go on up. And I haven’t seen you. Sergeant’s orders.”

The stairwell smelled of damp, of urban poverty. He met a black woman who didn’t raise her eyes from the floor. On the second-floor landing there were two doors, each of a different wood. The darker was the one he was looking for. It was closed and he had to touch the bell twice before it decided to ring. When he remembered the events of that fateful evening, everything came back to him in the form of flashes: the destroyed body of the little black girl and a dense, bitter rage that could be neither swallowed nor spat out; then his closed fist, pitilessly striking a guy he’d only seen in the interrogation room once. Hazy images he’d have preferred not to remember.

Stationed at the corner, Héctor waits for the fourth cigarette he’s lit in the last half an hour to be consumed. He feels a pain in his chest and the taste of tobacco is starting to make him sick.

He goes up to the second floor. He pushes the office door. At first he doesn’t see him. The room is so dark that instinctively he’s on his guard. He stays still, alert, until a noise indicates that there is someone seated on the other side of the desk. Someone who lights a lamp.

“Come in, Inspector.”

He recognizes the voice. Slow, with an indefinable foreign

accent.

“Sit down. Please.”

He does. They are separated by an antique wooden desk,

which must be the best thing in that run-down, slightly stuffy flat.

“I was expecting you.”

The shadow moves forward and the light from the floor lamp fully covers him. On seeing him Héctor is surprised: he’s older than he remembered from that day he’d interrogated him at the station. Black, thin, an almost fragile appearance, and the eyes of a beaten dog who has learned that there is a daily ration of blows and waits resignedly for the moment to arrive.

“How did you do it?”

The doctor smiles, but Héctor could swear that deep down there is something like fear. Good. He has good reason to fear him.

“How did I do what?”

Héctor contains the desire to grab him by the neck and slam his face against the desk. Instead he clenches his fist and simply says:

“Kira is dead.”

He feels a chill on saying her name. The sweet smell is beginning to make him nauseated.

“A pity, isn’t it? Such a pretty girl,” the other says, as if he’s speaking of a gift, an object. “You know something? Her parents gave her that absurd name to prepare her for a life in Europe. Or in America. They sold her without the least remorse, convinced that anything was better than what she could expect in their village. They were brainwashing her from birth. A pity they did not teach her to keep her mouth shut as well.”

Héctor swallows. Suddenly the walls advance toward them, reducing the already small room to the size of a cell. The cold light falls on the doctor’s hands then: fine, with long fingers like serpents.

“How did you do it?” he repeats. His voice sounds hoarse, as if he has spent hours without speaking to anyone.

“Do you really think I could do anything?” He guffaws and leans forward again so the light focuses on his face. “You pleasantly surprise me, Inspector. The Western world usually makes fun of our old superstitions. What cannot be seen or touched does not exist. They have closed the door to a whole universe and live happily beyond it. Feeling superior. Poor fools.”

The oppressive feeling grows. Héctor cannot take his eyes from the other man’s hands, which are relaxed now, lying still on the desk. Offensively languid.

“You are a very interesting man, Inspector. Much more so than most police officers. In fact, you never thought you would end up as an officer of the law. I am sure of that.”

“Cut the crap. I came looking for answers, not to listen to your nonsense.”

“Answers, answers. . Deep down you already know them, although you do not believe them. I am afraid I cannot help you in that.”

“How did you threaten her?” He struggles to stay calm. “How did you scare her so much that she did that to herself?” He can’t even describe it.

The other man leans back, hides in the shadows, but his voice continues, coming out of nowhere.

“Do you believe in dreams, Inspector? No, I suppose not. Curious how all of you are capable of believing in things as abstract as atoms and then dismiss something that happens every night. Because we all dream, do we not?”

Héctor bites his lip so as not to interrupt. It’s clear that this bastard is going to tell it in his own time; the doctor lowers his voice so he has to strain to hear him.

“Children are clever. They have nightmares and fear them. But as they grow up they are taught that they should not be scared. Did you have nightmares, Inspector? I can already see that you did. Night terrors, perhaps? I see you have not thought about them for a while. Although you still do not sleep well, correct? But tell me something, how else could I have put myself in her head and told her what she had to do? Take the scissors, caress your stomach with them. Up to those little breasts and stick them in. .”

And that’s where his memories stop. Next thing he remembers is his fist ceaselessly punching the face of that son-of-a-bitch.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Martina’s dry voice brought him back to the present. Disconcerted, he didn’t have time to respond.

“Doesn’t matter, no need to answer. I knew you’d come. This is disgusting.”

Héctor advanced down the corridor.

“Don’t come in here, you’ll have to look from the door.”

It was the same office, but in daylight it looked like a squalid room, not at all ghostly.

“I’ve seen nicer piggies, to tell the truth,” the sergeant said at his shoulder.

What was on the table, presented like a sculpture, wasn’t the head of a piglet, but that of a good-sized boar. They had already put it into a black bag, from which a piece of the face poked out, bloated, as if boiled, the wrinkled ears and fleshy snout a repugnant pink.

“Oh, and the blood isn’t the pig’s. Look, it hasn’t bled anywhere.”

It was true. There was no blood on the desk, but there was on the walls and the floor.