A Million Drops Read online

  ALSO BY VÍCTOR DEL ÁRBOL

  THE SADNESS OF THE SAMURAI

  Copyright © Víctor del Árbol, 2014

  Copyright © Ediciones Destino, S.A., 2014

  Originally published in Spanish as Un millón de gotas by Ediciones Destino, S.A., in Barcelona, Spain, in 2014.

  English translation copyright © 2017 by Lisa Dillman

  Friedrich Nietzsche epigraph on here from Twilight of the Idols, or How to Philosophize with a Hammer, in Twilight of the Idols and The Anti-Christ, translated by R. J. Hollingdale. Translation copyright © R. J. Hollingdale, 1968. Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd, London.

  Production editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas

  Text designer: Jennifer Daddio / Bookmark Design & Media Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 267 Fifth Avenue, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Names: Árbol, Víctor del, author. | Dillman, Lisa, translator.

  Title: A million drops / Víctor del Árbol; translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman.

  Other titles: Millón de gotas. English

  Description: New York : Other Press, [2018] | Description based on print version record and

  CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017043661 (print) | LCCN 2017048886 (ebook) | ISBN 9781590518458 (paperback) | ISBN 9781590518465 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Suicide—Fiction. | Revenge—Fiction. | Spain—Fiction. | Psychological fiction.

  Classification: LCC PQ6701.R364 (ebook) | LCC PQ6701.R364 M5513 2018 (print) | DDC 863/.7—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2017043661

  Ebook ISBN 9781590518465

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locles is entirely coincidental.

  v5.2

  a

  To my father, and to our walls of silence

  She-wolves, too, are mothers.

  ANTONIO REYES HUERTAS, Cuentos extremeños, 1945

  “All truth is simple.” Is this not doubly a lie?

  FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Twilight of the Idols, 1888

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Víctor del Árbol

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigrah

  Prologue: Early October 2001

  Part One

  Chapter 1: Barcelona, June 20, 2002

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3: Moscow, January 1933

  Chapter 4: Barcelona, July 6, 2002

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6: Moscow, Early February 1933

  Chapter 7: Barcelona, July 12, 2002

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9: Tomsk, Western Siberia, Early March 1933

  Part Two

  Chapter 10: Barcelona, August 15, 2002

  Chapter 11: Nazino Island, Siberia, Early May 1933

  Chapter 12: Barcelona, August 2002

  Chapter 13: Moscow, January 1934

  Chapter 14: Barcelona, September 2002

  Chapter 15: Moscow, Late March 1934

  Chapter 16: Barcelona, September 2002

  Chapter 17: Barcelona, 1936–1937

  Chapter 18: Barcelona, September 2002

  Chapter 19: Barcelona, March 1938

  Chapter 20: Barcelona, October 2002

  Part Three

  Chapter 21: Argelès-Sur-Mer, France, February–september 1939

  Chapter 22: Barcelona, October 8, 2002

  Chapter 23: Close to the Polish Border, 1941

  Chapter 24: Barcelona, November 2002

  Chapter 25: Berlin, April 1945

  Chapter 26: Barcelona, November 2002

  Chapter 27: Barcelona, June 1967

  Chapter 28: Barcelona, November 2002

  Chapter 29: The Lake, Night of San Juan, June 23, 1967

  Chapter 30: Barcelona, November 2002

  Epilogue: Barcelona, February 2010–january 2014

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  EARLY OCTOBER 2001

  The landscape took on a certain density after the rain, the colors of the forest seeming deeper. The windshield wipers were still beating back and forth, though less desperately than an hour earlier, as they were leaving Barcelona. Ahead lay the mountains, which now, as night began to fall, were nothing but a dark mass off in the distance. The young man drove carefully, paying attention to the road, which narrowed as it wound higher, curve after curve. The cement mile markers along the edge of the road didn’t seem like particularly good protection against the cliff that dropped off steeply to their right. From time to time he glanced in the rearview mirror and asked the boy if he was queasy. The kid, half asleep, shook his head, but his face was pale and he kept his forehead pressed to the window.

  “Not long now,” the young man said to make him feel better.

  “I hope he doesn’t puke; this upholstery is new.”

  Zinoviev’s hoarse voice brought the driver’s attention back to the road.

  “He’s only six years old.”

  Zinoviev shrugged, extended his enormous hand, tattooed with a spider much like the one covering half his face, and lit a cigarette with the dashboard lighter.

  “Well, the upholstery’s only three years old, and I’m still paying it off.”

  The young man’s eyes darted quickly to the cell phone on the tray. He’d taken the precaution of silencing it, but it was too close to Zinoviev. If the screen lit up, he’d see.

  The main road led to a dirt one, overlooking a valley surrounded by trees. People called it “the lake” although in fact it was a small dam, which supplied power to an electric plant built in the forties. In the summertime, the area filled with tourists eager to spend a day in nature. Over the years, they’d made it easier to get to, built a little slate-roofed hotel with stone façade, a playground with swings, and a café. But in October the forest ranger’s cabin closed for the season, there were no day-trippers to serve at the prefab unit with the Coca-Cola ad, and the plastic chairs stacked at the cafeteria’s barred doors were a snapshot of sadness.

  The young man stopped the car so close to the shore that the front tires almost kissed the water. He turned off the engine. On the north side of the lake was a fenced-off area filled with heavy machinery and a few billboards put up by the Ministry of Public Works. They were going to drain the reservoir in order to build a luxury development. The drawings advertised semidetached homes with private swimming pools flanking a huge golf course. They’d already begun to clear the area and cone off the surrounding forest; tree trunks were piled chaotically around stacks of rebar, concrete, and mounds of sand. Nothing could be heard but the howling wind rocking the firs
along the shore and the intermittent banging of one of the hotel’s shutters, which hadn’t been battened down properly. Rain fell on the lake, dissolving in gentle waves. It all seemed surreal.

  Zinoviev opened the door. When the young man tried to do the same, he stopped him.

  “You wait here.”

  “It’s better if I go with you. The boy only trusts me.”

  “I said wait here.”

  Zinoviev opened the back door and asked the boy to get out. He tried to be nice, but this sort of thing didn’t come naturally to the Russian, whose voice and tattooed face were already frightening enough. The boy began to cry.

  “You’ll be just fine. Go on,” the young man said encouragingly, forcing a smile.

  He watched Zinoviev take the boy’s hand and begin walking toward the gray water of the lake. The boy turned back to the car, and the young man waved confidently. Through the flicking of the wipers he could discern the wooden boardwalk and gazebo. It was almost entirely dark. Disobeying Zinoviev’s order, he got out and approached. Dry leaves crunched beneath his feet and soon the wet ground penetrated the soles of his shoes. When he reached the gazebo he saw Zinoviev’s broad muscular back, his hands in his pockets and a spiral of bluish smoke swirling over his shoulder.

  The Russian turned slowly and gave him a look. “I told you to wait in the car.”

  “We don’t have to do this, there’s got to be another way.”

  Zinoviev took the cigarette from his mouth and blew on the tip.

  “It’s already done,” he said, starting back to the car.

  The young man walked to the edge of the lake, its calm waters glimmering like brass. Come, the darkness beckoned, Come, forget about it all.

  The boy was floating facedown like a starfish, and rain blurred his body, which slowly began to sink.

  Eight months later, Zinoviev was concentrating on his breathing. He liked to go for a run in the mornings, eight or ten kilometers at a decent pace, listening to music on his headphones for motivation. This morning it was Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. As he ran, jumbled thoughts cluttered his mind, things impossible to articulate in exact sentences. He was thinking of all the men he could have been, if he wasn’t who he was.

  Spiders were to blame for everything. Zinoviev’s biggest fear had its roots in the basement of his childhood home—a cold cellar, full of spiderwebs. Small spiders, tiny really, colonized the darkness by the thousands. He could feel them crawling all over his legs, his arms, his neck, into his mouth. Attempting to wriggle away from them was useless; they were everywhere, touching his skin with legs like hairy fingers, trying to ensnare him in their sticky silk traps. Had it not been for that cellar, he’d probably be another man today. He’d learned to conquer his fear, to turn it into a strength. His spider tattoos were a declaration of intent: Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  The last stretch of his run was the hardest. As soon as he could see the house through the fog, he clenched his teeth and picked up the pace. Behind the fence he heard the familiar gruff bark of Lionel, his Doberman.

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” he said to himself, trying to catch his breath as he checked his GPS watch. His heart rate began to slow. Opening the front gate, he gave Lionel a friendly kick. The Doberman was still limping—an American Stafford had almost ripped off his hindquarters in the last fight. Zinoviev stroked the dog’s square head, his powerful jaws. He should get rid of it. What the hell was the point of a fighting dog that could no longer fight? But he was fond of him.

  “What do you say, warrior? Any visitors today?”

  He walked to the porch and sat on the front step, rummaging in his belt pouch for his cigarettes. He loved smoking, even right after a run, before his heartbeat had fully recovered. The tobacco hit his lungs like an avalanche. Wiping his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he exhaled a mouthful of smoke. Renting this house had been a good idea. Isolated, quiet, a portrait of bucolic countryside. Surrounded by dense pines, it was almost invisible, even from the top of the hill. If anyone got lost and approached the gate, Lionel dissuaded them from doing anything but carrying on their way. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always the Glock he kept hidden behind the TV.

  Zinoviev took off his muddy running shoes and walked across the creaky wood floors. The fireplace was lit and its heat quickly warmed his damp socks. He turned on the TV and smiled, seeing the cartoon channel. He was using Disney cartoons to learn English, but the truth was he really liked that big mouse. Every time he saw Mickey, he wondered at the fact that he had once been eight years old. That was a long time ago. Too long. He looked away from the plasma screen and went into the kitchen to make a protein shake, still listening to the television.

  Suddenly, over the sound of the TV, he heard the dog growling. Retracing his steps, Zinoviev looked out. He’d forgotten to close the front door. The dog growled, hackles raised, paws pressed into the floor, staring at the fence. Zinoviev inhaled sharply.

  “What’s the matter, Lio…?”

  The first shot shattered the dog’s chest, and the animal jerked up into the air with a throaty whimper and then landed heavily on his side. A powerful shot, a sawed-off shotgun, almost point-blank. Zinoviev ran for the TV to grab his Glock. He didn’t see Mickey hand Minnie a bouquet of roses. Snatching his gun, he turned. Had he not hesitated, Zinoviev would have had time to take aim. But for a fraction of a second he stood still, mouth open in shock.

  “You?” he asked

  All he received in exchange was a cold stare, a look that left no doubt as to the man’s intentions. Before Zinoviev had time to react, the butt of the shotgun slammed into his forehead.

  How many ways are there to end a man’s life? As many as he can imagine. And the worst of them were passing through Zinoviev’s mind when he opened his eyes to find himself with a wool hood pulled tight over his face. The fabric cut into his mouth, suffocating him. The hood stank of sweat. He was naked and had been handcuffed in an unnatural position, to some sort of post or beam. His arms and shoulders were killing him, supporting the weight of his entire body, his feet barely brushing the ground. Hanging there like a sausage, he felt his muscle fibers tearing, felt the metal handcuffs cutting through the flesh of his wrists.

  “You shouldn’t have killed him. He was a harmless little kid.”

  The voice, coming from behind Zinoviev’s head, made him tense up, as though an invisible rod had been rammed through his spine. He began to sweat and tremble. The worst can always get worse. He shivered as something cold and sharp grazed his back. A knife.

  “How many people have you injected with your poison? Do you paralyze them first so they can’t move while you do horrible things to them?”

  Control yourself. Get a grip. He’s only trying to scare you. Zinoviev was clinging to this idea, but the first slash of the machete disabused him of such a thought. It was quick, between the ribs. He clenched his teeth. Don’t scream. It’s only pain.

  “The innocent don’t fear monsters, did you know that? Children aren’t afraid of evil.”

  Zinoviev felt the machete’s blade being drawn from his clavicle down to his nipple.

  “I’d like this to last awhile. So do me a favor and don’t die right away.”

  Zinoviev knew, now, that his death was going to be atrocious, like returning to the cellar of his childhood with all of those spiders waiting for him. Millions of them.

  He withstood as much as possible. But in the end, he let out a shriek that no one heard.

  Laura gazed at the pieces of wood washed up on the sand, the plastic bottles with seagulls pecking desperately, frenetically among them, like vultures on carrion. The previous night’s swell had dragged all kinds of detritus onto the beach. It wasn’t a very bucolic image, but she liked this barren landscape, preferred it to the hustle and bustle of summertime crowds with their umbrellas, and the little biplanes with ads on the
m that buzzed over her balcony like irritating dragonflies.

  She turned back to the bedroom and saw that he was still sleeping, tangled up in the sheets. Going back in, she sat at the foot of the bed, watched him for a few minutes. Had he told her his name? Possibly, but if so she’d forgotten it immediately.

  Things still weren’t clear in her mind. She’d been out drinking until late the night before. He’d approached her directly, like one of those predators that can pick out its prey from the entire flock with nothing but a glance. The last thing she remembered was the two of them fucking in an ATM booth and then taking a taxi here. Traces of cocaine remained on her nightstand. Along with her wedding band. She always took it off when she slept with someone else. Not that she had any reason to; after all, Luis was the one who’d left her. But still, she hadn’t gotten used to his absence.

  She reached out a foot and jiggled sleeping beauty’s shin. He hardly even registered it, letting out a gentle babyish whimper and slobbering on her sheets. He smelled of dried sperm. Judging by the scratch marks on his back, he must have been a good lay. Shame she couldn’t remember a thing.

  “Hey, Adonis. I’m sure you’ve got some other place to keep snoring, and I’ve got things to do.” He gave a hint of a smile without opening his eyes and reached out a hand, trying to grab Laura’s wrist and pull her back into bed, but she freed herself from his unsteady fingers. One mistake per night was enough. She decided to give him a little reprieve while she showered. After sequestering herself in the bathroom, she turned on the water and took off her T-shirt and panties before the mirror. She looked awful, and it wasn’t just because, after a certain age, going overboard takes a crueler toll than it did when you were twenty. Her eyes stared back at her with a look of defeat far more devastating than anything caused by sex with strangers and too much booze and drugs.