A Summer in Saint-Malo

By Mayte Salmerón Almela

A Summer in Saint-Malo is a story of intrigue and charged emotions, as the main character, Clara, encounters unexpected situations that will make her summer far less relaxing than she had hoped.

The story, which begins with the appearance of a body in an elevator, moves through three different periods in Clara’s life: her late childhood, when the most talked about news story is the disappearance of children in the neighboring comarcas, few of whom reappear, and always with a strange mark on their wrists when they do; her young adulthood, when she visits Saint-Malo and embarks on an adventure that leaves her breathless; and finally the present, where, now an adult, she must confront those memories in order to figure out why she has encountered the body of an acquaintance in an elevator.

Three key moments in Clara’s life, an unforgettable city on the coast, a mystery unsolved for years, and one single explanation for it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Feb 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667426358

Book preview

This story takes place in the Region of Murcia, specifically in the three comarcas labeled on the map. In this region, each comarca includes various municipalities. I wanted to describe something characteristic of one these municipalities without specifying their names, lending an air of mystery to the story.

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2017

I hate elevators, I've always hated them. I never understood why, as girls, when few buildings had such technology, my friends liked to go into apartments that had them and ride up to the highest floor for no reason. They had fun, I didn't. My fear was so bad that, when the opportunity arose to sneak into a building to catch the elevator, I invented a reason to go back home and avoid the drama.

All of this was rolling around in my head that Sunday when my sister called. The sound of the telephone startled me awake from the deepest sleep, and still hungover from the previous night's drinks, I had trouble speaking when I answered, slurring my words. She asked me to babysit my niece, Irene, that afternoon and, suddenly, my stomach dropped—not just upset after a night of partying, but because my sister lived on the tenth floor. I visited her less often than I wanted to, but whenever I did, I planned to take the stairs; it never hurt to get a little exercise, but my poor condition that day wouldn't permit so much exertion.

My legs shaking, I arrived at the entrance. Once inside, the elevator was already waiting. The doors opened and I encountered a man inside who had perhaps seen me arrive and held it to take together. When I stepped on, though, he didn't bother to look at me or offer a polite greeting. I got no answer when I asked him which floor he was going to, so I pressed ‘10’, assuming we were headed to the same place. That minuscule and suffocating car was large enough for four people, but with just two I already found it terrifyingly claustrophobic. Worse, it had no mirrors, everything was covered with a green aluminum that made it even more unpleasant. To avoid thinking about it, I began to discretely observe my companion: he was young, with good posture. He didn't move the entire ride, leaning into a corner as if exhausted by life, positioned so that I could only see part of his profile. As I watched him, an inexplicable anxiety flooded my entire body, and it wasn't because of my terror of elevators; it was something more, like a premonition that something had happened or was going to happen. Fearful, I turned my back to him as the ride came to an end. The small shudder that an elevator gives when it comes to a stop caused the young man to wobble and, as I went to open the door, he fell, face up, to the floor, occupying the entire space. It was then that I could see his face and observe the small bullet hole in his forehead ... I reacted, jumping up, and horrified as I was, bolting out of the elevator like a crazy woman, screaming, maybe even crying; the neighbors responded to my screams instantly.

Oh, God! I had ridden a damn elevator with a dead body next to me!

And it wasn’t just that . . . when I saw his face . . . I had recognized him, it was him . . . no doubt.

PART ONE

––––––––

20 YEARS EARLIER

1

Dressed in my heaviest coat, I walked behind my mother at a considerable distance. We were running late, but the heavy garment made me walk stiffly, and therefore, much more slowly than usual.

Clara, hurry up! she yelled across the distance, showing her exasperation.

My name could not have suited me better; my skin was as pale as my beloved mother's. Thirteen years earlier, my parents had started thinking of possible names for me when I was nothing more than a fetus, and Clara was always at the top of the list; however, there was always the possibility that I would be born like my father, with brown skin, in which case they would name me after my dear grandmother, Facunda. I had always been happy to be as white as cream.

Other than that, though, I was much more like my father. Yes, my hazel eyes and brown hair were his, but what most united us as father and daughter was our pacifying nature, alongside our restlessness. When I didn't know something or found it hard to understand, I worked hard, persevering until I reached the goal I had set for myself; my love of learning always left me breathless, wanting more. Without intending to, I became self-taught in languages, sciences and any other topic that interested me at a given moment. In time, all of this helped me in my studies and even in my travels, allowing me to enjoy those experiences to the fullest. I was truly a fidgeter, incapable of staying in the house any longer than necessary. On the other hand, when it came to arguments and offenses . . . I worked actively to avoid them and was always the first to beg forgiveness. That was my nature.

That afternoon, my mother and I were heading downtown while my father and little sister stayed at home. She held my hand much more tightly than usual as we got on the bus, and she couldn’t stop turning to glance around nervously.

In the Christmas season of 1997, the most talked about news story was the strange disappearance of a large number of boys and girls in the nearby comarcas. They didn't leave a trace and, inexplicably, some of them reappeared months later, though only a few. They were usually discovered at night, in places that were very crowded during the day. The most distinctive thing about them at first glance was that they were extremely thin, with apparent signs of malnutrition. Another striking detail was the children's partial memory loss. They remembered absolutely nothing about what had happened to them in the time they were gone, nothing, as if their memories had been erased. Last but certainly not least was the fact that all of the kids reappeared with the letter S tattooed on their right wrists.

Downtown, as expected that time of year, was jammed, with police patrols continuously passing by, attempting to lend an air of calm to the atmosphere. It was there that we met Lucy and Manu, who had been waiting for us for a bit. Manu was my best friend at school. He wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up but was already spacier than the rest of the kids our age. Everything fascinated him, so we had to wait while he became engrossed in the Christmas lights, and more than once we had to stop amidst the crowd to wait for him and his mother, who was always dragging him by the arm. Lucy, in contrast, was a whirlwind of a woman, as nervous and impatient as they come; they were clearly day and night. She found her son's behavior and easygoing attitude exasperating and she never hid her frustration from anyone, least of all the poor boy. With a mixture of laughter and pity, mom and I couldn’t fail to guess the topic of conversation that Lucy would bring up that afternoon: her son. He was her greatest worry, so we forgave her when she talked about him for hours on end. Mostly she criticized his teachers, who had it out for him; she complained about his own friends laughing at him and declared that he was too good for the world we lived in . . . After hours and hours criticizing the school system, she always concluded with I'm so thankful that our children have each other. Truthfully, I thought it would've been more accurate to say, I’m so thankful that you’ve kept Manu from getting into even more trouble and helped ease some of the animosity the rest of the kids feel for him. That's the way he was, special; the whole world didn't have to get him.

Nearly finished our afternoon of shopping, laden with a great number of bags, we sat down, exhausted, on a small bench while Manu moved off to admire some of the Christmas lights that adorned the city. Seated there, watching that crowd of people, a chill ran through my whole body, longing for the safety and security of my home. While I listened to my mother's conversation with Lucy, not really paying attention, I considered Manu affectionately. Though we both knew that we would never feel anything for each other, there was still an unmistakable connection between us. When I imagined him older, in his astronaut suit, I started to laugh to myself, and mom and Lucy stopped talking to give me strange look. Their animated chat interrupted, my mother stood up to announce, with a deep breath, that we still had one last gift to buy.

Let's go! We still need a gift for your grandfather, she said, forcing us up from our comfortable seats.

Even today, every time I pass by that store, now deserted, I shiver, and my stomach drops, just like it did that afternoon.

The Garcia hat shop was quite small and decorated with dark wood furniture. Stepping inside, you were automatically transported to a bygone era. Hats were out of fashion and, truthfully, I thought it odd that my grandfather would still wear them. I liked to look at the different models on the shelves, considering their size and shape, imagining the type of person who would wear this or that hat. The owners hated children and wouldn’t let them try anything on without permission—something that makes sense to me now as an adult, but at the time made the Garcia's shop one of the most boring. All Manu and I could do was watch everything from our seats close to the door while my mother and Lucy, at the large wooden counter, decided on which cap to buy.

At one particular moment, our heads turned upon hearing a jingle as the door opened and a large woman hastily entered the shop, interrupting my mother and neighbor's decision making. She was followed by a young boy who, in contrast to her, appeared ill, he was so thin. In a matter of seconds, the mood changed, as an atmosphere of uncertainty seemed to creep over everyone there, giving rise to a chilling silence. The boy, with an empty stare, settled his eyes on mine and then, collapsed, falling violently to the floor. The fat woman began screaming at the top of her lungs. As he fell, the boy's right arm landed near his head, and we could make out a kind of unfinished S on his wrist . . .

After minutes that felt like hours, the police arrived with a team of medics to revive and transport the boy. At first, my mother tried to move us away to keep us from watching the whole ordeal, but Lucy, Manu and I couldn't stop staring, as if hypnotized and in a state of shock. I could see that he was tall and blond, perhaps a few years older than I was. As we watched him lying there, he opened his eyes suddenly. I was paralyzed by their deep blue. He was very handsome, the most handsome boy I had seen in my short lifetime so far. I looked away quickly when I realized that I was blushing. A few minutes later, they put him on a stretcher to take him to the hospital.

PART TWO

10 YEARS LATER

2

The train was arriving late. I had let Manu know so he wouldn’t wait for me at the station, and I could catch a taxi or bus. So I was surprised to see him standing there, hands in his pockets, staring off into the distance. He had changed since the last time: in addition to being much thinner, he had grown a thick beard that contrasted with the lack of hair on his small head. The years have punished me—this damn alopecia, he said every time we met. Despite that, I always found him quite attractive. Before walking up to him I caught my hair up in a high messy bun and pinched my cheeks in an attempt to bring some color to my naturally pale skin. I approached Manu purposefully, dragging my bulky luggage full of the typical just in case items every woman thinks necessary for a long stay far from home, but my friend didn’t spot me until I was nearly on top of him. He was still as scatterbrained as ever! Catching him off-guard, he raised his head and, with smiles on our faces, we hugged without exchanging a word.

How was I going to let you take a taxi alone, much less on the day of your arrival in Saint-Malo? he began as he grabbed one of the suitcases I was carrying.

Tell the truth, I said with a skeptical expression, you didn’t think for one second that they would understand the outstanding French that I speak.

We both started to laugh, and I drew him towards me, happy to be together again. We both knew that, although my English was very skilled, French had always been my worst subject. We walked arm-in-arm, in a cloud of absolute happiness, until we reached his car.

Ludo is waiting for us at home. He’s prepared us a ‘traditional French’ dinner. Did I say that right?

I might never master the language of the Gauls, but Manu’s English[1] was terrible.

Remembering that there was someone waiting for him every day at home, someone to show him love and affection, I quickly began to descend from that cloud of happiness. Lately it seemed I had only seen close, happy couples which made me sad as well as nostalgic. This was obviously the result of my recent breakup with Tony, and I figured it was understandable after more than two years together. So, I gathered my strength, just as I had been doing for the past three months, and smiled at my friend. I was happy that at least he was obviously lucky in love.

Surprisingly, the pair had only known each other for a few years, and they already shared a home.

It had been a late summer afternoon, on the balcony of his house, when Manu told me he had fallen in love, and this time it was the real thing—the one. I was thrilled for him, though less so when he told me he was going to abandon me and move to another country.

Up until then, Manu’s life had revolved around his mother and my family. He had given up his dream of being an astronaut to be a physical therapist and to study languages, particularly French. This all served him well when he finished college, spent the summer practicing in Nantes and met a guy a bit older than himself, his beloved Ludo.

Ludo’s mother was a nurse who lived there, and although her son worked nearly 200 kilometers away, he spent the summers with her. On one of the mornings when Ludo accompanied his mother to the spine clinic, he saw Manu for the first time. It was love at first sight. They connected instantly and over the next few weeks began a relationship kept secret from Ludo’s mother, who had not yet come to terms with her son’s sexual orientation.

I will always believe that, that day on the balcony with Manu, as he told me his love story, I had lost my friend forever.

We finally arrived at the duplex that the happy couple had bought on the outskirts of the gorgeous French city. I have to admit that I had never visited them before, perhaps because my ex and I liked to visit more far-off places and it never occurred to us to visit the neighboring country. So the few times I had seen Manu and Ludo was when they came to Spain, when they managed to catch me at home and not off in another corner of the world.

When I stepped out of the car, before entering the house for the first time, I looked toward the only lighted window, in the kitchen. There I could see Ludo’s silhouette, with his disheveled hair and unbuttoned shirt.

I smiled bitterly to myself and, with a deep sigh, grabbed my luggage and went in, fiercely determined to leave everything behind during my stay in Saint-Malo.

Our dinner was indeed very French, consisting of a delicious galette, a salad, and a platter of different cheeses for dessert. Ludo, as always, was enchanting, and I was fascinated by his ability to speak and understand our language.

We talked long into the night, accompanied by two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. We caught up on all of our careers, sharing news and innocent gossip, and I noted how much each of us enjoyed our chosen fields.

When it was late enough, Ludo tactfully went to bed, leaving Manu and I alone cleaning up the kitchen. For a few minutes we said nothing, focusing on our task, which was proving quite challenging after two bottles of wine. I was tired from the trip and could think only of the bed that awaited me upstairs.

So...how are you? he interrupted the silence suddenly.

I ... I began to say. Better every day, I lied. It will do me good to spend some time here.

I think so too, said Manu. Will you be ok next week?

Oh, that’s when you’re leaving, right? I had completely forgotten. Yes, I’ll be fine.

I’m worried about leaving you alone.

Why?

He looked me up and down as if to say the reasons for his unease were obvious and required no explanation.

Clara, you’ve just had your heart broken, and what’s more... He stopped washing a plate to give me a hard look. You don’t speak the language.

You should go with Ludo to see his mother, I said, gesturing to dismiss the seriousness of my unfortunate situation. You already told me that she’s worse each time, you should go in case it’s the last time. Don’t worry about me, you know I love to be alone, reading books, drinking coffee, watching the sunset, walking . . . I don’t need anyone for that.

I know. In fact, I thought perhaps that was the main reason for your breakup with Tony . . .

This time it was me who stopped drying the plates to look at him. It was true, I had always been independent, a person who appreciated and enjoyed solitude. But no, that hadn’t been the primary reason for the end of my relationships. My pride was so wounded that at the moment, no one in my closest circle knew the reasons for the breakup and although it wasn’t the right time to discuss it, I really needed my friend to know. Especially if I was going to be staying in his home for so long.

"One day he