The Good Suicides (9 page)

Tuesday was the only day Sílvia left work a little before six to attend her weekly yoga class. Only a devastating tornado could have altered this routine, which was then followed by a light dinner at home, a spell of TV on the sofa and a quick fuck in the bedroom. That was why César was there, although that Tuesday he’d arrived earlier than usual. He’d left work early, not because he had anything in particular to do, but because halfway through the afternoon he was sick of the atmosphere, charged with conjecture, pervading the air at the laboratory.

Since the day before, the news of Sara’s death had been on everyone’s lips: mostly malicious gossip, which pointed to the suicide of the MD’s secretary as the only explanation. “No one falls onto the metro tracks by accident” had been the phrase of the day, with some minor variations. From there, the musings shot off in various directions, with no more foundation than cheap psychology: the sadness of Christmas, isolation of women, rootlessness, lack of sex. Nonsense really, because very few really knew Sara Mahler; if they carried out a popularity contest in the company, she would have come close to last in the rankings, not because people found her disagreeable, but it wouldn’t have occurred to them to mention her. Sara went unnoticed: she preferred email to communicating in person, she barely moved from her desk, she attended company dinners and had good manners, but didn’t socialize very much. To top it all, at some point a rumor had gone around that she wasn’t to be trusted: too close to Víctor Alemany, too reserved for anyone to include her in general gossip and too foreign to understand people going out to smoke during work hours or spending more than five minutes at the coffee machine. And yet César knew they were wrong: Sara had been perfectly capable of keeping a secret … At least, he hoped so.

Enough, he told himself. He’d left work so as not to talk about Sara and now he couldn’t get her out of his head. And when Sílvia arrived the subject would certainly come up again. He finished the beer and threw the bottle in the glass bin. Then he went to the sitting room, sat down carefully on a sofa still as miraculously white as its first day and switched on the TV. One of those evening contests, presented by an
individual trying to muster enthusiasm in the audience, appeared on the screen. One of the competitors was a black kid, who was verbally dueling with a middle-aged woman whose knowledge he indubitably surpassed. With a slight involuntary gesture of disgust, César changed the channel and found a documentary about fish. This is better, he thought, letting himself be rocked by a monotonous and serene voice. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was having spent the whole of the previous night awake, or maybe it was because deep down he didn’t much like fish, but what was certain was that he was dead tired. He told himself just one minute, closing his eyes would help him relax, and a few minutes later he was asleep, head tilted and the remote control on his crotch.

He woke suddenly, startled, on feeling a rubbing on his flies. The sleep had been so deep that just then he didn’t really know where he was, or whether it was day or night. It took him a few seconds to come back completely to the conscious world, to that white sofa, the TV on. And to Emma, in a bathrobe, smiling at him with the remote.

“Good morning,” she said to him, sarcastically. “You were snoring like a wild animal in the zoo. Poor Mama—you’ll have to buy her earplugs.”

He yawned, unable to help it. He had an uncertain air that seemed to amuse her. César realized then that someone, Emma, had just turned off the television.

“I don’t think you were watching it,” she declared.

Her hair was wet, and when she left the remote on the coffee table César realized that Sílvia’s daughter wasn’t wearing anything under the bathrobe. Curled up on a corner of the sofa, she resembled a white angora cat, docile in appearance only.

“What time is it?” asked César. “Were you here when I arrived?”

“In the shower, I suppose.” She looked at the digital clock beside the TV. “And it’s early. Mama will be a while yet.”

Emma’s tone woke him fully. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Sixteen years old. “Like sixteen suns,” her mother would have said. César leaned his hands on his knees and made as if to stand up, but she extended her bare legs and left her feet on the coffee table, forming a ridiculous barrier, easily passable.

“Emma … Let me past. I’m going to the bathroom.”

She laughed.

“Only a coward would run away.” She looked down. “You should certainly throw out those shoes. They’re shabby. I’m sure Mama doesn’t like them at all. Neither do I.”

César took a few seconds to react. The cheek of the girl left him speechless.

“Fuck, Emma, enough!” The tone of annoyance sounded exaggerated, artificial. She lowered her legs, obedient. But he didn’t move. “Listen. I told you loud and clear a while ago: this isn’t funny.”

It was true. He’d repeated it often enough, especially during the previous summer, during the three weeks they spent together in a rented chalet on the Costa Brava. At first it had been nothing more than casual brushing against each other, always when they were alone, without Sílvia and without Pol. In the car, the aisle of the supermarket; on the beach, while the two were swimming … Or, with absolute nerve, one evening they stayed together in the swimming pool because Sílvia had gone to the hairdresser in town and Pol was out cycling with his friends. Then he wanted to settle the subject for the first time. A firm “no,” like you yell at a puppy who persists in chewing the cables. She had only smiled, like a perverse Gioconda, and whispered to him, almost at his ear: “And what will you do if I keep going? Tell Mama?”

It was what he should have done and he knew it. He simply didn’t dare. Emma was the perfect daughter: good marks, well mannered, responsible, punctual. Sílvia was so proud of her she wouldn’t have believed him. On the other hand, what was he going to say to her? That her adolescent daughter was harassing him? Him, an ordinary guy of forty-six? The mere idea of saying it out loud was ridiculous. And yet,
Emma finding him attractive filled him with a stupid pride that often helped him masturbate between Wednesday and Saturday.

“Look, we’ve already talked about this. Find yourself a boyfriend your own age.” He tried to make light of it, play the whole thing down, although the result was that Emma twisted it, annoyed like a little girl.

“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “Do whatever you want, but leave me alone, okay?”

She laughed again.

“If you give me a kiss,” she dared him. “Just one …”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Come on … on the cheek. A kiss from Papa.”

She was beside him, closer. The bathrobe had loosened a little, enough to outline her young breasts. Emma grabbed his hand and tried to guide it to her skin. Smooth, white, smelling of soap. César closed his fist to resist and grabbed her forcefully. They looked at each other, defiant. Her lips half-open, innocently eager. Seconds passed, but in that heartbeat they understood each other. They guessed that someday the inevitable would happen.

But not then: he managed to extricate himself and she gave a cry of pain.

“You twisted my wrist, you brute.”

“I’m going. Tell your mother I had to leave. And, as you’re so brave, you can tell her why.” César spoke without thinking. This time the words worked.

“No! César, don’t go …”

He strode toward the hall, put on his jacket. Emma shouted at him from the sitting room.

“César, come back! Please … I don’t want you to go.”

César saw himself as if he were observing himself from a distance and he was only half pleased. He, who had handled himself easily in brothels and bars, was playing at being offended now, playing the role of the dignified, inflexible man, when in reality he was no more than a
pathetic guy incapable of handling a young girl. Only a coward would run away, he repeated. Even so, anger overcame him and he already had his hand on the doorknob when Emma ran toward the hall and said hoarsely, “If you go, I’ll do what that Sara at the company did. I’ll kill myself. With bleach. And I’ll leave a note explaining that it’s your fault.”

César didn’t know if she was serious. He decided to turn around.

“Emma …”

Mistake. He should have left. He knew it although he was incapable of doing it. Her eyes were shining. Perhaps they were tears, of fury or frustration, but they didn’t fall. They remained in that blurry look, contained, threatening.

“Your fault and Mama’s. Both of you. I’ll leave a note that’ll sink you into misery forever.” She became more daring as she watched his face, paler every moment. “And you’ll have to explain the Sara thing as well. The reason she killed herself, if she did kill herself.”

“What are you saying?” His voice was scarcely a whisper.

“I know everything, César. Mama talks to you on the phone thinking I don’t hear her.” She laughed; it was a bitter chuckle, unhealthy, inappropriate for her age. And she repeated: “I always know everything. Don’t forget it.” She paused, took a step forward, lowered her head a little. The possible tears had disappeared, engulfed by the sensation of victory. “Now, are you going to give me that kiss? Just one … A kiss from Papa.”

For a moment he didn’t know whether to kiss her or slap her across the face. And standing there, motionless and sweaty, he understood with fear that neither did he know which of the two options excited him more.

It was an inappropriate night for the month of January. Quiet, peaceful. Deceptively warm. If you were very determined, you could even pick out the odd star that dared let itself be seen through the great veil that covered the city and had already become its only heaven. If we continue contaminating the city, thought Héctor, Christians will have to find another synonym for Paradise, some remote island or something, because no one’s going to want to stay in that sky. Maybe they’d get rid of Purgatory, a place he’d always imagined as a dirty ocher color, to keep the low-rent sinners far away. The authentic ones would still be condemned to Hell. Like suicides.

He’d always found it strange that the Church condemned them irrevocably. There was no justification that might absolve those who killed themselves. There were no good or bad suicides. The same punishment was inflicted on them all, without exception and without taking their previous path into account. Taking one’s own life was the ultimate sin. But if we don’t even have that, what is left to us? Héctor said to himself as he lit his fourth cigarette since he’d gone up to the roof terrace. Smoking and killing himself little by little, he thought. He approached the railing and exhaled a mouthful of smoke to further cloud the night sky; he hadn’t the least doubt that sleep wouldn’t come through natural means.

And the night had started on a promising note. For Christmas, in
an indirect and completely unsubtle way, he’d bought Guillermo some trainers, a gift his son contemplated with the same interest as if it were a knitting machine. However, the day before, at breakfast, in the turnaround that was clearly the distinct feature of adolescence, the boy had asked him when he would be going running and Héctor had hastened to seal the deal, before his son could change his mind. Tuesday evening, around eight.

And so it was. A reticent Guillermo was waiting for him at home, already changed and ready to go out when he arrived after half past eight. Not paying too much attention to the protests about the delay, Héctor put on shorts and running shoes, fearing in advance that the plan to “do things together” wasn’t as good an idea as he’d thought at the time of buying the present. Damn modern pedagogy which turns us all into imbeciles, he thought just before leaving. Guillermo’s bad-tempered face didn’t bode well.

And his foreboding turned out to be accurate. The kid was partly to blame, and so was Héctor. As always. He wasn’t accustomed to having company while he was running, and being constantly obliged to wait for someone put him on edge. On the other hand, Guillermo seemed embarrassed to be doing exercise with his father, who, moreover, was fitter than he. Certainly one doesn’t usually talk much while running, but a tense silence built up between them. Héctor had chosen a short route, a straight line, parallel to the sea. However, his rhythm was faster and, although he limited his pace, he left his son behind every few meters. Finally, when it occurred to him to say, out loud and in a mildly teasing voice, “Guille, son, speed up a bit,” the boy looked at him as if he had just subjected him to the worst humiliation, and with a sullen expression turned around and ran off in the opposite direction, really running then. Héctor hesitated between following him and continuing his route. In the end, knowing it was better to let time pass and tempers calm, he opted for the second.

When he arrived home, his son had already showered and shut himself in his room. He deduced that he’d also eaten, given that he found
plates in the sink, unwashed. Adding another reproach seemed excessive and he pretended not to see them. But when he saw the shoes in their box, on the table, in a gesture that to all appearances was a challenge, he knocked on his son’s bedroom door. No answer. He opened it and Guillermo didn’t seem perturbed by his entry: the computer was on, of course, and the headphones connected. Héctor had to make a Herculean effort his therapist would have been proud of to refrain from disconnecting all the electronic equipment to make him pay attention.

Then they had a chat that, in hindsight, it would have been better to avoid. The content and form didn’t matter; the result had been that Guillermo had invited him to leave the room—“Would you mind leaving me alone?”—and he’d responded with a typical caveman father phrase, in the Argentine accent that only emerged when he was angry, and that he had never thought he would say. To top it all, when the clichés were in full flow, each of them playing their role, Carmen had called.

The landlady didn’t seem to realize she was interrupting a father–son encounter. She was excited, nervous even. A state which, Héctor knew, could be due to only one thing: yes, Carmen’s son, Carlos, Charly to everyone, had called her that evening after years of not giving any sign of life. Every stray bullet finds a hole in which to lodge, Héctor reflected. And Charly was a long-range bullet who always ended up causing damage. Nevertheless, a mother is a mother, and although Carmen wasn’t foolish and knew what her son was like, the woman was happy, and Héctor spent some time talking to her. Charly was to arrive on Friday to stay for a while. Obviously he had no job, no money and hadn’t worked out a concrete plan. No doubt the crisis suited the return of thirtysomething prodigal sons.