That summer, a wave of madness swept through our neighborhood. I remember the lumps covered with gray blankets in the middle of the street, immaculate. One imagines that after falling from a great height, a body should shatter into pieces, splattering blood around or, at the very least, leaving a shoe scattered a few meters away, like in car accidents or the movies, but it wasn’t like that. Those lumps I speak of went almost unnoticed, camouflaged against the asphalt.
The first two bodies appeared next to the same building, a hideous ten-story construction that marked one of the boundaries of the urban void where we spent our hours. It was a slender block, an imposing gray box devoid of any relief, simply adorned by horizontal bands marking the floors. Although all the buildings along the seafront aligned with the sea so the tenants could enjoy the best views, this one, in contrast, stood perpendicular to the beach, its narrow, blind façade facing the shore. For us, it was a forgotten building. Its entrance was on the opposite side of our square, so we couldn’t see the movements of its residents. It was just a wall, a necessary barrier in our world.
The first lump appeared at the start of the summer by the north façade, the one we couldn’t see from the square. A small crowd gathered around it, but no one paid much attention, really. The other, just a few weeks later, on the south side, our side. Again, no one cared. Neither the passersby on their way to the beach, nor the neighbors peering out their windows, nor us, who paused our games momentarily to observe those inert masses. Not even the police seemed surprised. In both cases, they merely cordoned off the area, took a few photos, and waited apathetically for the judge to arrive, only to leave without a trace but for a human silhouette chalked on the pavement.
It’s true that there were comments about it in the neighborhood those days. The doormen quickly spread the sad news among the residents. In the bar, the supermarket, even on the beach, the words misfortune, bad luck, what can we do, and inevitable were spoken in passing, but it was just an excuse to start a conversation or avoid being rude, like talking about the weather or the outcome of a soccer match. The more daring blamed the east wind, which, as we all know, can be so unbearable it sometimes drives people mad. And so, the days went by, and as summer neared its end, my neighbor from 5B was found crushed on the terrace of my neighbor from 1C.
My neighbor from the fifth floor was old, already retired. He had thick-rimmed glasses perched on a big red nose. He liked to drink excessively, which made any encounter with him the most surreal conversation, but he was kind and fun. He lived with his sister, a thin elderly woman with short white hair, who spent her time walking and pampering her Yorkshire terrier. On the other hand, my neighbor from 1C was a stuck-up woman with whom it was hard to exchange a word. To me, living on the second floor and seeing her door every time I left home, she was practically a stranger. She was also the most beautiful woman in the building, and she flaunted it proudly by wearing youthful dresses and tight pants that drove men crazy and sparked envy in their wives. She also had two teenage daughters who hadn’t inherited their mother’s beauty but believed themselves just as unattainable.
No details were ever revealed. It was a private home, and to make matters worse, it was my standoffish, unreachable neighbor’s house. We did get to see two orderlies carrying the remains down the stairwell. «Everyone in this neighborhood thinks they’re a fucking angel,» one muttered as he awkwardly dodged the railing on the last stretch.