It was a fleeting sensation, but one so comforting he sought it out whenever possible. Its effect on him lasted for hours, dispelling other ghosts: it was thanks to moments like these he could continue forgiving the sins of the world. He could even forgive himself . . . But not now: that effect had vanished after Marc’s death, as if now nothing could console him. The image of his nephew, lying motionless on the patio flagstones, came to mind every time he tried to relax. One night he even saw him fall, arms outspread, trying to find something in the air to grasp, and he felt his fear as he neared the hard ground. Other nights he would see him at the window and glimpse the shadow of a girl with long blonde hair; he would try to warn him from below, he would shout his name but not get there in time. The shadow would push the boy and he’d shoot out with an almost superhuman force before falling at his feet with a dull thud, an unmistakable and fatal crunch, followed by a guffaw. He lifted his head and there she was: as drenched as when she was taken out of the water, laughing, finally getting her revenge.
THURSDAY
6
Héctor had never much trusted those who presume to know how to treat human neuroses. Not that he considered them frauds or irresponsible: he simply believed it improbable that an individual, equally subject to emotions, prejudices and manias, might have the capacity to delve into the winding paths of the minds of others. And that idea, rooted inside him for as long as he could remember, wasn’t breaking down in the least now that for the first time in his life he was attending the clinic of one of them as a patient.
He observed the youth sitting on the other side of the desk, trying to control his skepticism so as not to seem rude, although at the same time it seemed strange that this kid—yes, kid—fresh from university and dressed informally in jeans and a white checked shirt, should have in his hands the file of a forty-three-year-old inspector, who, if he’d had an unlucky break in adolescence, could even be his father. The notion made him think of Guillermo and his son’s reaction years before when his tutor at school suggested that it wouldn’t be amiss for them to take him to a psychologist who—his exact words—“might help him open up to others.” Ruth wasn’t a big fan of shrinks either, but they decided they’d nothing to lose, although they certainly both knew Guillermo socialized with whoever he felt like and didn’t bother with anyone who didn’t arouse his interest. He and Ruth laughed for weeks at the outcome. The psychologist had asked their son to draw a house, a tree and a family; Guille, who at the age of six was going through a phase of adoring comics and was already demonstrating the same skill for graphic art as his mother, threw himself enthusiastically into the task, albeit with his usual selective disposition: he didn’t like trees so didn’t bother with that one, but instead drew a medieval castle as the house, and Batman, Catwoman and The Penguin as the family. He didn’t want to imagine what conclusions the poor woman drew on seeing the supposed mother imagined in a leather suit with a whip in her hand, but they were both sure that she’d kept the drawing for her thesis on the dysfunctional modern family, or something like that.
He’d smiled without noticing; he saw it in the inquiring look the psychologist was giving him through metal-rimmed glasses. Héctor cleared his throat and decided to feign seriousness; he was almost sure, however, that the boy opposite him still read comics in his spare time.
“Well, Inspector, I’m glad you feel at your ease.” “Sorry, I suddenly remembered something. An anecdote about my son.” He regretted it instantly, sure that this wasn’t the most opportune moment to bring it up.
“Ah-ha. You don’t have much faith in psychology, right?”
There was no hostility in the phrase, but an honest curiosity.
“I haven’t
THURSDAY
6
Héctor had never much trusted those who presume to know how to treat human neuroses. Not that he considered them frauds or irresponsible: he simply believed it improbable that an individual, equally subject to emotions, prejudices and manias, might have the capacity to delve into the winding paths of the minds of others. And that idea, rooted inside him for as long as he could remember, wasn’t breaking down in the least now that for the first time in his life he was attending the clinic of one of them as a patient.
He observed the youth sitting on the other side of the desk, trying to control his skepticism so as not to seem rude, although at the same time it seemed strange that this kid—yes, kid—fresh from university and dressed informally in jeans and a white checked shirt, should have in his hands the file of a forty-three-year-old inspector, who, if he’d had an unlucky break in adolescence, could even be his father. The notion made him think of Guillermo and his son’s reaction years before when his tutor at school suggested that it wouldn’t be amiss for them to take him to a psychologist who—his exact words—“might help him open up to others.” Ruth wasn’t a big fan of shrinks either, but they decided they’d nothing to lose, although they certainly both knew Guillermo socialized with whoever he felt like and didn’t bother with anyone who didn’t arouse his interest. He and Ruth laughed for weeks at the outcome. The psychologist had asked their son to draw a house, a tree and a family; Guille, who at the age of six was going through a phase of adoring comics and was already demonstrating the same skill for graphic art as his mother, threw himself enthusiastically into the task, albeit with his usual selective disposition: he didn’t like trees so didn’t bother with that one, but instead drew a medieval castle as the house, and Batman, Catwoman and The Penguin as the family. He didn’t want to imagine what conclusions the poor woman drew on seeing the supposed mother imagined in a leather suit with a whip in her hand, but they were both sure that she’d kept the drawing for her thesis on the dysfunctional modern family, or something like that.
He’d smiled without noticing; he saw it in the inquiring look the psychologist was giving him through metal-rimmed glasses. Héctor cleared his throat and decided to feign seriousness; he was almost sure, however, that the boy opposite him still read comics in his spare time.
“Well, Inspector, I’m glad you feel at your ease.” “Sorry, I suddenly remembered something. An anecdote about my son.” He regretted it instantly, sure that this wasn’t the most opportune moment to bring it up.
“Ah-ha. You don’t have much faith in psychology, right?”
There was no hostility in the phrase, but an honest curiosity.
“I haven’t
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