“Joana?” he answered.
“Is it very late? Sorry. .”
“No. I was working.”
“Fèlix called me.” She paused. “He told me about the girl.”
“Oh?”
“Is it true? This girl left a note saying she killed Marc?” There was a note of disbelief and hope in her voice.
Héctor delayed a few seconds before responding, and spoke with extreme caution.
“So it seems. Although I wouldn’t be too sure. There are. . there are still lots of questions.”
Silence. As if Joana was going through that vague response, as if she was thinking about what to say next.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she said finally.
He looked at the screen; he thought of his hostile flat, the absence of Ruth, Joana’s mature and beautiful face. Why not? Two loners keeping each other company on a summer night. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that.
“Me neither,” he replied. “I’m coming over.”
SATURDAY
23
Deep in his mind Héctor knows he’s dreaming, but he dismisses the idea and dives into this landscape of lively colors, this childish drawing supposed to be a wood: green, almost round splotches, blue rays dotted with lovely white bits of cotton, a yellow sun with an unfinished smile. A naïf set designed by Tim Burton and colored with Crayola. However, as soon as he steps on the brown stones forming the path, the whole space changes, as if his human presence transforms the environment all of a sudden. The green splotches become trees with high branches, thick with leaves; the clouds become fine threads and the sun really is warming. He hears the crunch of his steps on the gravel and moves decisively, as if he knows where he’s going. He is surprised on looking and seeing that the birds are still fake: two curved lines joined at the centre suspended in the air. This is the proof he needs to reinforce his belief that it’s all a dream and keep going forward, as if he’s suddenly become the main character in an animated film. It’s then the wind begins to blow: at the beginning it is a dull murmur that grows little by little, until it forms a grayish gale that sweeps these false birds away and shakes the branches from the trees without the least mercy. He can barely keep going; every step is a struggle against this unexpected whirlwind which has darkened the painting: leaves come shooting off the trees and form a green blanket that obscures the light. He must go on, he can’t stop and suddenly he knows why: he has to find Guillermo before this hurricane carries him off forever. Damn it. . He told him not to wander off, not to go into the forest alone, but as usual his son took no notice. This mixture of worry and irritation gives him strength to keep moving forward in spite of this unexpected whirlwind and a road that is now rising in the form of a steep slope. He surprises himself thinking of how his son must be punished. He has never raised his hand to him, but this time he’s gone too far. He shouts his name, although he knows with this whirlwind of leaves shouting is useless. He ascends with difficulty, on his knees when the intensity of the gale prevents him continuing on foot. For some reason, he knows that he just has to reach the summit of this rocky road and everything will be different. Finally he manages to stand up again and, after a momentary stagger, he manages to get going and keep ascending. The wind has ceased to be an enemy and has become his ally: it pushes him upwards and his feet barely graze the ground. He can make out the end of the road and mentally prepares himself for what might be ahead. He wants to see his son safe and sound, but at the same time he doesn’t want the relief to stifle his irritation completely, as always happens. No, not this time. One last push precipitates him to the other side of the road and he gathers all his strength to remain standing. As soon as he goes past the summit the wind dies down and the scene changes. The sun shines. Yes! He was right. There he is. The figure of Guillermo, standing in a meadow with his back to him, innocently unaware of all his father has gone through to find him. He can’t help a sigh seeing his son is there perfectly well. He rests for a second or two. He realizes, without the least surprise, that the rage that has carried him here is beginning to evaporate: it seems to leave with each breath, melt in the air. And then he tightens his jaw and tenses his shoulders. He closes his fists. He focuses on his anger to revive himself. He walks rapidly and decidedly, crushing the soft tufts of grass, and approaches the boy, who remains immobile, distracted. This time he’s going to teach him a good lesson, whatever the cost. It’s what he must do, what his father would have done in his place. He grabs him by the shoulder and Guillermo turns around. To his surprise, he sees his face is soaked with tears. The boy points silently ahead. And then Héctor sees what his son sees: the swimming pool of blue water, and a little blonde girl floating among dead dolls. “It’s Iris, Papa,” whispers his son. And then, as they slowly approach the edge of that pool dug out of the plain, the dolls turn over, slowly. They look at them with wide eyes and their plastic lips murmur: “Alwaysiris, alwaysiris.”
He wakes with a start. The image was so real he has to make an effort to erase it from his mind. To return to the present and remember that his son isn’t a little boy any more and never knew Iris. To be sure that dolls don’t speak. He finds it difficult to breathe. It’s still night, he thinks, annoyed, knowing he won’t get back to sleep. Although maybe it’s better, maybe not sleeping isn’t so bad after all. He stays lying on his back, trying to calm down, attempting to make sense of this strange, disturbing dream. Unlike most other nightmares, which fade when one opens one’s eyes, this one persists in clinging to his mind. He relives the rage, the firm decision to give this disobedient boy a slap and is grateful for not having done it, even in a dream, although he knows that if not for the terrible vision of the pool that is exactly what would have happened. Enough. It’s not fair to torment yourself about what you dream. He is sure his psychologist would agree with him on that. It’s then, thinking about the boy and his genius face, that he hears a sound which seems to be music. It’s four in the morning-who puts on music at this time? He pricks up his ears: strictly speaking it’s not music, more a drone, a chorus of voices. Not able to help it, the dolls come back to his mind, but he knows that was a dream. This is reaclass="underline" the voices stammer something he doesn’t quite catch, in spite of its becoming more intense. He would say it is a sentence, a rhythmic plea in a language he doesn’t recognize, and seems to be coming from the walls of his room. Unnerved, he stands up. Another noise has joined the chorus: a sort of whistling, nothing to do with the rest. Putting his bare legs to the floor his glance falls on the half-open suitcase, still abandoned next to the wall. Yes. There’s no doubt: the whistling is coming from there. For an instant he thinks of the lost valise, the broken lock, and his eyes open as wide as saucers when he makes out a whistling shadow emerging slowly from it. It’s a snake, slippery, repugnant, which drags itself over the floor in his direction. The whistle intensifies, the chorus goes up a scale. And he watches, terrified, how this slithery being inexorably approaches, head upright and tongue flickering in the air, while the voices murmur something that finally he can understand. They say his name, again and again: Héctor, Héctor, Héctor, Héctor. .
“Héctor!” Joana’s voice ended it. “Are you OK? You scared me.”
For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t recognize the walls, or the sheets, or the light on at an unfamiliar angle. He only noticed the cold sweat soaking his body.
“Fuck,” he whispered at last.
“You’ve had a nightmare.”
Two, he thought. In style.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“No problem.” She caressed his forehead. “You’re freezing.” “Sorry.” He rubbed his face. “What time is it?”