Amaia kept rocking Ibai until he stopped crying, then she lay down on the bed, placing him beside her so that she could enjoy her son’s bright eyes, his clumsy little hands touching her eyes, nose and mouth until gradually he fell asleep. Just as his mother’s tension had overwhelmed him earlier, she felt infected now by his placid calm.
Amaia realised how important the show at the Guggenheim had been for James; she understood why he was disappointed that she hadn’t gone with him. But they’d talked about this. If she had, Ibai would probably be dead. She knew that James understood, but understanding wasn’t the same as accepting. She heaved a sigh, and Ibai sighed too, as though echoing her. Touched, she leaned over to kiss him.
‘My darling boy,’ she whispered, marvelling at his perfect little features, enveloped by a mysterious calm she only experienced when she was with him, bewitching her with his scent of butter and biscuits, relaxing her muscles, drawing her gently into a deep sleep.
She realised she was dreaming, and that her fantasies were inspired by Ibai’s scent. She was at the bakery, long before it became the setting for her nightmares; her father, dressed in his white jacket, was flattening out puff pastry with a steel rolling pin, before it became a weapon. The squares of white dough gave off a creamy, buttery smell. Music drifted through the bakery from a small transistor radio her father kept on the top shelf. She didn’t recognise the song, yet, in her dream, the little girl who was her was mouthing some of the lyrics. She liked to be alone with her father, she liked to watch him work, while she danced about the marble counter, breathing in the odour she now realised was Ibai’s, but which back then came from the butter biscuits. She felt happy – in that way unique to little girls who are the apple of their father’s eye. She had almost forgotten how much he loved her, and remembering, even in a dream, made her feel happy once more. Round and round she spun, performing elegant pirouettes, her feet floating above the ground. But when she turned to smile at him, he had vanished. The kneading table was empty, no light penetrated the high windows. She must hurry, she must go home at once, or else her mother would become suspicious. ‘What are you doing here?’ All at once, the world became very small and dark, curving at the edges, until her dream landscape turned into a tunnel down which she was forced to walk; the short distance between her and the bakery door was transformed into a long, winding passageway at the end of which shone a small, bright light. Afterwards, there was nothing, the benign darkness blinded her, the blood drained from her head. ‘Bleeding doesn’t hurt, bleeding is peaceful and sweet, like turning into oil and trickling away,’ Dupree had told her. ‘And the more you bleed the less you care.’ It’s true, I don’t care, the little girl thought. Amaia felt sad, because little girls shouldn’t accept death, but she also understood, and so, although it pained her, she left her alone. First she heard the panting, the quick gasps of eager anticipation. Then, without opening her eyes, she could sense her mother approaching, slowly, inexorably, hungry for her blood, her breath. Her little girl’s chest that scarcely contained enough oxygen to sustain the thread of consciousness that bound her to life. The presence, like a weight on her abdomen, crushed her lungs, which emptied like a pair of wheezing bellows, letting the air escape through her mouth, as the cruel, ravenous lips, covered her mouth, sucking out her last breath.
James entered the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down beside her on the bed, contemplating her for a moment, experiencing the pleasure of seeing someone who is truly exhausted sleep. He reached for the blanket lying at the foot of the bed, and drew it up to her waist. As he leaned over to kiss her, she opened startled unseeing eyes; when she saw it was him, she instantly relaxed, resting her head back on the pillow.
‘It’s okay, I was dreaming,’ she whispered, repeating the words, which, like an incantation, she had recited practically every night since she was a child. James sat down again. He watched Amaia in silence, until she gave a faint smile, then embraced her.
‘Do you think they might still serve us at that restaurant?’
‘I cancelled; you’re too tired. We’ll go there another time …’
‘How about tomorrow? I have to drive to Pamplona, but I promise I’ll spend the afternoon with you and Ibai. In which case, you have to invite me out to dinner in the evening,’ she added, chuckling.
‘Come downstairs and have something to eat,’ he said.
‘I’m not hungry.’
But James stood up and held out his hand, smiling, and she followed him.
Dr Berasategui had lost none of the composure or authority one might expect from a renowned psychiatrist, and his appearance was as neat and meticulous as ever; when he clasped his hands on the table, Amaia noticed that his nails were manicured. His face remained unsmiling as he greeted her with a polite ‘good morning’ and waited for her to speak.
‘Dr Berasategui, I confess I’m surprised that you agreed to see me. I imagine prison life must be tedious for a man like you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His reply seemed sincere.
‘You needn’t pretend with me, Doctor. During the past month I’ve been reading your correspondence, I’ve visited your apartment on several occasions, and, as you know, I’ve had the opportunity to familiarise myself with your culinary taste …’ His lips curled slightly at her last words. ‘For that reason alone, I imagine you find life in here intolerably vulgar and dull. Not to mention what it must mean to be deprived of your favourite pastime.’
‘Don’t underestimate me, Inspector. Adaptability is one of my many talents. Actually, this prison isn’t so different from a reformatory school in Switzerland. That’s an experience which prepares you for anything.’
Amaia studied him in silence for a few seconds, then went on:
‘I have no doubt that you’re clever. Clever, confident and capable; you had to be, to succeed in making those poor wretches perpetrate your crimes for you.’
He smiled openly for the first time.
‘You’re mistaken, Inspector; my intention was never for them to sign my work, but rather to perform it. I see myself as a sort of stage director,’ he explained.
‘Yes, with an ego the size of Pamplona … Which is why, to my mind, something doesn’t add up. Perhaps you can explain: why would a man like you, a man with a powerful, brilliant mind, end up obeying the orders of a senile old woman?’
‘That isn’t what happened.’
‘Isn’t it? I’ve seen the CCTV images from the clinic. You looked quite submissive to me.’
She had used the word ‘submissive’ on purpose, knowing he would see it as the worst sort of insult. Berasategui placed his fingers over his pursed lips as if to prevent himself rising to the bait.
‘So, a mentally ill old woman convinces an eminent psychiatrist from a prestigious clinic, a brilliant – what did you refer to yourself as? – ah yes, stage director, to be her accomplice in a botched escape attempt, which ends in her being swept away by the river, while he’s arrested and imprisoned. You must admit – not exactly your finest moment.’
‘You couldn’t be more mistaken,’ he scoffed. ‘Everything turned out exactly as planned.’
‘Everything?’
‘Except for the surprise of the child’s gender; but I played no part in that. Otherwise I would have known.’
Berasategui appeared to have regained his habitual composure. Amaia smiled.
‘I visited your father yesterday.’
Berasategui filled his lungs then exhaled slowly. Clearly this bothered him.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me about him? Aren’t you interested