Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

He turned off the alarm clock at the first buzz. Eight a.m. Although he’d been awake for hours a sudden heaviness overcame his limbs and he had to force himself to get out of bed and go to the shower. The stream of water cleared his sluggishness and along with it some of the effects of jet lag. He had arrived only hours before, after an interminable Buenos Aires-Barcelona flight which was prolonged further in the Lost Luggage office at the airport. The assistant, who had definitely been one of those sadistic British schoolmistresses in a previous life, consumed his last shred of patience, looking at him as if the suitcase were a being with free will and had opted to trade in this owner for one less moody-looking.

He dried himself vigorously and noticed with annoyance that sweat was already appearing on his brow: that was summer in Barcelona. Humid and sticky as a melted ice-cream. With the towel wrapped round his waist he looked at himself in the mirror. He should shave. Fuck it. He went back to the bedroom and rummaged in the half-empty wardrobe for some underwear. Luckily the clothes in the lost suitcase were winter ones, so he had no problems finding a short-sleeved shirt and trousers. Barefoot, he sat on the bed. He took a deep breath. The long journey was taking its toll and he was tempted to lie back down, close his eyes and forget about the meeting he had at ten o’clock sharp, although deep down he knew he was incapable of doing so. Héctor Salgado never missed a meeting. Even if it might be with his executioner, he said to himself and smiled ironically.

His right hand searched for his mobile phone on the nightstand. Very little battery life remained and he remembered that the charger was in the damn suitcase. The day before he’d felt too wrecked to speak to anyone. He looked up Ruth’s number in the phonebook and stayed looking at the screen for a few seconds before pressing the green button. He always called her on her mobile, surely in an attempt to ignore the fact that she had another landline. Another house. Another partner. Her voice, somewhat hoarse, just awake, whispered in his ear:

“Héctor. .”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. . Well, a bit.” He heard a stifled laugh in the background. “But I had to get up anyway. When did you get back?”

“Sorry. I arrived yesterday morning, but those idiots lost my bag and I was in the airport for half the day. My mobile is about to run out of battery. I just wanted you to know that I’d arrived safely.”

Suddenly he felt stupid. Like a child talking too much. “How was the flight?”

“Calm,” he lied. “Listen, is Guillermo asleep?”

Ruth laughed.

“Your accent always changes when you come back from Buenos Aires. Guillermo’s not here, didn’t I tell you? He’s spending a few days at the beach, at a friend’s house. But I’m sure he’ll be sleeping at this time,” she added immediately.

“Yeah.” A pause; lately their conversations stalled continually. “And how’s it going?”

“He’s good, but I swear if pre-adolescence lasts much longer I’m sending him back to you, postage paid.” Ruth smiled. He remembered the shape of her smile and that sudden light in her eyes. Her tone changed. “Héctor? Hey, have you heard about your thing?”

“I have to see Savall at ten.”

“OK, let me know how it goes afterward.”

Another pause.

“We could have lunch together?” Héctor had lowered his voice. She took a little longer than necessary to answer.

“Sorry, I already have plans.” For a moment he thought the battery had run out completely, although finally the voice continued. “But we’ll talk later. We could have a coffee. .”

Then it did. Before he could respond, the phone had become a lump of dead metal. He looked at it with hatred. Then his eyes went toward his bare feet. And with a jump, as if the brief chat had given him the necessary impulse, he rose and walked once again toward that accusatory wardrobe full of empty hangers.

Héctor lived in a three-story building, on the third floor. Nothing special, one of many such buildings in Poblenou, close to the metro station and a couple of blocks from the other rambla that didn’t appear in tourist guidebooks. The only notable features of his flat were the rent, which hadn’t risen when the area took on the airs of a privileged place near the beach, and a flat roof, which, for all practical purposes, had become his private terrace. The second floor was vacant, awaiting a tenant who never arrived, and the landlady lived on the first floor, a woman of almost seventy who hadn’t the least interest in climbing two flights of stairs. He and Ruth had fixed up the old roof, covering part of it and installing various potted plants, now withered, as well as a table and chairs for eating outside on summer nights. He’d hardly gone back up there since Ruth left.

The door of the first-floor apartment opened just as he was passing and Carmen, the owner of the building, came out to greet him.

“Héctor.” She was smiling. As always, he told himself that when he was old he wanted to be like this good woman. Even better, to have one like her by his side. He stopped and gave her a kiss on the cheek, a little awkwardly. Affectionate gestures had never been his strong point. “Yesterday I heard noises upstairs, but I thought you’d be tired. Want a coffee? I’ve just made some.”

“Are you spoiling me?”

“Nonsense,” she replied decidedly. “Men must go out well fed. Come to the kitchen.”

Héctor followed her obediently. The house smelled of freshly made coffee.

“I missed your coffee, Carmen.”

She observed him with a frown as he helped himself to a generous cup of coffee, then added a drop of milk.

“Well fed and well shaved,” the woman added pointedly.

“Don’t be hard on me, Carmen, I’ve only just arrived,” he pleaded.

“Don’t you play the victim. How are you?” She looked at him affectionately. “How did it go in your native land? Ah, smoke a cigarette, I know you want one.”

“You’re the best, Carmen.” He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. “I don’t understand how you haven’t been snared by some granddad made of money.”

“Because I don’t like granddads! When I turned sixty-five, I looked around and said to myself, Carmen, enough’s enough- close up shop. Spend your time watching films at home. . By the way, the ones you lent me are over there. I’ve watched them all,” she said proudly.

Héctor’s film collection would have turned more than one cinephile green with envy: from Hollywood classics-Carmen’s favorites-to the latest releases. All placed on wall-to-wall shelves, with no apparent order. One of his greatest pleasures on sleepless nights was to pull out a few and lie down on the sofa to watch them.

“Marvellous,” continued Carmen. She was an avid fan of Grace Kelly, whom she was said to have resembled when she was young. “But don’t try to distract me. How are you?”

He exhaled slowly and finished his coffee. The woman’s gaze didn’t falter: those blue eyes must have been true man-eaters. Carmen wasn’t one of those old women who enjoy evoking the past but thanks to Ruth, Héctor knew there had been at least two husbands (“easily forgotten, poor things,” in Carmen’s own words) and a lover (“a swine of the kind you don’t forget’). But in the end there’d been one last one, who had secured her old age by leaving her that three-story building, in which she could live even better were she not saving one of the apartments for a son who’d left years before and never returned.

Héctor poured himself a little more coffee before answering.