The Summer of Dead Toys (8 page)

You there?

 

Aleix, man, you there?

The little screen of the computer indicated that . The girl bit her lower lip, nervous; she already had her mobile in her hand when the other person’s status changed from absent to busy. Gina dropped her phone and went to the keyboard.

I have to talk to you! answer.

Finally the answer appeared. A hello, accompanied by a smiley face winking at her. The sound of the door handle startled her. She just had time to minimize the screen before the scent of her mother’s perfume filled the air.

“Gina, sweetheart, I’m off.” The woman didn’t cross the threshold. She was carrying an open white bag, in which she was rummaging as she continued speaking. “Where the hell is the damn remote car key? Could they make them any smaller?” Finally she found it and flashed a triumphant smile. “Angel, are you sure you don’t want to come?” Her smile faded a little on seeing the rings under Gina’s eyes. “You can’t shut yourself up in here all summer, angel. It’s not good. Look what a lovely day it is! You need fresh air.”

“You’re going to L’Illa, Mama, ten minutes away,” grumbled Gina. “By car. Not running in the country.” If any doubt remained that the countryside didn’t feature in her mother’s plans, a look at her attire was all that was required: a white dress cinched at the waist with a belt of the same fabric; white sandals with a heel high enough to elevate her five-foot-five stature to a respectable five foot seven; hair, naturally blonde, shining, brushing her shoulders. Against a background of palm trees she would have been the perfect image for a shampoo ad.

Regina Ballester ignored the sarcasm. It had already been a while since she’d become hardened to the biting comments of this daughter, who, in pyjamas at half one in the afternoon, looked more like a little girl than ever. She went over and gave her a kiss on the head.

“You can’t go on like this, sweetheart. I’m not leaving with an easy mind . . .”
“Mama!” She didn’t want to start another fight: these days her mother barely left her alone and she had to talk to Aleix. Urgently. So, overcoming how that intense fragrance bothered her, she let herself be hugged, and even smiled. To think that there’d been a time when she sought those arms spontaneously; now she felt they were smothering her. Her mother had even put perfume on her breasts! She smiled, with more malice than inclination. “Are you going to the swimwear shop?” It didn’t fail: giving her mother something to do that included the words “shop” and “buy” was usually a sure route to peace. And although she couldn’t swear to it, the perfumed breasts indicated that the shopping centre was a secondary destination in her mother’s plans. “Get me the one we saw in the window.” Taking into account that she wasn’t planning on going to the beach all summer and the fucking swimsuit didn’t matter to her at all, she managed to give a fairly convincing ring to the request. She even pleaded in a spoiled-little-girl voice that she herself hated with all her heart. “Go on—please.”
“The other day you didn’t seem so enthusiastic. When we were both outside the shop,” replied Regina.
“I was bummed, Mama,” . . . “Bummed” was a phrase Regina Ballester hated deeply, because as well as sounding rather vulgar, it described any of her daughter’s moods: sad, worried, grouchy, bored . . . “Bummed” seemed to encompass them all, without distinction.
Gina fiddled with the computer mouse. Would she never go? She extricated herself smoothly from the embrace and played her trump card.
“Fine, don’t buy it for me. It’s not like I feel much like going to the beach this year—”
“Of course you’re going to the beach. Your father gets back from his promotional tour tomorrow and next week we’re going to Llafranc. Not for nothing have I taken holiday this month.” This was something Regina usually did: implicit reminders of how much she did for others. “I can’t stand Barcelona any more this summer! The heat is unbearable.” Regina looked discreetly at her silver watch: it was getting late. “I’m going or I won’t have time to do everything,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be back before five. If the
Mossos
get here before me, don’t say anything to them.”
“Can I open the door to them? Or would you prefer me to leave them out in the street?” asked Gina, with feigned innocence. She couldn’t help it: these days her mother drove her crazy.
“There’ll be no need. I’ll be here. I promise.”
The tap of her heels echoed on the stairs. Gina was about to maximize the Messenger screen when those same footsteps came back toward her, hurriedly.
“Have I left—?”
“Here’s the remote, Mama.” She picked it up from the table where Regina had left it to hug her, and threw it smoothly, without moving from the chair. Her mother caught it. “You should wear it around your neck.” And, when she was sure her mother could no longer hear her, she murmured, “Of course it would scramble in that stench.”
Click. The little screen shone before her once again.

gi, what’s up? u there???
okaaaay, im bored
see u babe, chat l8r!!!! :-)

No, no, no, no . . .

 

My mother was here, I couldn’t talk.

 

Fuck, answer, Aleix, please.

 

heyyyyy!!! thought so. still droning away then?

 

Gina exhaled. Minor relief. She launched herself at the keyboard at top speed. And not to criticize her mother.

Have the cops called you?
cops? no, y?
Shit, they’re coming to see me this afternoon. I don’t know what they want, seriously . . .

A pause of a few seconds.

definitely nothing. same as always. dont u worry. I’m scared . . . and what if they ask me about . . . they’re not going to ask anything, they dont have a clue. How do you know?
i just know. anyway, we didnt do it in the end, remember?

Gina’s frown signalled an intense mental effort.

 

What do you mean?

Gina could almost see Aleix’s annoyed face, the one he put on when he was forced to explain things that seemed obvious to him. An expression which, at times—sometimes—irritated her, and usually calmed her down. He was cleverer. That no one doubted. Having the school prodigy as a friend meant putting up with certain condescending looks.

we thought about doing something but we didnt do it. not the same thing, right? doesnt matter what we planned, in d end we backed out.
Marc didn’t back out.

The cursor was blinking as if it were waiting for her to continue writing.

 

gi, WE DIDNT DO ANYTHING.

 

The capitals rang out like an accusation.

Yeah, you stopped it . . .
and i was right. or was i not? you and i spoke about it and we agreed. it had to be stopped.

Gina nodded as if he could see her. But deep down she knew she had no fixed opinion on the matter. Realizing it like this, so crudely, filled her with a profound self-loathing. Aleix had convinced her that afternoon, but in her heart of hearts she knew she’d failed Marc in something that had been very important to him.

u def have the USB, right?
Yes.
ok. listen, want me to come to ur house this afternoon? for the cops thing.

Gina did want him to, but a stab of pride stopped her admitting it.

 

No, no need, I’ll call you.

 

weird they’re coming to your house . . .

 

She changed the subject.

 

By the way, my mother put perfume on to go out ;-) hahaha . . . and my father’s not coming home for lunch!

Gina smiled. The supposed affair between her mother and Aleix’s father was something they’d come up with out of boredom one afternoon, while Marc was in Dublin. They’d never bothered to confirm it, but over time, on the strength of repeating it, the hypothesis had become an absolute certainty for them. It amused them to think that her mother and Miquel Rovira, the serious, ultra-Catholic Dr. Rovira, were at that moment fucking furtively in a hotel room.

im gonna have something to eat, gi! talk soon, ok? Kisses

He didn’t wait for her to answer. His icon suddenly went gray and left her alone in front of the screen. Gina looked around: the unmade bed, the clothes dumped on one of the chairs, the shelves still full of teddies. It’s a little girl’s room, she said to herself scornfully. She bit her lower lip until it bled, and she passed the back of her hand over the injury. Then she got up, took an enormous empty cardboard box from the wardrobe, which until recently had contained all her schoolbooks— all of them, kept out of feigned affection for years—and put it in the centre of the room. Then she went along grabbing the teddies one by one and throwing them face down into the box, almost without looking at them. It didn’t take long. Barely fifteen minutes later the sealed box rested in a corner and the walls looked strangely empty. Naked. Sad. Soulless, her father would say.

8

As the car climbed toward the upmarket area of the city, the streets seemed to empty. From the dense, noisy traffic around Plaça Espanya, plagued by motorbikes taking advantage of the smallest gap to slip between the cars and taxis moving slowly forward like zombies awaiting a potential victim, they’d come in barely fifteen minutes to the wide expanses of Avinquda Sarrià: they crossed the city in the direction of the Ronda de Dalt. On a day like this, of blinding sun and suffocating temperatures, the sky gave the impression of having been whitewashed and the mountain, scarcely visible at the end of the long avenue, hinted at the promise of a cool oasis which contrasted with the scorching asphalt of three in the afternoon.

Sitting on the passenger side, Héctor contemplated the city without seeing it. By his sad expression and slight frown, one would say his thoughts were far away from those streets, roaming some shadier but not at all pleasant place. He hadn’t uttered a single word since they got into the car and Leire took the wheel. The silence might have been uncomfortable had she not also been lost in her own world. In fact, she was even grateful for those minutes of peace: the station had been hectic that morning and she wasn’t very proud of her performance in front of the superintendent. But the image of the “Predictor” confirming her fears with an intense purple color came into her mind at the most unexpected moments.

Héctor half-closed his eyes in an effort to re-order his thoughts: he hadn’t spoken to Andreu in private and he was dying to ask her if there was anything new in the case of the doctor. He also remembered that he’d called his son in the morning after coming out of the psychologist’s and he hadn’t returned his call. He looked at his mobile again, as if he could will it to ring.

A sudden braking jolted him back to his senses and he turned to his colleague, not knowing what had happened. He understood instantly on seeing an urban cyclist, a member of that reckless tribe that had recently invaded the streets, who turned toward them more offended than scared.

“I’m sorry,” Leire apologized. “That bike crossed suddenly.” He didn’t respond but nodded with a distracted air. Leire exhaled slowly: the bike hadn’t come out of nowhere; she’d simply become too distracted. Fuck, enough! She breathed deeply and decided that the silence was overwhelming, so she opted to strike up a conversation with the inspector before he got submerged in thought again.

“Thanks for before. In Superintendent Savall’s office,” she clarified. “My head was in the clouds.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It was obvious, to be honest.” He made an effort to follow the conversation: he was also sick of thinking. “But don’t worry: Savall barks a lot and bites very little.”
“I know I deserved the barks,” she replied, with a smile on her lips.
Héctor continued speaking without looking at her, his eyes straight ahead.
“How did the Castells family seem to you?” he asked out of the blue.
She took a few seconds to answer.
“It’s strange . . . I thought it would be harder. Interrogating them about the death of a son only nineteen years old.”
“And it wasn’t?” His voice was still tense, rapid, but this time he deigned to turn toward her. Leire had the feeling of being in an oral exam and concentrated on finding the right answer.
“It wasn’t pleasant, that’s for sure. But not’—she searched for the word—“dramatic, either. I suppose they’re too reserved to make a scene, and after all she’s not his mother . . . Although that doesn’t mean they don’t give free rein to their emotions when they’re alone.”
Héctor said nothing and the lack of comment made Leire expand on her answer.
“What’s more,” she continued, “I suppose religion helps its faithful in these cases. I’ve always envied that. Although at the same time I can’t quite swallow it.”
For the second time that day, the concept of God had come up. And when Héctor answered his companion, a little before they reached their destination, he did so with an explanation she didn’t fully understand.
“Believers have an advantage over us. They have someone to confide in, someone who protects or consoles them. A superior power that clears up their doubts and dictates their conduct. We, on the other hand, have only demons to fear.”
Leire noticed that he was speaking more to himself than to her. Fortunately, on her right she saw the modern façade of the building to which they were heading and, given that it was summer, the surrounding area was practically empty. She parked on the opposite corner, in the shade, without a problem.
Héctor got out of the car immediately; he needed a cigarette. He lit one without offering one to his colleague and smoked greedily, his eyes on the school Marc Castells had attended until the year before his death. While he smoked, she moved toward the railings that marked out the landscaped area: another consequence of this new condition her body was experiencing was that, although she felt like smoking, she couldn’t tolerate passive smoke. That place was as similar to the smalltown school in which she had studied as the White House is to a whitewashed shack. The rich still live in a different world, she said to herself. However much more equal things had become, the building in front of her—surrounded by gardens, with grass spread out like a green carpet, and with a gymnasium and an adjacent auditorium—strictly speaking looked more like a university campus than a school, and it marked the profound difference, from infancy, between a select group of students who enjoyed all these facilities as the most normal thing in the world, and all the other kids who only saw places like this in American sitcoms. By the time she realized this, the inspector had already put out his cigarette and was entering the open gate. Somewhat annoyed, feeling as if he were treating her like a chauffeur who should wait at the door, she followed him. In fact, the visit to the school was an impromptu, last-minute idea. Most likely, she said to herself, they’d find no one there at that hour, but he hadn’t asked her opinion. Typical boss, she thought as she walked a pace behind the inspector. At least this one has a nice ass.
They both moved down the wide, irregularly paved path that crossed the garden to the main building. The door was closed, as Leire expected, but opened with a metallic hum after Héctor rang the bell. A spacious corridor stretched before them, with a glass-walled office, no doubt the school secretary’s office. A middle-aged woman with a tired expression received them from the other side of the glass.
“I’m sorry, but we’re already closed.” She glanced toward a notice which clearly stated that the summer opening hours of the office were from nine until half past one. “If you want information on enrolment or about the centre you will have to come back tomorrow.”
“No, we’re not interested in enrolment,” said Héctor, showing her his badge. “I’m Inspector Salgado and this is Agent Castro. We wanted information about a pupil of this centre, Marc Castells.”
A glow of interest flickered in the woman’s eyes. No doubt this was the most exciting thing that had happened to her for a while.
“I suppose you are aware of what has happened,” continued Héctor in a formal tone.
“Of course! I myself took charge of sending a wreath to his funeral on behalf of the school.” She said it as if any doubt might offend. “A terrible thing! But I don’t know what I can tell you. It would be better to speak to one of the teachers, but I don’t know who is here. In summer they don’t keep a fixed schedule: they come in the mornings until the fifteenth to do paperwork and curriculum planning, but at lunchtime almost all of them disappear.”
However, at that moment footsteps resonated in the enormous corridor and a man of around thirty-five approached the office with various yellow files in his hand. The woman flashed a radiant smile.
“You’re in luck. Alfonso,” she said, turning to the new arrival, “this is Inspector . . .”
“Salgado,” finished Héctor.
“Alfonso Esteve was Marc’s tutor in his last year here,” clarified the secretary, deeply satisfied.
The said Alfonso didn’t seem quite so satisfied and looked the visitors over, eyes reticent.
“Can I help you?” he asked after a moment or two’s hesitation. He was a man of short stature, no more than five foot seven, dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved, white-and-green checked shirt and trainers. Tortoiseshell glasses bestowed an overall air of seriousness. Before Salgado could answer, he put the yellow files on the counter. “Mercè, can you file them, please? They’re the September exams.” The secretary took them but didn’t move from the window.
“Could we talk somewhere?” Héctor asked. “Just for a few minutes.”
The teacher threw a sidelong glance at the secretary and she seemed to nod, not too convinced.
“I don’t know if the principal would approve,” he said eventually. “Our pupils’ files are private, you know.”
Héctor Salgado didn’t move a millimetre and his eyes seemed fixed on the teacher.
“All right,” he gave in, “we’ll go to the teachers’ lounge. It’s empty.”
The secretary looked disillusioned, but said nothing. Salgado and Castro followed Alfonso Esteve, who was walking rapidly toward one of the rooms at the other end of the corridor.
“Please, take a seat,” he said to them on entering, and closed the door. “Would you like a coffee?”
Leire saw a shining red coffee machine situated above a little fridge. Héctor answered before her.
“Yes, please.” His tone had changed and became much more approachable. “Holidays about to start?”
“Yes, they have already. And you?” The teacher smiled at Agent Castro while he put the capsule in the cafetiere.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“A little milk for me, please,” Salgado interjected. “No sugar.”
Alfonso brought the two coffees to the table. As soon as he sat down, a worried expression clouded his face. Before he could express his reservations, Inspector Salgado took the initiative.
“Listen, this is in no way an official visit. We just want to close this boy’s case, and there are certain things the family and friends can’t tell us. Details of his personality, his character. I’m sure you know your pupils well and have formed opinions of them. What was Marc Castells like? I’m not talking about academic results, more his conduct, his friends. You know what I mean.”
The teacher seemed visibly flattered and answered without hesitating.
“Well, strictly speaking, Marc was no longer my student. But he was a while back, for the last year of Secondary and the two years of Baccalaureate.”
“What do you teach?”
“Geography and history. It depends on the year.”
“And you were his tutor for the second year of Baccalaureate.”
“Yes. It wasn’t a good year for Marc. Let’s be clear, he was never a brilliant student or anything like it. In fact, he just finished Secondary and had to repeat first year, but up to then he’d never had any problems with conduct.”
Leire looked at the teacher with an expression of frank interest.
“And this changed?”
“He changed a lot,” confirmed Alfonso. “Although at the beginning we were happy about it. You see, Marc had always been a very timid, introverted boy, not much of a talker. One of those that go unnoticed in the classroom and, I’m afraid, out of it. I believe throughout all of Secondary I never heard his voice unless it was to answer a direct question. So it was a relief when he began to come out of his shell, in the first year of Baccalaureate. He was more active, less silent . . . I suppose being at Aleix Rovira’s side woke him up.”
Héctor nodded. The name was familiar.
“They became friends?”
“I think the families already knew each other, but when Marc repeated and was in the same class they became inseparable. That’s normal in adolescence, and it’s clear this friendship favored Marc, at least academically speaking. Aleix is, without doubt, the most brilliant student this school has had in recent years.” He spoke with confidence and yet an ironic echo resonated in the phrase, a note of rancour.
“You didn’t get on with him?”
The teacher fidgeted with the coffee spoon, obviously unsure. Leire was going to repeat the reassuring murmur about the conversation being unofficial but Alfonso Esteve didn’t give her the time to do it.
“Aleix Rovira is one of the most complicated students I’ve ever had.” He noted that his comment required an explanation and so he continued. “Very intelligent, of course, and, according to the girls, quite attractive. Not at all the typical swot: he was as good at sports as he was at mathematics. A born leader. I suppose it’s not surprising: he’s the youngest of five siblings, all boys, all strictly educated in what we might call ‘Christian values.”” He paused. “In his case, a serious problem in his childhood has to be factored in: he had leukaemia, or something like it. So it’s even more commendable that once recovered he was always top of the class.”
“But?” Héctor smiled.
“But,” Alfonso stopped again, “but there was something cold in Aleix. As if he’d seen it all before, as if his intelligence and the experience of his illness had given him a . . . cynical maturity. He had the group wrapped around his little finger, and some teachers as well. Being top of the class, the best in the history of the school, and the memory of his battle against cancer gave him a type of insensitivity to everything.”
“Are you talking about bullying?” asked Leire.
“That would be stating it too strongly, although there was some. Biting comments directed toward the less clever or less attractive; nothing you could accuse him of, but it was clear the whole year did what he wanted. If he was rude to one of the teachers, they all copied him; if he decided one must be respected the rest did the same. Anyway, this is only my opinion; most people think he is a charming boy.”
“You seem quite convinced of this opinion, Señor Esteve,” pressed Castro. She sensed there was something else and didn’t want the teacher to leave it unspoken.
“Listen, me being sure is one thing; it being the truth is something very different.” He lowered his voice, as if he were going to tell them a secret. “A school is a rumor factory and it’s difficult to establish their origin; they emerge, they spread, they’re discussed. They start in a whisper, hidden from the person concerned; then they become louder until in the end they explode like a bomb.”
Both Salgado and Castro still stared at him, willing him to continue.
“There was a teacher, not so young, forty-something. She arrived when Aleix and Marc were doing First Bacc together. For some reason, she and Aleix didn’t get on. It’s strange, because he usually made an effort to have a rapport with the female teachers. The rumors began immediately, of every kind. No one knows much about what happened, but she didn’t last the year.”
“And you believe those rumors came from Aleix?”
“I’d swear they did. One day she didn’t come to work and I subbed for her. Aleix had an expression of cruel satisfaction, I’m sure.”
“And Marc? ”
“Well, poor Marc was his number-one fan. His father had remarried and I think his wife couldn’t have children, so they adopted a little Chinese girl. That meant trips, absences . . . Marc needed someone in his corner, and that someone was Aleix Rovira.”
“They ended up expelling him for a few days,” added Héctor. This had been the main reason for their visit: in places like this, crawling with pupils from good families, expulsions were rare. However, if he was hoping the teacher would clarify the matter, he immediately became aware that that wasn’t going to happen: suddenly regretting his previous indiscretion, the man chose to dig his heels in on that subject.
“That happened the following year, but I’m afraid it’s part of the student’s private file. And it’s confidential. If you want to know more, you’ll have to speak to the principal.”
Leire cleared her throat, expecting Inspector Salgado to insist, but he didn’t.
“Of course. Tell me, did Marc come to see you after coming back from Dublin?”
The question made Professor Esteve relax: he found himself back on safe ground and he answered quickly, as if he wished to make up for his lack of cooperation on the previous question.
“Yes. I found him much more grounded. We talked about his future: he told me he’d decided to repeat his exams to get higher marks and enrol in Media Studies. He was very excited.”
Héctor nodded.
“Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.” He rose from his chair, considering the interview finished, but, already on his feet, he added a question, as if it had just occurred to him that he was forgetting something. “And the girl? What’s her name?”
“Gina Martí,” Leire pointed out.
The teacher’s expression softened.
“Gina is charming. Very insecure, over-protected, but cleverer than she thinks. She has a great talent for writing. Inherited from her father, I suppose.”
“Her father?” He tried to remember if the file said anything.
“She’s Salvador Martí’s daughter. The writer.”
Héctor nodded, although in fact he hadn’t the least idea who Salvador Martí was, or what he wrote.
“Was she also a friend of Marc and Aleix?”