He gently pushed Adela aside and positioned himself to block his hands and the lock from the others’ view, so they wouldn’t realize he wasn’t even manipulating it. He merely took it between his fingers, and under that minimal pressure, the padlock opened.
“You were right,” he told Adela, trying to hide the droplets of sweat forming on his forehead and dripping down his back. His body hadn’t made any effort, but it behaved as if it were exhausted after a run: his heart was beating fast and hard. “That key opens everything. Now let’s see what we can do about the lock on the door. Hand me my backpack.”
Adela handed it to him: Gaspar tried not to meet her eyes. She was looking at him with an infatuated expression, the same look as when he’d given her the box to fix her phantom limb. Why did he do things for Adela? He cared about her, she was his friend, it wasn’t because he felt sorry for her. It was as if he owed her a favor. He wedged the crowbar in the door, which was made of iron and didn’t seem like the original—they must have removed the wooden one to secure the house with this one.
“You want some help?” Pablo asked him. “Doesn’t your arm hurt?”
“A little, but I’m okay,” lied Gaspar. His arm was cured. He’d lost some feeling in a couple of his fingers, but he was going to recover it. He could move them, he just felt them less than the others. They were phantom fingers. Phantom fingers on his right arm, the one Adela was missing.
Gaspar pretended to exert himself, to clench his teeth from effort, to pry the door with the crowbar. Really, he was doing nothing more than resting the tool in the door frame. It was already open. He kicked it hard so it would seem like all one movement, that the kick accompanied the effort of his arms and the lever. When it opened, his friends stepped back. Gaspar had to lean over to catch his breath and calm down: once again, he hadn’t exerted himself physically, but afterward his body reacted as if it had moved something very heavy. During those moments of recovery, he didn’t see what it was that had made the others retreat.
There was light inside the house.
Adela went in, determined. Gaspar went after her and sensed the other two following behind him. Vicky grabbed his hand and he squeezed it. What they saw was impossible, because the light seemed electric, but there were no lamps hanging from the ceiling: there were holes from which old cables peeked out like dry branches. The place also smelled like disinfectant; a little like a hospital, thought Gaspar, but he didn’t say anything. Just inside the door there was an old black telephone. It was unplugged, they could see the cord, but Vicky said into Gaspar’s ear: Oh, please don’t let it ring. Pablo, who had gone a little farther in, was turning in circles and looking around.
“It’s too big,” he said, without looking at them. “This house. It’s bigger inside than out.”
He was right. The living room, or entrance hall, or whatever that first room was, seemed empty and had three windows, though from outside only two were visible. There were only two. Gaspar felt Vicky’s nails digging into his arm, his good one—she was careful, as he’d never told her the injured one didn’t hurt, or Pablo either, even though Pablo knew what had happened. Then she said out loud:
“Let’s go. It’s buzzing.”
Now Gaspar heard it too, thought it was very faint, at a low frequency, like when the stereo was left on and it vibrated almost imperceptibly. It was as if colonies of bugs lived behind the walls, hidden under the paint. Tiny bugs, maybe winged. Night butterflies. Black beetles. He thought that any second now the paint, a very light canary yellow, would start to peel and let the bugs fly out. He imagined swarms of moths, those creatures that turned to ash when you caught them.
Being an orphan meant bearing ashes.
Adela went ahead, excited and unafraid. She went farther into the house that was lit by its own private sun, the house that was a different house inside. Pablo called to her to wait, wait, but she didn’t listen. The vibration drew her onward. The light, which was not electric or at least didn’t come from any ceiling lamps, made her look golden.
They followed her to the next room, which had furniture. Dirty sofas, mustard-colored, grayed by the dust. There were glass shelves stacked against the wall. They were spotlessly clean and held a lot of tiny ornaments. Adela went closer to see what they were: the shelves reached almost up to the ceiling. The lowest one held yellowish-white objects, semicircular. Some were round, others sharper like claws. Gaspar dared to touch one but dropped it immediately, disgusted.
“They’re fingernails,” he said.
Vicky started to cry. Pablo and Adela kept looking. Gaspar watched them. They were acting strange. Entranced, but as if they’d just woken up, still half-asleep. Not like him and Vicky, who were alert. The feeling that something horrible was going to happen was very clear, at least for him, but he acquiesced, he went along. The house had sought them out and now it had them, in its hands, in its claws. The second shelf was decorated with teeth. Molars filled in with black lead; then the canines, which, he’d been taught in school, were called cuspids. Front incisors. Tiny baby teeth. Gaspar guessed what was on the third shelf before he saw it; it was obvious. Eyelids. Arranged like butterflies and just as delicate. With short eyelashes or long, dark ones, others with no eyelashes at all.
“We have to collect them!” said Adela, excited. “Maybe there’s something of my dad!”
Gaspar stopped her. He grabbed her hand before she could touch the delicate human remains on the shelves. And then a door closed inside the house. Gaspar was going to remember that sound for years, very clearly. A firm slam, not from the wind, no creaking. A dry, definitive sound. Where in the house did it come from? It was impossible to tell. Vicky turned, frantic, and started to run, but she didn’t know where she was going. Pablo grabbed her by the waist without a word. Gaspar looked at him admiringly and took charge of Adela. He looked her in the eyes—dark, bewildered eyes—and he said, very clearly:
“We’re going to try to leave now. There’s someone here.”
“Don’t talk out loud,” whispered Vicky, and Gaspar thought things need to be clear now because we have to try to save ourselves. He felt cold and determined. He gripped the crowbar in his hand and knew he would be capable of using it.
“Vicky, they already know we’re in the house.”
“We never should have come in,” said Pablo, and just then Adela took off running to the next room. Gaspar tried to grab her, but she slipped away. They followed her. It was a little hard to run in the house, as if it were poorly ventilated or lacked oxygen. No one shouted at her to stop, but they didn’t let her go alone. The next room was a kind of kitchen: at the back they saw the remains of a rusted-out stove. There was no table. And what was there didn’t make any sense. A medical book with satiny pages, open on the floor. A mirror hung near the ceiling—who could see their reflection way up there? A stack of white laundry, apparently clean, neatly folded. Sheets. Adela started to pick one up and Gaspar stopped her firmly, about to slap her. We can’t touch anything, he thought. It’s like it’s all radioactive. Like Chernobyl. If we touch the house, it will never let us leave, it’ll stick to us. He said it aloud; though he was afraid the presence in the house would hear his voice, he had no choice. It was impossible to hide.