The Good Suicides (12 page)

“I don’t know what to do now,” Carol said thoughtfully, after taking a small sip of wine. “I mean the apartment, and the money that keeps coming in. I suppose I should speak to Héctor …”

“He’s not a bad guy,” replied Leire. “Really.”

“Ruth used to say that. When I got pissed off—excuse me—she’d always defend him. It’s so hard not to be jealous of someone who has
been with your partner for so long …” She went on before Leire had time to interrupt, eyes fixed on the contents of the glass: “No, it wasn’t that. It was her. You know something? Sometimes Ruth made you feel like you were the center of the world. When you had a problem, when you were talking to her in the middle of the night, making love … But there were times her mind was far away, and then you realized you’d never be the center of her life. Ruth was much more free than she believed herself to be. And whoever was at her side had to accept that position without hoping for more. Of course, I see it now; at the time she drove me crazy. I lived in perpetual fear of losing her and I was striving to keep her.” She drank another sip of wine. “I suppose she would have ended up leaving me. I never imagined I’d lose her in such a way.”

She hesitated before those last words. Carol didn’t look like a person who cries in public, but the pain was imprinted in every gesture.

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. One thing is certain: she’d never have gone off for no reason. She was too serious, too responsible. And there’s Guillermo also. At first I thought it was something to do with her ex. I know, I know, he’s a good guy.” She sighed. “I’m not saying he’d hurt her, although I admit I did suspect him. But as soon as I saw him, I knew that however much I hated him that man wouldn’t be capable of such a thing. When something hurts you, you become more receptive to the pain of others.”

She took a last sip of wine. All that remained in the glass was a deep-red shadow, like a trace of blood.

“It had to be something related to him, anyway. With his work, that man he beat up …” She looked Leire in the eyes, with an expression of absolute uncertainty. “Nothing else occurs to me. If not, who would hurt Ruth?”

“Forgive the question, but are you sure there was no one else?”

“Can anyone be sure of that?” They both smiled. “Not on my part, I can swear to that. Not even now, six months later. No one can compare to Ruth. Or even come close.”

Carol plunged into her memories for a few moments and Leire could almost feel nostalgia overwhelming the café, its blackboards and empty tables. Even the waitress, once again a pillar of salt, also seemed to evoke a lost love.

“I’d swear Ruth was faithful to me. I believe she’d have told me the truth. The months she deceived her husband were torture for her. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s the truth.”

“Was there ever a woman before you? Forgive my intrusion. It just seems strange to me that someone could discover their attraction to the same sex at the age of thirty-eight.”

Carol shrugged.

“I’m pretty sure I was the first, if that means anything.”

“You never asked her?”

“It’s so obvious that you didn’t know her. Ruth only said what she wanted to. And she was capable of leaving you speechless with only a look. Sometimes I used to laugh at her, saying she seemed to have been pulled out of an English TV series. You know, the ones with ladies and gentlemen upstairs and servants downstairs.”

Leire nodded. That aristocratic air could be seen in the photos of Ruth as well. Even in jeans and a T-shirt she was elegant. With her own style. In the bar a gentle music was playing, a sort of
bossa nova
to a jazz rhythm that filled the air with a murmuring, cloying melody.

“I don’t know what else I can help you with. And I don’t know if I want to continue talking about this,” Carol admitted, with honesty.

“I understand. Just one other thing—was Ruth working on anything new?”

“She always had something in mind. There are various files with sketches and loose drawings. They’re still in her house, of course.”

“Would you mind if I had a look?”

She didn’t hold out much hope; what she really wanted to see was the house, the place where the trail was lost.

“I have keys. I suppose it won’t matter if you see them, although I don’t see how it will help.” Carol sighed. “I definitely have to talk to
Héctor about all this. No, not about you,” she clarified. “I mean what to do about the rent, Ruth’s things, the money …”

The money. It was the second time Carol had mentioned the subject, and the untrusting police officer in Leire couldn’t help noticing it. If she’d learned anything in her years of police experience it was that greed was one of the oldest emotions in the world. And one of the most lethal … In this case, however, and leaving aside personal impressions—she couldn’t imagine the woman sharing her table killing for money—there was one obvious fact: Ruth was worth much more alive than dead. She was young, with a professional career of many years ahead of her, which would generate benefits Carol would share. Without the creative mind, the commercial half of this partnership wouldn’t have anything else to sell. In spite of all this, she made a mental note to ascertain the financial state of the partnership they shared. The danger of any investigation, she knew, was to leave loose ends based on personal impressions or preconceived ideas. Anyway, she decided to concentrate for the moment on the possibility of seeing the space where Ruth had lived and worked. She wasn’t sure that Carol wouldn’t regret the offer if she didn’t seize the moment, so she risked asking, “Are you in a hurry? I was thinking it’s not too late and we could go over to Ruth’s house now, if it’s not inconvenient.”

“Now?” Carol hesitated.

“Suits me.” She didn’t want to insist too much, just enough. She perceived that she’d managed to build a climate of trust, of cooperation that evening, which might cool as soon as they separated.

She wasn’t mistaken. Carol thought for a moment and then agreed.

“All right. I have the car in the garage and I have the keys. Actually, I still haven’t managed to leave them at home.”

Leire didn’t say any more. She paid the bill, ignoring Carol’s protests, and turned to the door. The sooner they left, the fewer the possibilities for her companion to change her mind. Already at the door, while she was buttoning her coat—a type of shawl that according to her friend María made her look as poor as a Russian singer-songwriter—she
looked at the waitress through the glass. In that café, so big and empty, she seemed an insignificant figure. She was still sitting behind the bar and at her shoulder rose a wall of bottles. A green slippery backdrop for that pale creature, with very red lips and plucked eyebrows, leaning her elbows on the white marble.

Empty apartments are like actresses in decline, thought Leire. Well kept, always awaiting the arrival of the person who gives them meaning so that they can once again become welcoming, lively spaces, they never manage to shake off a dusty, rancid air, an aspect of assumed neglect that repels rather than attracts. With grand dimensions and high ceilings, Ruth’s seemed even more hollow, more abandoned. More melancholy.

It wasn’t exactly a loft, more a hybrid between a studio and a conventional apartment. On one side was the sitting room and a breakfast bar that separated it from the kitchen; a prefabricated partition ate up a few meters: this had been Guillermo’s room. On the other side, at the end of a long, rather gloomy corridor, it opened up into a square space, equipped to serve as a studio and also supplied with some plasterboard walls, which marked out Ruth’s bedroom. In fact, it was like two symmetrical apartments, linked by that corridor.

As if she perceived the poor impression the apartment was giving, Carol turned on all the lights and somehow managed to enliven that cold space. Standing in the middle of the sitting room, Leire was perfectly capable of imagining Ruth and her son sitting on the brown leather sofa that leaned against a brick wall. She examined the size of the place, the brown beams furrowing the ceilings. A couple of large abstract paintings were a contrast to the somber sofa, and an immense
rug—one of Ruth’s designs—brightened the wooden floor, which was crying out for a good polish. There were books piled in the corners, but the overall effect didn’t create a feeling of chaos, rather a cozy disorder that emanates from places where people live calmly, relaxed, carelessly happy.

“The studio is at the end of the corridor. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait here for you.”

Leire understood. She was sure Ruth and Carol had shared more time in this work area, bedroom and bathroom included, than in the sitting room. From the little she knew of her, she guessed that Ruth valued her privacy; she couldn’t imagine her cavorting with her lover, whichever sex, on the sitting-room sofa, beside her son’s bedroom.

The studio was what you would expect of an illustrator. Two desks, one supplied with a computer and another, bigger one, resembling the one Leire had used in art classes at school; resting on it were stacks of files, all labeled. Ruth Valldaura was an organized person, no exaggeration. Sensible, thought Leire, not tolerating mess or excessive tidiness. She glanced at the pieces of work on the table, for the most part illustrations for a book of haiku.

The same elegance she displayed in the few photos Leire had seen of her came through in those drawings in simple but expressive strokes. Ruth spoke through her drawings: each one that lay before Leire told a brief story.

“Excuse me.” Carol’s voice came from the other end. “Are you going to be much longer?”

The question was the well-mannered translation of “Can we go, please?” and Leire decided to pretend she hadn’t heard her for a few minutes. Then she realized that if she wanted to really look at all of it she’d need more time than she had just then. That’s the worst of investigating off your own back, she told herself. She moved toward the big files on the ground, not really knowing what she was looking for or what they could contribute. Probably nothing … And yet part of Ruth’s nature had to be reflected in her work, no doubt about that. Leire began
moving the files and looking at the labels. Ruth’s more commercial work didn’t interest her; she was relying on finding something else, a more personal, more private trove … the designs an artist would do for herself, not to order.

Carol was insistent, and this time Leire answered her with a vague “Just a second, I’m almost done.” She was starting to get flustered and considered the possibility of asking for the keys so she could come back another day, when a small file, the kind used to keep receipts, appeared inside a much bigger one. It had no label, so she opened it and took a quick look inside. Leire had never had many scruples: she checked that it would fit in the enormous bag she was carrying, put it in and went back to Carol. She was so ready to go she didn’t even pay attention.

They turned off the lights and went out to the landing. The door closed with a resigned whine, the assumed sadness of one who knew their best days were behind them.

Carol insisted on seeing her home and Leire barely protested, though what she was carrying in her bag made her feel like an ungrateful thief. They spoke little during the journey—there wasn’t much to say—and when they arrived it was obvious the driver wanted to be gone as soon as possible.

“By the way,” Carol said before wishing her good-bye, “I don’t know what was going on with your phone when I arrived, but murderous desires won’t make you feel better.”

Taken aback, Leire took a few seconds to react. She had completely forgotten Tomás’s text.

“Well,” she said, looking at her belly, “it wouldn’t be good to leave this baby fatherless so soon.”

Carol smiled and said nothing. From the pavement, Leire watched her leave and then headed toward her building. She went up in the lift, alone, thinking that for once it would be nice if someone were waiting for her at home. Perhaps the conversation with Carol was to blame: the love of others always provokes envy. And if there was one thing she didn’t doubt, it was that this woman had lived a true love story with
Ruth. Requited or not, it didn’t matter. Carol had loved Ruth, and so had Héctor. To be honest, she wasn’t sure anyone had ever loved her that way, and an enormous desire to know the object of these passions overcame her: to ask her what was her secret, her potion, her spell that managed to bewitch men and women so. And then she became firmly convinced, with no proof to support it, that the people who possess this charm unknowingly live in danger, because there’s always someone who loves them from afar, or loves them too much. Or simply can’t bear loving them that way.

Sitting on the sofa, Leire opened the file with the intimate feeling of committing a reprehensible act, all the more so because she certainly wouldn’t gain anything useful from it other than satisfying her ever-growing curiosity about Ruth. Although maybe everyone would be equally interesting if their lives were examined under a microscope: details enrich even the most anodyne of existences.

Inside the file were drawings, receipts, exhibition catalogs, magazine clippings on various subjects, old photographs, piled up with no order or coordination. Leire looked through them all with the patience of a collector. Although those who knew her would confirm she was a woman of action, if there was one facet of her work that characterized Agent Castro it was her obsession with not leaving a single fact, a single link, without close examination. So, tired but not sleepy—by the end of the day her feet were so swollen she barely recognized them—she slowly sorted the photos from the drawings, the receipts from the scraps of paper with a phone number or address scribbled on them. A little later she had several distinct piles, and to eliminate them she began flicking through the pile of receipts and catalogs, which, as expected, contributed little information. That Ruth liked art and photography and design exhibitions she knew already. She moved on to the photos, because there were only a few. Computers have taken the place of photo albums, she said to herself, thinking of the ones her mother had at home. And
instantly she remembered her mother had called her that afternoon, and made a mental note to get in touch with her first thing in the morning. If she didn’t, the scolding might be epic.