Gaspar’s house is on the same block as Adela’s but on Calle R. Pinedo, perpendicular to Villarreal. It’s almost exactly in the middle of the block, and takes up a quarter of it. It’s the only luxurious, elegant house in the whole neighborhood, but it’s dirty and gone to seed from neglect. The backyard, with its graceful flagstone paths and the remains of what might have been a fountain, is completely barren, the grass doesn’t grow, there’s nothing but a rotary clothesline that spins a little when there’s a breeze. The veranda is encrusted with glass, thousands of shards from green and clear bottles, as though to ward off any people or animals thinking of climbing or landing on the house.
You have to cross R. Pinedo and return to Villarreal to reach Victoria’s house, which is situated between a modest and always warm kiosk and the Italians’ house, which is sometimes used as a small foundry. Behind her house is a lumberyard that operates only two days a week but leaves a fresh smell in the air, vegetable and earthy, a smell of newness that lets you forget that the small business, with only two employees, is on the verge of collapse.
Pablo’s house is the most striking one on Calle Mariano Moreno. It has two floors and a tile roof, and the front yard has hydrangeas and rose bushes and pansies. Pablo’s mother is an English teacher. His father works as an executive at a company selling compressed natural gas for cars that’s opening branches and service stations throughout the province. Many people think it’s going to fail, that drivers will never make the switch from gasoline, out of habit and a fear that the gas tank in the back will explode. They’re wrong. The business is going to make him rich. Pablo’s mom wants to have another baby because she’s lonely. She and Pablo don’t see eye to eye. She doesn’t want to repeat what her husband says about his firstborn son. She’s realized it, too. If she were a good mother, she would love him all the same, no matter what, but she’s not such a good mother and she wants to try again, to see if a new baby will turn out “better.” The back of the house borders on to the warehouse of a printer’s shop. It’s silent. Beside the warehouse, whose entrance is a green-painted iron curtain, is the abandoned house at 504 Villarreal, between Moreno and Ortiz de Rosas. A lot of the neighbors unconsciously walk faster when they pass its rusted front gate; without even realizing, they want to leave it behind as soon as possible. They try, as well, not to look at it.
One day, after school, Victoria went with her mother to the grocery store and realized that Lidia not only hurried to pass the bit of sidewalk in front of the abandoned house, but she actually ran over those old, broken yellow paving stones. Victoria asked her why. Her mother laughed.
“I’m silly! Just ignore me. I’m afraid of that house.”
“Why?”
“No reason, just because it’s abandoned. I told you, don’t pay any attention to me. I get the feeling someone is hiding in there, a thief or something, but it’s just my imagination.”
Victoria kept asking questions, but she couldn’t get much information. Just that the owners, an elderly couple, had died some fifteen years ago. Did they die together? Victoria wanted to know. No, they died one after the other. That happens to old couples sometimes: when one of them dies the other fades right away. And since then, their children have been fighting over succession. What’s succession? Victoria asked. It’s the inheritance. They’re fighting to see who will keep the house. But it’s a pretty crappy house, said Victoria. Maybe so, but it could be the only one they have.
The house isn’t so special at first glance, but if during your overhead flight you could descend and hover in front of it, the details would come into view. The door, made of iron, is painted dark brown. The front yard has very short, dry grass. It’s burned, razed, there is no green: in that yard there is drought and winter at the same time. The house at times seems to smile. The bricked-up windows are two closed eyes that give it an anthropomorphic look, and then there are the neighborhood kids who rattle the lock in useless attempts to open the front door, and sometimes leave the chain hanging in a way that looks like a semicircular mouth, the smile between the window eyes. One New Year’s Eve when a lot of people were out in the street, Victoria approached the house. She had the impression the two of them were looking at each other, that its bricked-up windows were two square eyes that told her I was tricking you, all these years when you passed by on my sidewalk, I played dumb, I hid, but now I want you to know, I want you to tell people I have something inside. Victoria went running back to her parents, who were trying in vain to light a bottle rocket, and she said nothing. But her eyes met those of Juan Peterson, who, unusually, was out in the street too, a cup of beer in hand. He didn’t say anything to her, though he looked very serious. Hugo Peirano finally got the fuse lit, and Victoria covered her ears and closed her eyes. When she opened them again Juan Peterson was not among the crowd, and an empty beer cup had been left on the roof of an abandoned car that was rusting out on the curb.
Gaspar woke up late. He often did on Sundays, when there was no noise to interrupt his sleep, especially if he had gone to bed late the night before. But once awake he never lounged or lingered in bed, not even on the coldest winter mornings. He felt a certain apprehension about lying down for too long: it reminded him of his father’s illness and exhaustion. Plus, sometimes he had the feeling that if he stayed there sleeping, wrapped in the covers and breathing in his own smell, he would just never get up again, surrender to that empty state, so like the feeling of floating when he was tired out from swimming too much.
He made breakfast thinking about what to do that day: keep looking for the dog, maybe after first locking himself in the bathroom with a porn magazine? He didn’t want his father to catch him looking at those glossy pages—though he was sure his dad wouldn’t get angry, he still felt a little ashamed. Maybe he’d listen to the game at four, and get something to eat, because if he let too many hours go by on an empty stomach, his head would start to hurt. While he heated the milk in a jug and cut bread to spread with dulce de leche, he peered out the kitchen door to see if his father was awake. The door to his room was closed, which didn’t necessarily mean he was asleep, but it certainly implied meant he didn’t want to be bothered. Better for Gaspar to leave as soon as possible. Later he could have lunch at the café in Castelli Park.
When he sat down at the kitchen table to eat his breakfast, he saw the note. His father had written it on the back of one of the flyers with Diana’s picture on it. In his clear handwriting, it said: “The dog is in the Llaneza parking lot. Bury her before she rots.” Gaspar understood right away: Llaneza was the supermarket on the other side of the park. He didn’t doubt for a second that the dog was there. He picked up the pen his father had left on the table, wrote “Thanks” under the message, and went out with his mouth full of bread. It wasn’t raining, but it was damp and a little cool, so he zipped his hoodie all the way up.
The bike shop opened on Sundays because, in addition to selling and repairing, they rented bikes to people who wanted to ride in the park on weekends. Gaspar picked his up, with its new light, and paid with the money he always kept rolled up in the pocket of his pants or jacket. His newly tuned bike felt lighter now—the mechanic had oiled the chain—as he rode to the Llaneza parking lot. He slammed on the brakes when he saw Diana’s paws and tail. She was unquestionably dead. She had the same stillness as the pigeons squashed on the sidewalk, something definitive and distant, repulsive in its foreignness. He didn’t look at her face, but raced back toward Vicky’s house, without sitting down or pausing his pedaling feet. He knew that at that time of day, Hugo Peirano would be out washing the car in the street, surely listening to one of the matches that were on at noon.