upturned glass and the definitively empty bottle.
This time the good-bye was easier. She half-turned and got into the car as he was putting the key in the door. Through the rearview mirror she saw him limping with the bag in his hand. Inexplicably, she felt something toward him that seemed very much like tenderness.
5
He should have gone to bed some time ago, but age insisted on robbing him of hours of sleep and reading was the only thing that helped him get through those long evenings. However, despite having a book he liked in his hands, that night Father Fèlix Castells couldn’t concentrate. Comfortable in his favorite armchair, in the silent flat in Passeig Sant Joan which had been his home since infancy, his eyes, tired for years, seemed incapable of following the lines of the novel by Iris Murdoch, an author he’d discovered not very long ago, whose entire oeuvre he was reading. Finally, sick of trying, he rose and walked toward the bar where he kept the brandy; he poured himself a generous glass and, after taking a gulp, returned to the armchair. The only light in the room came from the lamp, and contemplating the book’s white cover, he couldn’t help shuddering. Iris. Always Iris. He half-closed his eyes and saw the message on Joana’s computer that he’d read while she was dressing, hardly able to believe it. He’d had to struggle to contain himself, to not erase it. Iris couldn’t write messages. Iris was dead.
It was he who entered the pool, who turned her over and saw her little face, blue with cold, who futilely tried to blow a little air through frozen lips that had already closed forever. When he turned around, with a shaken face and the little girl in his arms, he met the terrified gaze of his nephew. He wanted someone to take him out of there, save him from that horrifying sight, but Marc seemed rooted to the ground. Only then did he notice something surrounding his body and, almost unable to believe it, saw that there were numerous dolls floating in the same blue water.
He groped for the glass of brandy and took another gulp, but couldn’t chase away that chill which knows no seasons. Iris’s drenched little body, her blue lips. The dolls lying around her, like a macabre court. Images he thought he’d forgotten, but now, since San Juan, since that other recent tragedy, plagued him more than ever. Nothing could be done to combat them: he tried to evoke pleasant thoughts, of happy moments . . . Marc alive, Marc safe and sound, though with that distant, eternally sad expression. He’d done what he could, but the well of melancholy remained, immune to his efforts, ready to overflow at the smallest sarcastic comment on Enric’s part. How many times had he told his brother that irony wasn’t the way to bring up a child? It made no difference: Enric didn’t seem to understand that sarcasm could hurt more than a slap. That home needed a woman. A mother. If Joana had been with them things would have been different. And Glòria had come too late: her arrival had contributed to softening Enric’s bitterness, but the damage, to Marc, was already done. The subsequent adoption of Natàlia served to seal the new family circle, excluding that timid and sullen, solitary and unaffectionate boy. His sister-in-law had tried, although perhaps more out of a sense of duty than from genuine affection for Marc. It wasn’t
THE SUMMER OF DEAD TOYS 55
fair to criticize Glòria, he thought: she’d done what she could in those years, which hadn’t been easy for her either. Her inability to conceive naturally had meant a torment of medical tests culminating in a lengthy adoption process. These things moved slowly, and although Eric’s position had managed to speed up part of the application, for Glòria the wait had been interminable. She was so happy after she brought the little girl home. In Fèlix’s opinion, she was the perfect mother. When he saw her with her daughter, Fèlix felt at peace with the world.
This time the good-bye was easier. She half-turned and got into the car as he was putting the key in the door. Through the rearview mirror she saw him limping with the bag in his hand. Inexplicably, she felt something toward him that seemed very much like tenderness.
5
He should have gone to bed some time ago, but age insisted on robbing him of hours of sleep and reading was the only thing that helped him get through those long evenings. However, despite having a book he liked in his hands, that night Father Fèlix Castells couldn’t concentrate. Comfortable in his favorite armchair, in the silent flat in Passeig Sant Joan which had been his home since infancy, his eyes, tired for years, seemed incapable of following the lines of the novel by Iris Murdoch, an author he’d discovered not very long ago, whose entire oeuvre he was reading. Finally, sick of trying, he rose and walked toward the bar where he kept the brandy; he poured himself a generous glass and, after taking a gulp, returned to the armchair. The only light in the room came from the lamp, and contemplating the book’s white cover, he couldn’t help shuddering. Iris. Always Iris. He half-closed his eyes and saw the message on Joana’s computer that he’d read while she was dressing, hardly able to believe it. He’d had to struggle to contain himself, to not erase it. Iris couldn’t write messages. Iris was dead.
It was he who entered the pool, who turned her over and saw her little face, blue with cold, who futilely tried to blow a little air through frozen lips that had already closed forever. When he turned around, with a shaken face and the little girl in his arms, he met the terrified gaze of his nephew. He wanted someone to take him out of there, save him from that horrifying sight, but Marc seemed rooted to the ground. Only then did he notice something surrounding his body and, almost unable to believe it, saw that there were numerous dolls floating in the same blue water.
He groped for the glass of brandy and took another gulp, but couldn’t chase away that chill which knows no seasons. Iris’s drenched little body, her blue lips. The dolls lying around her, like a macabre court. Images he thought he’d forgotten, but now, since San Juan, since that other recent tragedy, plagued him more than ever. Nothing could be done to combat them: he tried to evoke pleasant thoughts, of happy moments . . . Marc alive, Marc safe and sound, though with that distant, eternally sad expression. He’d done what he could, but the well of melancholy remained, immune to his efforts, ready to overflow at the smallest sarcastic comment on Enric’s part. How many times had he told his brother that irony wasn’t the way to bring up a child? It made no difference: Enric didn’t seem to understand that sarcasm could hurt more than a slap. That home needed a woman. A mother. If Joana had been with them things would have been different. And Glòria had come too late: her arrival had contributed to softening Enric’s bitterness, but the damage, to Marc, was already done. The subsequent adoption of Natàlia served to seal the new family circle, excluding that timid and sullen, solitary and unaffectionate boy. His sister-in-law had tried, although perhaps more out of a sense of duty than from genuine affection for Marc. It wasn’t
THE SUMMER OF DEAD TOYS 55
fair to criticize Glòria, he thought: she’d done what she could in those years, which hadn’t been easy for her either. Her inability to conceive naturally had meant a torment of medical tests culminating in a lengthy adoption process. These things moved slowly, and although Eric’s position had managed to speed up part of the application, for Glòria the wait had been interminable. She was so happy after she brought the little girl home. In Fèlix’s opinion, she was the perfect mother. When he saw her with her daughter, Fèlix felt at peace with the world.
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