The Good Suicides (21 page)

The only significant information had been the confirmation of his suspicions regarding the promotion of Ródenas. According to what Agent Fort had been told while chatting to the people at the coffee machine, Martí Clavé, the other candidate, had taken it more to heart than Sílvia Alemany had admitted. “It seems they almost came to blows,” Fort confessed, not looking at him, probably uncomfortable at a situation similar to the one he’d witnessed in his boss’s office the previous afternoon. “This Clavé confronted Ródenas during his first days in the job and didn’t hide that he felt it an unfair promotion.”

They said that Gaspar hadn’t reacted to the outburst; he’d stayed quiet. They also said that when he heard the news of his death, of the murder of his whole family, Martí Clavé, taciturn and remorseful, had gone a number of days without speaking to anyone.

All this was logical: promotions, undeserved or not, people who felt undervalued; it happened everywhere, all the time, and didn’t merit much comment. Even in times of crisis, it was unthinkable that someone
would kill a whole family to get a promotion. On the contrary, maybe in another era Martí Clavé, offended, would have left the company, but as things were his protest had been only vocal, not active. And in any case, none of it was at all related to Sara Mahler, the hanged dogs or the feeling that Sílvia Alemany and the other participants in the away days had lied to him with insulting nerve.

The rain was now a reality and Héctor knew he’d end up soaked, but he kept going. Too much accumulated frustration for him to give up now. A dissatisfaction that had grown during the walk around the factory with Saúl Duque, who was a pleasant guy and chatty enough to have some information wheedled out of him, although in the end what he revealed wasn’t much use: he was happy working there, under Sílvia Alemany, a hard but fair boss; the economic crisis wasn’t affecting them too badly, although it was feared the situation would get worse, given that the green shoots announced by the government didn’t seem to be flowering; there was a good atmosphere, despite these sudden tragic deaths. In that, at least, Saúl had been adamant: “Gaspar was on edge, but I never thought he’d lose his head that way. I’m sure that there must have been something else, some marriage problem we don’t know about.” With regard to Sara, Saúl hadn’t been able to conceal a certain dislike, a reaction the poor girl seemed to arouse in most people. “But that doesn’t mean anything, Inspector. And I never thought she was depressed, just that she didn’t fit in.”

The guided tour was as uninteresting as he’d expected. With Saúl Duque at his side, he met Brais Arjona and Amanda Bonet, who confirmed the version given by Sílvia Alemany. Héctor didn’t even bother to speak to the others: he was sure Manel Caballero and César Calvo would have said the same in different words. Perhaps the only point he scored was when he casually asked Amanda if she was good friends with Sara Mahler. The girl had blushed, a reaction that could be shyness with the police, but which Héctor felt was a little excessive, and she just said that she’d gone to her house one evening for coffee. All very reasonable, all stinkingly normal. He and Fort had returned to the station more
despondent than when they left. Just one more loose end to cover: Sara’s supposed boyfriend, if he existed, something Héctor was beginning to doubt …

Héctor turned around when a bolt of lightning showed he’d reached his goal. The hardest bit was still to come: the way back, retracing his steps. And thinking about the way home took him directly to the image of Lola, whom he still hadn’t called back. Later he would, but at that moment he just ran, drawing strength from weakness to flee from the rain, flee from memories. To flee from Ruth’s wounded face when he confessed what had been going on. And above all, flee from the bitter moment he decided to leave Lola forever.

It was after five in the morning on Sunday when César returned to cold sheets, to an accusatory hollow, to the bed where Sílvia was sleeping alone without even realizing.

It had been a leaden, rainy Sunday, as gray as a Berlin winter, matching Sílvia’s mood; she had barely said two words all day. César had never been too good with sick people and he preferred to be left alone when he wasn’t well. So when Sílvia rejected his attempts at conversation, claiming she was coming down with the flu, he gave her a kiss on her singularly icy brow and advised her to go to bed. It was no wonder she was getting sick, bearing in mind the tension of the last few days. Faithful to his role and with nothing better to do, he’d stayed at Sílvia’s the whole evening, snoozing in front of the TV, trying little by little to appropriate this space that would also be his in a few months. They were alone: Pol had gone to a friend’s house, and it appeared Emma was also studying with a friend. César never asked about them and was happy to have the sitting room to himself. In the middle of the afternoon Sílvia got up, although it was obvious she didn’t feel any better. On the contrary, the long nap had left her dazed, with a severe headache. Not for a moment did César suspect that the upset caused by the conversation with Víctor was hidden behind these symptoms.

Sílvia had decided to go to bed because she had the feeling she was losing control of her world and needed to take refuge in the intimate personal space that was her room, her bed. Clinging to her pillow and closing her eyes to forget, even for a few hours, that her life was going to change despite everything. She felt betrayed, sold by Víctor, and more so by Octavi Pujades, who had collaborated with her brother’s plans and hidden them from her with the determination of Judas in a suit and tie. She could have confided in César, and if she hadn’t it was above all out of shame: she didn’t want to be the conned woman, the loser that the truly powerful ignore without the least decency. Of course she’d keep her job, if she wanted it. Víctor had made an effort to show her that she meant something to him, but they both knew the truth: the duties Sílvia carried out in the company went beyond her job description and her power came as much from her efficiency as from her surname. No amount of money in the world could make up for that.

Any other time she would have fought with her brother, battled to protect her own interests, hurled real and imaginary insults in his face. But on Friday, after the inspector’s visit, she was feeling so pleased with herself that Víctor’s news left her speechless. Mute and empty as a dried-up skull. And twenty-four hours later, lying in her bed, all she felt was a bitter taste in her mouth. Even the threat received by telephone two days before had lost its force. It was absurd, she knew; that evening nothing seemed important.

They had dinner together, she and César, not hungry and with no desire to talk, and only Emma’s arrival lifted the atmosphere a little. For once, Sílvia let herself be fussed over and agreed to drink the hot infusion her daughter prepared especially for her. She drank it in bed, Emma by her side, happy for once that the roles were reversed and it was her daughter who put her hand on her forehead, said she had a temperature and gave her a goodnight kiss. She’d spent half the day in bed and was afraid she wouldn’t sleep, but in fact shortly after Emma left her room and turned out the light, Sílvia fell into a calm, restorative sleep, just what her exhausted mind was demanding.

César stayed a little longer in front of the TV, not watching it. He would have gone home to his house if it hadn’t started raining again, if he hadn’t become drowsy on the sofa. Or if Emma had come down to keep him company, which didn’t happen. He decided to go to bed when it wasn’t even twelve. Sílvia had been asleep for at least two hours and he lay down beside her, against her body without disturbing her. He gave her a suggestive kiss on the nape of her neck and, seeing that she was in a deep sleep, he opted to turn over and move a few centimeters away from her, although he knew it was pointless. He was too restless to sleep and couldn’t be bothered to masturbate, so he closed his eyes in the hope that sleep would resolve both. But sleep didn’t come, and the heavy rain falling on the city was keeping him awake. César wasn’t imaginative or susceptible to the elements; however, there were too many worries going around in his head that impeded his rest: he
was
scared of the threats, he
was
starting to believe that there was something behind the deaths of Gaspar and Sara.

Did they deserve to die? No more than he did, or Sílvia, or any of the others. Perhaps the terms were ridiculous, but for once they expressed the facts: that spring night they had all collaborated, to a greater or lesser extent. It didn’t really matter who struck the first blow, who suggested the subsequent plan, who was most frightened or most sure of themselves. If what had happened to Gaspar and Sara was the work of fate, with the same justice it could also attack the rest of them. A thunderclap endorsed this conclusion.

Despite being in bed for only forty-five minutes, he felt like he’d been there for hours. He needed a cigarette and this time he had a pack in his jacket, bought on the sly like a schoolboy. He would have to smoke by the kitchen window if he wanted to conceal the smell of tobacco. So he went down, in pajamas and barefoot, because he never remembered to buy slippers for his second home. On tiptoe, so as not to wake anyone, he found his jacket on the coat rack and took out the
pack and lighter. Then he went to the kitchen and opened the window a crack. Outside it was still raining. Drops that by the light of a nearby streetlamp seemed a thick veil, a liquid curtain. He lit the cigarette and took a first brief drag, to get used to the flavor.

He didn’t hear her come in. He only heard the fridge door and turned around. It was dark, but the fridge bulb gave enough light for him to recognize Emma. He went on smoking, not saying anything, wanting her to leave and at the same time stay. She said nothing, just came nearer. She took the cigarette from his fingers and took a long drag before throwing it out of the window. She exhaled the smoke slowly and then embraced him as would a child frightened by the storm.

“I don’t like little girls,” said César, realizing that his voice was hoarse. “If you want me to treat you as a woman, act like one.”

César couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to. The kiss she then gave him was enough to know what she wanted. What they both wanted. After that young, inexperienced kiss he knew nothing now could halt the inevitable. Emma said only one thing, in his ear.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

And then it was he who kissed her with a mixture of passion and tenderness, before grabbing her hand and taking her to her bed. He longed with all his strength to possess the body she was offering him. And not just that: he wanted to do it well. To be, even just for a night, the best lover in the world.

When he went back to his room it was after five in the morning. Sílvia was sleeping. The storm had abated and the fridge door was still open.

César lay down, exhausted, and closed his eyes, but the apprehension about what he’d just done and the memory of the threat Sílvia had ignored kept him hopelessly awake.

Sunday dawns with a hungover, lifeless sky, even more cloudy than the day before. Lying in bed, Amanda turns over, seized with that absurd happiness that makes you lazy on a day off when nothing, or almost nothing, forces you to get up.

Unlike most people, she has liked storms since she was a little girl. She finds the sort of battle that develops in the sky stimulating, and the feeling of being protected, under cover, safe from thunderclaps and lightning bolts, fills her with an almost childish glee. What’s more, the rain was the perfect excuse not to have to go out with her friends on that route which has made Saturdays a monotonous round: dinner at La Flauta, a first drink somewhere nearby, then another in the Universal before going into the Luz de Gas.

The variations are so minimal, and end in places so similar, that she sometimes doesn’t remember exactly which bar she went to the Saturday before. To top it all, Amanda doesn’t drink—she dislikes the taste of alcohol—and the pests that surround her to buy her a drink and feel her up in exchange are repulsive. She continues to go out with her old friends, although every time it’s more of a battle. For a large part of Saturday night her mind is elsewhere, thinking about Sunday, about what he’ll do to her, the feelings that will explode in her body. Her friends find it strange that she doesn’t have a boyfriend, or even sporadic hookups, although she has confessed to one close pal the existence of this
friend-with-benefits, someone from work about whom she doesn’t want to give more details. This seemed to calm them all, given that it would be unthinkable that such a beautiful girl doesn’t have sexual relations regularly.