She interrupted her story, opened her backpack and took out a folder.
“Here,” she said, turning to the inspector. “Or would you prefer me to read it aloud? My sister Iris wrote it that summer. I’ve read it hundreds of times since I found it. The first few times I couldn’t finish but I can now. It’s a little long. .”
And, with a voice that wanted to be firm, Inés took out some pages and began to read.
My name is Iris and I’m twelve. I won’t reach thirteen because before the summer is over I’ll be dead.
I know what death is, or at least I think I do. You go to sleep and don’t wake up. You stay like that, asleep but not dreaming, I suppose. Papa was sick for months when I was little. He was really strong, he could cut down big trees with the axe. I liked watching him, but he wouldn’t let me because a splinter might come out and hurt me. While he was sick, before he went to sleep forever, his arms shrank, like something was eating him from inside. In the end he was only bones, ribs, shoulders, elbows, and a bit of skin, then he fell asleep. He wasn’t strong enough to stay awake. I’m not very strong now either. Mama says it’s because I don’t eat, and she’s right, but she thinks I want to be thin, like girls in magazines, and she’s wrong. I don’t want to be thin to be more beautiful. Before I did, but now it seems silly. I want to be thin to die like Papa. And I’m not hungry either, because not eating is easy. At least it was, before Mama focused on watching me during meals. Now it’s much harder. I have to pretend that I’m eating everything on my plate so she doesn’t get annoying, but there are tricks. Sometimes I have it in my mouth for a long time and then I spit it into a napkin. Or recently I’ve learned that the best thing is to eat it all and then vomit. You’re clean after vomiting, all that dirty food is gone and you feel calm.
Inés stopped for a moment and Héctor was tempted to tell her not to continue, but before he could do so, the young woman took a deep breath and resumed her reading.
I live in a town in the Pyrenees, with my mother and my little sister. Inés is eight. Sometimes I talk to her about Papa and she says she remembers, but I think she’s lying. I was eight when he died and she was only four. I think she only remembers him thin, like Jesus Christ, she says. She doesn’t remember strong Papa who cut down trees and laughed and swung you round like you were a rag doll that weighed nothing at all. Then Mama laughed more. Later, when Papa fell asleep forever, she started praying a lot. Every day. I liked praying, and then Mama insisted on us making our First Communion, Inés and I, at the same time. It was nice: the catechist told us stories from the Bible and it wasn’t hard for me to learn the prayers. But the hosts made me sick. They stuck to the roof of my mouth and I couldn’t swallow them. Or chew them because it was a sin. Inés liked them though, she said they reminded her of the layer on the top of turrón. I have the photo of the communion. Inés and I were dressed in white, with ribbons in our hair. Hardly any of the girls in school did it but I liked it. And Mama was happy that day. She only cried a little in the church but I think it was because she was happy, not sad.
I already said I live in a small town so every day we have to catch a bus to go to school. We have to get up very early and it’s very cold. Sometimes it snows so much the bus can’t come to get us and we stay at home. But now it’s summer and it’s hot. In summer we move because Mama is in charge of cooking in a house for camps. I liked it a lot because the summer house is much bigger and it has a pool and is full of children. They come in groups of twenty on a bus from Barcelona. And they stay for two weeks. It’s annoying, because sometimes you make friends and you know that in a few days they will leave. Some come back the next year and others don’t. There is a boy who stays all summer, like us. Mama told me it’s because he has no mother and his father works a lot, so he spends half the summer at camp. With his uncle, who is in charge of everything. And the monitors who help him. I have to help Mama too, but not much, just a bit in the kitchen. Then I am free to swim or take part in the games. Before I did but now I don’t feel like it. And Mama keeps telling me it’s because I don’t eat. But she doesn’t know anything. She lives in the kitchen and doesn’t know anything about what happens outside. She only thinks about food. Sometimes I hate her.
It’s the third summer we’ve spent here and I know there won’t be a fourth. I’ve seen him looking at Inés out of the corner of his eye without anyone noticing. Only me. I have to do something. He looks at her when she is swimming in the pool and says things like: “You look a lot like your sister.” And it must be true because everyone says so. Sometimes we both stand in front of the mirror and look at ourselves, and we come to the conclusion that we don’t look so alike. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t want her to be his new doll. Or at least I don’t want to be here to see it.
Joana got up and went toward the girl to sit by her side. She thanked her with a brief smile, but continued reading.
It started two summers ago, at the end of July, when there was only one group of kids left to arrive. We always have a few days alone between groups. Alone means Mama, Inés and I, and the priest and a monitor. For those days Inés and I have the whole pool to ourselves. It’s like we’re rich and live in a house like the ones on American programs. But Inés doesn’t like the water very much, so that day I was swimming on my own. I liked swimming and I was good at it. Front crawl, backstroke, breaststroke. . all the strokes except butterfly, which I couldn’t do. Because of that, he offered to teach me. He came to the side of the pool and showed me how to move my arms and legs. He is quite good-looking and is very patient. He hardly ever gets angry, even when the kids are bad and don’t listen to him. We were there for a while, me swimming and him at the side of the pool, until I got tired. Then he helped me out of the water even though he didn’t need to. It was late and there was no sun, so he said it was better that he dry me straight away so I didn’t catch cold. He stood behind me, wrapped me in a towel and began to dry me with pleasure. He was tickling me and I was laughing. He laughed at the beginning too. Then he didn’t: he was drying me more slowly and breathing loudly, like when someone is asleep. I didn’t dare move even though I was completely dry, but I started to feel strange. I was still wrapped in the towel and he was caressing me through the fabric. Then he put his hand underneath. And then I did try to get away but I couldn’t. He didn’t say anything: just shhh, shhh, even though I wasn’t talking. Then he said: I won’t hurt you. I was surprised because it hadn’t occurred to me that he could. His finger was going up my leg, the inside of my thigh, higher and higher like a spider. He stopped where my thigh ended and breathed in. It was a few seconds: his finger went to the edge of my swimsuit. I squirmed. And then he breathed deeply and let me go.
“God!” exclaimed Joana, but Héctor’s look silenced her. Leire remained quiet, watching this young woman sinking into a horrifying, brutally poignant story.
I didn’t tell Mama. Or anyone. I felt like I’d done something very bad but I didn’t know what. And he didn’t say anything else. Except: go and get dressed, it’s late, in a half-angry voice. As if I’d distracted him. As if suddenly he didn’t want to see me any more. The next day he didn’t come to the pool. I saw him pass by from the water and I called him: I wanted to show him that I’d been practicing and I was doing it better. He looked at me, very serious, and left without saying anything. I didn’t want to swim any more and I got out of the pool. It was earlier than the day before and it was hot. I lay down on the towel, letting the sun dry me. I think I was hoping he would appear but he didn’t. He must be angry with me. I said to myself that if he dried me again I wouldn’t be so silly. But the next day the next group of kids arrived and the other monitors, and he didn’t have time for swimming classes any more. I kept practicing every evening, when the pool was empty, because the kids were doing other activities, and I told him one day that I was getting better at it. He smiled at me and said: I’ll come and see you, I want to check your progress.