James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

‘It’s midnight, Òscar . . . I wanted us to have a soak after dinner. We still have five days. All for you.’ He rubs his bangs. ‘All for you.’

Òscar can feel the tension between his eyebrows, and his stomach hard.

He needs the last photo for his series.

The photo.

It won’t be easy to get one that concludes the entire project.

The abysm.

Manel straightens up his back and crosses his legs with some difficulty. He has to convince him. No more working tonight. This is their vacation.

Òscar takes in a breath, looks at the small window in the bathroom, then looks at him.

‘Manel, the sooner I send a good photo to Quique, the better. We’ll all be more relaxed.’

‘All of us?’

‘Oh, so you could care less? Sure, you’re already relaxed, you’re on vacation! I knew I should’ve come here alone. I knew it.’

Manel’s neck muscles get so tight he has to put his head back and lift his shoulders.

‘Come on, Òscar, it’s time to get some rest, tomorrow is . . .’

Always redirecting the situation.

Always that role.

His stomach digesting gulps of tension.

Manel stands up and walks over to him, rubs his sleeve and then caresses his cheek. Òscar looks at the floor.

‘It’s true, Manel. You’re the one who wanted to come with me, OK? I’m working, this is my job.’

Manel realizes that the hat he gave Òscar for his birthday is too small. His forehead still has a mark from when he wore it earlier. Rows of small triangles from ear to ear. Maybe he should buy him a new one.

‘Come on . . . You need to relax, Òscar. All this pressure won’t make for good photos.’ He gently squeezes his shoulder and strokes his ear. ‘And I think I’ll buy you a new hat.’

Òscar looks at him with his brow furrowed, and scratches his neck.

‘Come on, don’t act like my daddy.’

Daddy.

Daddy. Òscar goes through phases. When they fight he uses the same defense for months. Lately it’s this daddy thing. Coincidentally, ever since Manel started to say he wanted to have a child.

Daddy.

Daddy.

Every daddy is a dart between the ribs, or into his navel.

But it doesn’t matter. Redirect the situation.

His stomach filled to bursting, swollen.

Manel takes him by the hand and, with some effort, leads him toward the tub.

‘Come on, I’ll give you a massage. It’ll do you good.’

Òscar resists, but nods in agreement. He takes off his hat. He purses his lips, turns and disappears into the room as he takes off his raincoat. The sound of the zipper relaxes Manel’s neck muscles, and he lifts his arms to fully shake off the tension. He smiles and gets into the tub. That’s it. Situation redirected.

‘I’m in, just waiting for you!’ He sits down. It’s very nice. They’ll fit perfectly. ‘The water’s just right. Bring the cava!’

But just as the last ‘a’ comes out of his mouth, an abrupt door slam makes him close his eyes.

Silence.

Only the sound of the water when he moves his legs.

‘Òscar?’

He extends his neck to peer through the slit between the bathroom door and the frame. Nothing.

‘Òscar?’

He gets up and grabs one of the enormous towels he’d left on the sink and wraps himself in it. It isn’t soft at all. He presses his arms against his ribs.

He leaves the bathroom. The red carpeting brushes the bottom of his feet. Òscar’s cell phone rests on the bed.

An intermittent sound makes him turn.

Click, click, click, click. The beat slows.

It’s the little sign they’d found on the bed that evening when they entered the room. It’s long and has a hole that fits over the doorknob. DO NOT DISTURB. Manel had hung it on the knob, but facing into the room.

So they would see it themselves.

Do not disturb.

Safewords, like the couples therapist suggested they use to break the spell of arguments.

Do not disturb.

It is still gently swaying.

Right and left. Left and right.

Increasingly slower.

He approaches the door and opens it. At the end of the hallway, he can hear the sound of footsteps heading off.

He closes the door again, hard. The sign shakes violently.

Do not disturb, do not disturb, do not disturb, do not disturb.

His hand slides down the railing, his palm hot from the friction. His palm and his brain getting hotter with each passing floor. Òscar takes the stairs two by two. He needs to go back. Shoot a good photograph. Capture the murmur of the leaves, the creak of the chairlift. The darkness. Nature climbing the lift’s pylon.

And perhaps, the shadow.

Who is hiding behind the trees?

He passes the empty reception area. The sound of two deep voices blended in an argument makes him stop. He turns to the left, toward the manager’s room. He can hear the conversation clearly:

‘Don’t be rash, Tom, please, calm down.’

‘It’s back, Sam. It’s back!’

Òscar grips his camera tightly and looks at the stairs, then at the elevator.

He looks back at the door to the manager’s room.

‘Please, wait. Let’s see, there has to be some solution, Tom.’

‘I’m this close to losing it, Sam.’

Now the voice is calmer. He hears footsteps. His back rigid. What is he doing? He has to go back to the ski resort.

Completely naked, stepping over the towel with long strides, Manel approaches the rectangular window that goes from one side of the room to the other. He rests his forehead on the glass and a second later it’s steamed up. Seven floors down, in the hotel parking lot, beside the brown off-­road vehicle, he sees Òscar lighting a cigarette and looking up. He has his camera equipment hanging around his neck.

Òscar. What are you doing?

Their gazes intersect at some point between them.

Manel looks down hastily, supplicant; Òscar looks up defiant, harsh.

Their gazes meet at the second floor. Manel sticks a palm to the glass and tries to transmit to Òscar that he shouldn’t take another step, that he’s coming down now and they’ll take all the photos he wants to. Òscar takes another drag. He looks at the car. He can’t wait to get his driver’s license.

Manel watches Òscar’s silhouette disappear around the bend, swallowed up by the night. He grabs the window handle and pulls it to the right. The glass moves, with a piercing shriek. Bitter cold air comes in, freezing his uvula.

‘Òscar! Òscar! Don’t walk there! Come back!’

His shouts dissipate. Some snowflakes dance hesitantly and slip in through the window. He follows them with his gaze. They move slowly. The white snow melts amid the hairs of the red carpet, turning into a slight cloud of smoke. Is it snowing?

Òscar hears his name in the distance. He tosses the cigarette. He needs the photo. Quique, the curator of the exhibition, warned him: the last image has to be powerful. They had to impress the museum director. What’s more, Òscar, I’ve noticed that your work is losing intensity. You have to recover your energy.

You are losing intensity.

Intensity.

The intensity you used to have.

What was that shadow?

Òscar adjusts the camera strap. Manel doesn’t understand anything, he doesn’t understand my rhythm. His pace is set by working in an office. If he hadn’t desperately sought out work as an architect and focused on the comic he had finally started, maybe he’d understand me better. And now, he still wants a kid. Isn’t it enough that they’re married?

He turns. He looks at the hotel. Claustrophobia. He turns back and advances more quickly. You won’t keep me locked up here, I need the photo.

To recover my intensity.

His pants are getting damp because he didn’t dry himself off well. Manel throws the towel on the carpet. He’ll get the car, catch up with him halfway there, open up the door and say, come on, let’s go take all the photos you want.