The Good Suicides (23 page)

You were brave, Ruth Valldaura, she said to the photo. What else did you do of your own accord? Why had you written down the doctor’s
address? That, at least, she might soon know. The good thing about her position, an officer on leave, was that she still had friends in various places, and simultaneously had a lot of free time. So, after finding the scrap of paper with Omar’s address, she’d pulled some strings. It hadn’t taken too much to get an acquaintance at the Brians 2 prison to allow her special permission to interrogate Damián Fernández—the lawyer who had killed Omar and had already spent a few months inside waiting for the case to come to court—in private. The following day, Monday afternoon at four, she could speak to him.

However, she hadn’t found out much about the girl in the photo, who, according to Ruth’s mother, had been more than a friend to her daughter. Patricia Alzina had died in a traffic accident in August 1991, at the age of nineteen. Just as Montserrat Martorell had said, the car Patricia was driving had gone over a cliff in the Garraf mountains and the accident was attributed to the driver’s inexperience and the relative difficulty of the road, riddled with bends. What Leire still didn’t understand is why Patricia, a novice driver, had chosen that road instead of using the highway, which went through the mountain in a straight line. Any new driver would have done so in spite of the toll. But Ruth’s mother had refused to give any further explanations and Leire didn’t feel like tracking down the family of the dead young woman. At the end of the day, the accident had happened twenty years ago … And Leire didn’t believe in ghostly girls lying in wait for their childhood friends at the bends in the road. Not even on nights like this, she thought, looking toward the street, when the wind seemed capable of breathing life into the dead. You’re becoming macabre, Leire, she told herself. And Abel, who seemed to read her mind from inside her, indicated with a kick or two that he fancied a bit of movement. Without really knowing where she was going, she put on the Russian singer-songwriter coat and went out into the street.

It was the first weekend of sales and this had inspired people, despite the cold that had invaded the city with accumulated spite, as if it had been circling for months and at last was ravaging pedestrians as they
returned to their homes. An audible wind, one of those that evoke nervous branches and whirlwinds of dry leaves, assaulted the streets and mercilessly whipped those who dared to occupy pavements. Leire had barely taken a few steps when she considered turning around, but seeing the green light of a taxi that stopped at the traffic lights she changed her mind. Suddenly it occurred to her—and although the night didn’t invite adventure, the desire to carry out her plan against all logic defied the elements almost without intending to.

After saying Ruth’s address aloud, she asked herself why the hell she’d thought to go to a house so charmless. A closed house. Maybe it was the drone of the wind combined with the glacial atmosphere that pushed her toward that temporarily abandoned place. Or maybe it was that, with no reasonable explanation, she needed to see one of the scenes of the case that had plagued her for the last two days. Like someone visiting a secret tomb where no flowers could be left. “You have a crazy mama,” she said to Abel in a quiet voice. “But I promise we’ll go straight home.”

The taxi left her in front of the building. The street was as deserted that night as it might have been the previous summer, the weekend Ruth disappeared. Leire walked to the corner and saw only a couple walking a dog. During the month of July, with the city even emptier, someone strong could have killed Ruth and put her corpse in a car in the middle of the night with little risk of being seen. But you already knew that, she reproached herself. What the hell was she doing there, then, other than wasting money on taxis? She raised her eyes to the large window of Ruth’s apartment, visible from the street. And was surprised to see a light inside.

She rang the bell without thinking, believing it would be Carol, and only a second after doing so the horrible possibility occurred to her that it might be Héctor who was there. If he answers I’m running away, she told herself, although she knew that, at the moment, running wasn’t a possibility. She was surprised to hear a young masculine voice. She didn’t recognize it, although it couldn’t be anyone other than Guillermo.

“Hello,” said Leire. “I … I’m a friend of—”

She didn’t have to finish her sentence. A metallic hum permitted her entry into the hall.

The boy was waiting for her upstairs, the door ajar.

“Are you looking for my mother?” he said without crossing the threshold. He looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, which didn’t lessen on seeing that she was pregnant.

“You must be Guillermo. My name is Leire, Leire Castro. Maybe you’ve heard your father mention me?”

He nodded, but remained beside the door, blocking her way.

“Mind if I come in?”

Although she didn’t really know what she was going to say, it was clear that she’d been presented with a golden opportunity to talk about Ruth with the one person around her to whom she wouldn’t have had easy access. And she didn’t intend to waste it.

The boy took his own sweet time thinking about it; then he shrugged and turned around, letting her through. Leire followed him and for the second time that week entered that space of large dimensions and very high ceilings. Ruth’s tomb, she thought with a shiver.

The television was on and from the corner of her eye she saw a blonde in bed on the screen, but immediately realized it wasn’t what it seemed. She didn’t remember ever seeing porn in black and white.

Guillermo fell onto the sofa and she sought a chair: she preferred a less soft seat.

“You work with my father, don’t you?” he asked.

Leire smiled.

“Well, really he is my superior. But now I’m on leave. Because of …” She pointed to her belly. As she feared the next question, “What are you doing here?,” would be difficult to answer without seeming a lunatic, she decided to ask it, albeit in the friendliest tone she could muster. “And what are you doing here?”

For a moment she thought he was going to reply with, “What are you doing here?” However, he didn’t.

“It was my home. Now I come sometimes.”

“Of course.” Guillermo wasn’t hostile or curious about her, so Leire decided to be honest. Teenagers can’t bear being lied to, she thought. “Look, I know it must seem strange my appearing like this. You know … you know we’re still looking for your mother.”

Guillermo tensed and looked away from Leire to focus his attention on the screen.

“Are you watching a film?” She had to turn toward the television to be able to see it.

“It’s
Breathless
.”

“Is it good? I haven’t seen it …”

He shrugged again. When he spoke it was without emotion.

“It was Mama’s favorite film.”

And then, perhaps because Abel was changing her, perhaps because the weekend had been strange and this Sunday evening even more unexpected, Leire felt something akin to compassion for this boy seeking refuge in what had been his mother’s house. An immense, silent place with echoes of Ruth everywhere.

Guillermo had to be fourteen, but he wasn’t very tall and was still more of a child than a teenager. She stared at him shamelessly, looking for resemblances, and came to the conclusion that there was much more of Ruth than Héctor, at least physically. His expression, however, was serious. Yes, that was the word. Not sad, not excited, just serious. One that belonged on an older person. The scarce light in the room, coming from a footlamp, was sketching a still shadow on the wall.

“Listen, I know that I’ve turned up here out of the blue and I understand you mightn’t feel like talking to me. It’s not as if you know me.” She tried to give her sentences a casual tone. “But I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to your mother.”

“I know they took my father off the case,” he said. He was succinct, concise.

“Against his will, I can assure you,” replied Leire. “So I’m taking
advantage of my leave to investigate a little through my own efforts. He doesn’t know, so if you don’t mind not telling him … Or he’ll crucify me.”

It was the first time Guillermo had smiled, though he made no comment.

“What’s it about? I mean the film. Is it good?”

He shook his head, as if it pained him to admit it.

“It’s pretty boring. He’s a thief being chased by police and he asks his girlfriend to go on the run with him. She loves him, although she betrays him in the end. She gives him away and they kill him.”

He said it as if it were incomprehensible. It probably would be for a kid of his age.

“I don’t know why she does it,” he continued. “Mama told me it was because she loved him too much and because sometimes that’s scary. But I didn’t understand that explanation either.”

No, thought Leire tenderly, you didn’t understand. She felt a shiver and realized the house was freezing. She suddenly had the strongest urge to take that boy out of there as soon as possible.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked him.

“A little.”

“Want to … go and get something to eat?”

He looked at her, vaguely surprised.

“My treat,” said Leire. “I’m sure you know a pizzeria around here. If you feel like it, of course …”

Guillermo nodded. He switched off the television with the remote and rose from the sofa.

“I can’t be back too late,” he said, smiling. “Or Papa will crucify me.”

They went to a nearby pizzeria as empty as the loft they’d just left. Leire entered thinking she wouldn’t eat very much and ended up ordering two portions of pizza, the same as Guillermo. They chatted a little about everything—Carol, school and even Héctor as a father, but in the end,
while they were waiting for the bill, the conversation went back to where it began.

“We’ll find out what happened to her, Guillermo.”

He lowered his head and murmured, “At first everyone said, ‘We’ll find your mother.’ Everyone—Papa, Carmen, even my tutor at school. They don’t say that anymore.”

“Well, if we find out what happened to her, perhaps—”

“You think she’s dead.” He said it in a quiet voice, and had it not been for the look on his face Leire would have thought he didn’t understand the full extent of what he’d said. “Everyone thinks so. Papa most of all.”

She swallowed. She searched for something to say; every phrase seemed ridiculous.

“That’s why I go to her house sometimes. To think about her without Papa noticing. Someday they’ll close it and we’ll take away her sketches and things … but while they’re still here I can think she might come back someday.” He looked at her with an expression she’d never seen on a boy so young. “No, I’m not stupid. I think she’s dead too, but, sometimes, deceiving yourself for a while isn’t bad, is it?”

“Of course it isn’t. We all do it,” murmured Leire.

“The worst is when I go home and see Papa isn’t sleeping, hardly eats. He just smokes, nonstop. And I’m scared something will happen to him too.”

“Your father is much stronger than you think. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

He shook his head.

“Mama always said that Papa is only strong on the outside. And she knew him very well.”

The waiter brought them the bill, and when he left Leire was on the verge of taking Guillermo’s hand. It was a spontaneous gesture that would have surprised her more than the boy, and she managed to hold back. The maternal instinct appeared to be growing within her of its own will.

“Listen, I can’t promise you that I’ll find your mother alive. But I’ll
do everything possible to find out what happened to her. And when we know the truth, your father will be able to relax. I promise you.” She sensed Guillermo was looking at her skeptically, so she continued. “Another thing: I’m going to give you my address and number, and if you want to talk about Ruth, about your mother sometime, phone me or come to see me. Okay?”

He saved her number in his cell phone and they both went out into the street. Though it wasn’t even ten o’clock, it was getting colder. Leire stopped a taxi and offered to drop Guillermo close to home.

“But please remember not to say anything to your father,” she repeated.

He smiled and accepted the deal.

Neither of them noticed the car following them.

Prisons, like hospitals, give off an unmistakable, characteristic smell. However much they try to remove any external connotations of prison by giving them an appearance closer to that of a big school, as soon as you cross the threshold, the yards, the bars, and even the offices that the prisoners rarely enter whisper of exclusion, of confinement. Of punishment.

This was the case even though Brians 2 was relatively new and the philosophy advocating rehabilitation had been applied emphatically in all its details. Planned to ease the human burden on hundred-year-old prisons like the Modelo in Barcelona, this new building, situated on the Martorell highway, had been proudly inaugurated in the first decade of the twenty-first century. In January 2011, just a few years later, the Modelo was not significantly less full, nor was Brians 2 still managing to conceal its true purpose in spite of the fact that a quick glimpse would have shocked prison wardens of an earlier era. Its real nature dominated the architecture, as if infecting it from its nucleus. Absurd to fool oneself, thought Leire, whose opinions in this respect were not politically correct: those interned had committed a crime and therefore were condemned, for months or years, to live apart from society. Whether they took advantage of this time to reeducate themselves or not ended up being, like everything, the result of combining each personality with
their circumstances. Some achieved it, others came out worse than they went in. That was life.

While she waited for her contact among the wardens to come to the visiting room with the prisoner, Leire felt the classic tingle of the investigator who believes they are about to discover something important. It was a familiar sensation and never wholly unfounded. Despite the fact that Inspector Salgado had rigorously interrogated Damián Fernández, who had been witness to the alleged “curse” Dr. Omar had carried out against Ruth, there was always the possibility of finding out something new. And for her, that was a shot of adrenaline. She heard the door open and turned around.