The Summer of Dead Toys Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Antonio Hill
immaculate: well shaved, suit without a wrinkle, the knot in his tie perfect, his shoes shining. An irreproachable appearance that aroused an instinctive aversion in her.
“Come on, Joana,” Fèlix intervened. “I’ll walk you out.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the ironic smile on her ex-husband’s lips and he shrugged almost imperceptibly. As if twenty years hadn’t passed. Enric waited a few seconds before speaking, the time required for them to have a little distance between them, and he had to raise his voice slightly.
“The funeral is tomorrow at eleven. If you’re free and feel like coming. No obligation, you know.”
She guessed the look Fèlix was giving his brother, but kept walking toward the door: half a dozen paces that seemed unending to her, surrounded by a rising tide of disdainful whispers. At the threshold she stopped abruptly, turned back toward the room and had the satisfaction of hearing the murmur suddenly cease.
She gave the old fridge a thump to silence the annoying purr, but on this occasion she was less successful. The silence lasted only a moment and then the noise began again, defiant. She went toward her laptop slowly, giving thanks for the wireless connection which allowed her to stay in contact with her world. She sat at the table and opened her mail. Four messages. Two from colleagues at the university where she gave classes in Catalan literature, the third from Philippe, and the fourth from an unknown sender: [email protected]. Just as she opened it, she heard the doorbell, a musical sound from another era.
“Fèlix!” There he was, at the threshold, with one hand leaning on the doorjamb, panting from climbing the steep staircase. Suddenly, she realized she was still in her dressing-gown and was embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”
He stayed quiet, still recovering from the five flights of stairs.
“I’m so sorry, please come in. I’m not used to having visitors,” she excused herself with a fleeting smile. “I’m going to get dressed; sit down wherever you can . . . The flat was closed up, you already know that.”
When she returned he was waiting for her opposite the balcony, facing the street. He’d always been a big man, but the years had added extra kilos to his corpulence, visible around the waist. He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away sweat, and Joana thought he must be the only person still using cotton handkerchiefs.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He turned round, smiling.
“I’d be grateful for a glass of water.”
“Of course.”
He followed her to the kitchen.
“Are you all right here?” he asked her.
She nodded as she took a glass from the cupboard and rinsed it before pouring him water from the jug.
“The flat’s a little abandoned, but it’s comfortable,” she said, and handed him the glass. He drained it in one gulp. He clearly wasn’t fit. Priests mustn’t get much exercise, thought Joana.
“Why have you come, Fèlix?” The question was brusque, and this time she didn’t bother to soften it.
“I wanted to see how you were.” He smiled, unconvincingly. “I worry about people.”
She leaned against the wall. The small white tiles, more like those of a hospital than a kitchen, were cold.
“I’m fine.” And she couldn’t help adding, “You can tell Enric that I plan to stay as long as necessary.”
“I didn’t come on my brother’s behalf. I already told you: I worry about people; I worry about you.”
She knew it was true. Even at the worst times, she’d always been able to count on Fèlix. It was curious that, in spite of his priestly vocation and the collar he no longer wore in the street but that was still in his wardrobe, he’d been the only one who seemed to understand her.
“And there’s something I wanted to ask you. Did Marc get in contact with you? In the last year?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. She breathed in and held her gaze on a corner of the floor before answering. The
“Come on, Joana,” Fèlix intervened. “I’ll walk you out.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the ironic smile on her ex-husband’s lips and he shrugged almost imperceptibly. As if twenty years hadn’t passed. Enric waited a few seconds before speaking, the time required for them to have a little distance between them, and he had to raise his voice slightly.
“The funeral is tomorrow at eleven. If you’re free and feel like coming. No obligation, you know.”
She guessed the look Fèlix was giving his brother, but kept walking toward the door: half a dozen paces that seemed unending to her, surrounded by a rising tide of disdainful whispers. At the threshold she stopped abruptly, turned back toward the room and had the satisfaction of hearing the murmur suddenly cease.
She gave the old fridge a thump to silence the annoying purr, but on this occasion she was less successful. The silence lasted only a moment and then the noise began again, defiant. She went toward her laptop slowly, giving thanks for the wireless connection which allowed her to stay in contact with her world. She sat at the table and opened her mail. Four messages. Two from colleagues at the university where she gave classes in Catalan literature, the third from Philippe, and the fourth from an unknown sender: [email protected]. Just as she opened it, she heard the doorbell, a musical sound from another era.
“Fèlix!” There he was, at the threshold, with one hand leaning on the doorjamb, panting from climbing the steep staircase. Suddenly, she realized she was still in her dressing-gown and was embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”
He stayed quiet, still recovering from the five flights of stairs.
“I’m so sorry, please come in. I’m not used to having visitors,” she excused herself with a fleeting smile. “I’m going to get dressed; sit down wherever you can . . . The flat was closed up, you already know that.”
When she returned he was waiting for her opposite the balcony, facing the street. He’d always been a big man, but the years had added extra kilos to his corpulence, visible around the waist. He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away sweat, and Joana thought he must be the only person still using cotton handkerchiefs.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He turned round, smiling.
“I’d be grateful for a glass of water.”
“Of course.”
He followed her to the kitchen.
“Are you all right here?” he asked her.
She nodded as she took a glass from the cupboard and rinsed it before pouring him water from the jug.
“The flat’s a little abandoned, but it’s comfortable,” she said, and handed him the glass. He drained it in one gulp. He clearly wasn’t fit. Priests mustn’t get much exercise, thought Joana.
“Why have you come, Fèlix?” The question was brusque, and this time she didn’t bother to soften it.
“I wanted to see how you were.” He smiled, unconvincingly. “I worry about people.”
She leaned against the wall. The small white tiles, more like those of a hospital than a kitchen, were cold.
“I’m fine.” And she couldn’t help adding, “You can tell Enric that I plan to stay as long as necessary.”
“I didn’t come on my brother’s behalf. I already told you: I worry about people; I worry about you.”
She knew it was true. Even at the worst times, she’d always been able to count on Fèlix. It was curious that, in spite of his priestly vocation and the collar he no longer wore in the street but that was still in his wardrobe, he’d been the only one who seemed to understand her.
“And there’s something I wanted to ask you. Did Marc get in contact with you? In the last year?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. She breathed in and held her gaze on a corner of the floor before answering. The