Night was falling, and she had to light the small table lamp, which blinked a couple of times, then went out completely. With a gesture of annoyance she rose to turn on the overhead light. It was a weak light which created a yellow, sad glow. Suddenly, she saw herself standing in that solitary, inherited flat, immersing herself in a past that she had left behind years before. She’d given up a lot then, but she’d managed to create a new life for herself since. Maybe not the one of her dreams, just one in which she could move without feeling trapped. And now, for the past few weeks, she’d fallen once again into a type of ridiculous self-imposed prison, that of a gray and defeated woman. Slowly, but without hesitation, she began to pack her bags. She didn’t plan on leaving until she’d seen this Iris and listened to what she had to tell her; then she would do what she had to do. Return to Paris, pick up her here and now, perhaps more imperfect than before, but at least hers. She’d earned it. As she folded her clothes, she wondered if Enric would be reading that same blog. She’d called him in the morning to tell him about it, but he hadn’t picked up the phone. She had left the message on his voicemail.
Enric started on hearing the creak of the study door. “Did I frighten you?”
“No.” At that moment he didn’t feel like speaking to Glòria
at all, but he forced himself to ask: “Is Natàlia in bed?”
“Yes.” She came over to the table. “She was waiting for you for a while, but in the end she fell asleep.”
Enric noticed the hint of reproach, so typical of his wife, who never complained directly. He usually pretended he hadn’t picked up on it, but that night, after two hours in front of the screen looking at photos of his dead son, the words came out of his mouth without him doing anything to stop them.
“I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood for stories tonight. Can you understand that?”
Glòria looked away. She didn’t answer. It was typical of her: never argue, look at him with that sort of condescending calm.
“You understand, don’t you?” he insisted.
“I only came to ask you if you wanted dinner.”
“Dinner?” The question seemed so trivial, so absurdly domestic, that he almost started laughing. “No. Don’t worry. I’m not hungry.”
“In that case I’ll leave you alone. Good night.”
Glòria went to the door without making a sound. Sometimes Enric thought he was married to a ghost, someone who could move without touching the ground. In fact, he thought his wife had already left when her serene voice, always in a tone lower than average, reached him.
“Unfortunately Marc is dead, Enric. You can’t do anything for him. But Natàlia is alive. And she needs you.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond. She closed the door softly and left him deep in his helplessness, in a sea of worrying questions brought up by this blog of which he hadn’t been aware until this evening. But the brief and thought-out appearance of Glòria had the virtue of adding another cross for him to bear. Another thing that was his fault. Because if there was anyone in this world who knew him, anyone who could read his mind with absolute clarity, that person was Glòria. And just as if he said it in words, his wife knew that he couldn’t feel anything more than affection for the little girl she adored. However much he tried to hide it, however much she tried not to notice, however much Natàlia called him “Daddy” and put her arms around his neck. He’d had only one child, and that child had died, almost certainly at the hands of the girl who’d been his best friend.
Seconds later, with a clenched fist and tense jaw, he picked up the telephone and called his brother. No one answered.
Fèlix contemplated the telephone. It rang urgently, as insistent and inconsiderate as the person calling him. That night he, who’d always mustered patience before Enric’s selfishness, hadn’t the least intention of picking up. He knew what he wanted to ask him. Who was this Iris? What was the point of this macabre tale? Enric didn’t remember anything, of course. Another father would, but not Enric. At most, he might vaguely remember that the camps finished early that summer due to an accident. Although, to tell the truth, he hadn’t given him many details either. However, he had observed his nephew closely. But Marc hadn’t suffered nightmares; in fact, as soon as he returned home, to his regular routine, he’d seemed to forget about Iris. Yes. Everyone had pretended to forget about Iris. It was best.
It was best, he repeated almost aloud, convinced that, given the circumstances, he’d done what was right. The poor little girl was past all help, in the hands of the Lord, but everyone else, those who were still living, were his responsibility. He had to decide and he’d done so. He’d spent all day telling himself that, but as soon as his eyes fell on the blurry photo of Iris on his nephew’s blog, his self-assurance collapsed into a thousand pieces. Because he knew this claim of having done the right thing that summer was built on the unsound foundations of a lie. Iris’s little face reminded him of that.
Tonight, opposite the image of that little blonde girl, Fèlix lowered his eyes and asked forgiveness. For his sins, his arrogance, his prejudices. While he prayed he recalled Joana’s words a few days before, when she said that blame wasn’t atoned for, it was carried. Maybe she was right. And maybe the moment had arrived to take a step back, to let justice take its course with all the consequences. Enough of playing God, he told himself. Let everyone take their share of the blame. Let the truth come to light. And may the Lord forgive my deeds and my omissions, and may the dead rest in peace.
“RIP” read the note that appeared on the saddle of his bike that evening, stuck to the lifeless body of a kitten. Aleix had to overcome all his disgust to take it off, and hours afterward he could feel the touch and smell of that tiny creature on his fingers. Time was running out and his problems, his problem, was ever further from being solved. He didn’t have to be a genius to deduce who’d sent that message, or what it meant. There was little more than forty-eight hours left until Tuesday. He’d called Rubén several times with no answer. That in itself was another message, he thought. The rats were abandoning ship. He was facing the threat alone.
Holed up in his room, Aleix went over all the possibilities. Fortunately, his brain still functioned at times of great stress, although a teeny line would have helped him dispel his doubts. Finally, as he contemplated the darkening sky, he realized he had only one option. Although it would be the hardest thing he’d ever done, although his stomach churned at the very thought, there was only one person to turn to. Edu would lend him the money. For better or for worse. He didn’t want to mull it over any more: he left his room and walked with quick, feverish steps toward his older brother’s room.