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

Redirect the situation again.

They can’t discuss the subject tonight, but if he can manage to reduce the tension, maybe they can talk about it tomorrow. He sits down on the bed and ties his sneakers.

A child, for both of them.

The scent of Òscar.

There’s a gentle knock on the door. Three times. Manel stands up and feels his muscles relaxing again. He came back. Sometimes he does that. Not often, but sometimes. He leaves and comes back. In a bad mood. But he comes back.

Relaxed muscles, tension, relaxed muscles, tension.

Now he’ll hug him very, very tight. He’s anxious to smell his scent.

He opens the door.

Sam, hunched over, observes him, with a bunch of papers in his hand. Manel feels his stomach getting hard and small.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m gathering signatures.’

‘Sorry, I’m in a rush.’

Manel closes the door. He takes in a breath. He tightens his lips. He takes a step back, grabs the other sneaker and balances as he puts it on. Who cares if he was rude.

Tense muscles. He needs the smell of Òscar.

There’s a knock at the door again. Harder this time. What the . . . ? He finishes tying his shoelace and opens it.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you. But I need the signatures.’ Sam rubs his forehead, his right hand trembles. ‘I’ve been collecting signatures for years. It’s so they’ll take the bear to a shelter.’

Sam holds out the papers to him.

Manel looks at the yellowed, slightly wrinkled pages divided into rectangles, each containing a signature. He wants to hug Òscar very, very tight. He’s starting to get jittery.

‘What bear?’

‘The bear that lives in the forests above the ski station. My brother is very nervous. He’s here, downstairs, in my room, and he is very nervous today. The signatures are to have the bear taken to a shelter. I need the signatures. Tom says that two sheep have disappeared from his flock and he found blood on the grass above where they graze. I already told him not to worry, that we’ll gather more signatures, that they’ll finally pay attention to us. That for once and for all . . . they’ll pay attention to us.’

Sam hands the fountain pen to Manel.

Manel opens his eyes wide. His nostrils have become thin, fine ducts.

‘But is this bear dangerous? You didn’t mention it when I made the reservation.’

Sam shakes his head, with a sad expression.

‘Not at all. Don’t worry. I swear.’

Manel takes Sam’s fountain pen. He lifts his leg and places the pages on his left thigh. He signs quickly and hands them back. Sam stands there, staring at him.

‘It’s snowing a lot. Hard to believe. I haven’t seen it snow like this in many years. And with this heat . . .’

Manel turns and looks through the window of his hotel room. The snowflakes plummet into the night.

White on black.

Suddenly, a car engine is heard. Sam turns, looks at the hallway and shouts, ‘No! Tom!’

He runs off, Manel glances around the hotel room, grabs his car keys from the bedside table, closes the door and follows him. They rush down the stairs and when they reach the lobby Sam lets out a sigh, places his hands on his nape.

‘No! No! No! No!’

Manel sees where Sam is looking. On the lobby’s wall, beneath the paintings, there is only the dusty outline of the shotgun.

The windshield wipers move at the rhythm of his heartbeats. Manel drives at twenty kilometers per hour with his chin pressed tight to the steering wheel, following the footprints Òscar left in the snow. Beside him, Sam looks nervously out the window and just keeps repeating in a whisper: he’s crazy, he’s crazy . . .

The temperature is plummeting. He turns on the brights. The darkness is absolute. Outside, everything is blackness. Sam asked Manel to drive him to the ski station, he’s sure that’s where his brother is headed. To the upper part. To the forests. Manel finds it all crazy, but he has no time to argue. He needs to find and hug Òscar.

Relax his muscles.

He should have gone with him. He had five long, beautiful days to calmly tell him about the meeting.

Five days.

Manel should have waited until Òscar had at least one good photo. The coordinator at the center, months ago, gave him just one piece of advice over the phone: you have to cultivate patience, adoption is a long process.

Patience.

Manel chews his lip. He forgot to breathe and inhales suddenly through his nose and is overcome with an immense desire to cry. Òscar had been saving up months for that flash.

Almost there, almost there. A long, tight curve. A straight stretch and I’ll be there. And I’ll hug you, Òscar.

Redirecting the situation, as always. Swallowing the tension.

Daddy.

Sam keeps repeating: he’s crazy, he’s crazy.

The snow piles up on Òscar’s shoulders as he walks along the side of the road, slightly hunched over because it’s getting colder and colder. And he looks at the ground, at the snow, at his new boots. Manel, as they sat on benches in the airport, had assured him the weather would be good, that there would be no clouds and that the full moon would give off plenty of light. Didn’t he check carefully? Did he not know how to read the lunar calendar? Or maybe he just didn’t say anything, because that way they would stay in the hotel room, no excuses, holed up.

While it snowed.

It’s pretty obvious he lied to him on purpose.

He pats the camera case. It’s soaked. He opens up his coat and hides it inside. It must be fifteen more minutes of walking before he gets to the ski station. He’s not sure if the case will keep the camera dry.

Suddenly he hears the sound of skidding wheels on the road. That’s it. He always ends up coming looking for him. Can’t he just leave him be? He turns and is dazzled by the car’s headlights. He places a hand on his forehead as a visor. He feels the camera lens sticking in his chest. Now he’ll say, come on, Òscar, let’s go, let’s go take the photos. Of course. It’s his work, he isn’t here on vacation. He stands in the middle of the road so he’ll see him and he lifts his arms, lowering his chin slightly so the car’s lights don’t pierce his retinas. The car brakes, the wheels skate on the virgin snow. Òscar looks up and feels a shiver at the back of his neck.

The car in front of him is not the one they rented earlier that day.

It must not smell of lemon or new car and it must not be Manel’s hand resting on the gear shift, about to stroke his thigh.

Òscar squints his eyes, the headlights reduce to two yellow spots, but he still can’t identify the driver. He hears barking. The car is not moving. Snow is dropping onto the hood. Òscar approaches without taking his eyes off the windshield. The driver lowers his window. Is that Sam?

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the ski station.’

The driver nods to his right. Is he telling him to get in? He makes the same gesture, this time with his forehead furrowed. Òscar nods and walks around the car and opens the passenger side door. In the back seat there are two dogs, their eyes filled with rage.

‘Don’t mind them. They’re not dangerous. Not to you.’

‘Did you leave the hotel unattended?’

The driver smiles with one side of his mouth and looks at him.

‘I’m not Sam, I’m his twin brother. My name is Tom.’

‘Did you have a fight?’

Manel is driving, keeping his eyes on Òscar’s footprints, which are already disappearing, covered by snow. He notices Sam’s gaze.

‘No.’

Sam looks out the window again.

Manel glances at him out of the corner of his eye. The hotel manager has thin, white hair. His coat seems to be from some other time period and smells of wood, and ash. He chews on his lips.