The Dream of the City (12 page)

She jumped up from the stool. She had decided: She would go look for her father and show him the sketch. Ever since her return, she had faithfully executed the designs her brother demanded, and for once, she wanted to have him respect something she wanted to do. She had been in Rome with one of the best jewelers in Europe and no one seemed to care. Laura said good-bye to her sister before leaving.

“Stop worrying about that! Take your time, you've got better things to think about …” Núria yelled at her while she closed the door behind her.

Often, after these conversations weighted down with advice and insinuations, Laura would begin to feel that her sister was obsessed with finding her a husband, and that she examined every man who crossed her path the way she'd always done with Jordi, whom she treated like a suitor when in fact he was just a friend.

Laura would get exasperated every time she heard those bids for her to give up in her quest to become an artist and instead try and find herself a good man to marry. And all those veiled suggestions, the glances, the faces of her mother and sister, seemed contrived to push her toward Jordi. She admired him, but she couldn't help but think that admiration wasn't good enough, that there needed to be something more, that love was something stronger, more intense, more sudden and yet more sweeping, because she was sure that Jordi and any other young man of his age and class would try, sooner or later, to come between her and her work and make her forget her creativity, just like that imbecile Navarro. He didn't seem to have an ounce of brains in his head: He just did and said what he was told. His strength and his submissiveness had made him part of the company, but he was worthless; he didn't even deserve for her to waste a minute of her time thinking about him and his contemptuous face, his smarmy black eyes, his clenched, angular jaw, his distant air, his lack of understanding, looking down on her from his height and strength as if she were a girl, someone who didn't deserve a second thought, a vulgar, whiny little girl.

As she returned home, this time in a taxi, Laura felt ashamed. She remembered her sister's last words and understood that she was right: She should stop worrying; she couldn't lose her calm thinking about her mother looking for suitors for her, about Ferran, about Jordi, about that arrogant Navarro. Núria had told her to focus on her task, which meant design, in her case, and that's what she should do. She seemed to have forgotten the lessons she'd learned from Zunico, who had always looked down on pretension, on the idea that being an artist made you better than others, and had stressed tenacity and hard work. That was why he started her off with the most routine tasks, so she would learn to know and appreciate all the stages that went into making a piece of jewelry.

Laura looked quickly at the drawing in her hand and rolled it up into a slender tube. Though her father would understand her—sometimes she had the impression he was the only one who did—she wouldn't look for his support. Her creations should be defended on their own. Just like her.

CHAPTER 12

The first weeks collaborating in Gaudí's workshop had been nervous ones for Laura. The master's presence was imposing, although his calm way of speaking, his willingness to give all sorts of explanations of the project, his completely white hair and beard, and his intense blue eyes made him a magnetic figure, capable of invoking a resonating serenity in his surroundings. But also, Gaudí placed great trust in his assistants; Laura soon found herself working alone, without anyone behind her back, staring down at her the whole time.

Because the Sagrada Familia was funded solely from donations, there was not always enough money for the construction to go forward. When money was low, they took advantage of the time to research. Gaudí had a workshop built in the chapter house, at the crossing of two streets, Cerdeña and Provenza. A large main room there was filled with plaster molds and the sculptures that would be placed in the temple. Next to this room was another that Laura found astonishing: Gaudí had planned a sloping roof covered by screens that could be opened through a system of pulleys. And he had made it this way to allow in sunlight to study its effects on the models, to know what his structures would look like once they were built. In this way, he could avoid difficulties before they arose.

Laura worked in the design and fabrication of the models and sculptures. Another group was formed of architects who took care of the plans and mock-ups of the future building. Gaudí was inclined to plan everything in detail and knew how to surround himself with others up to the task, people who, with his help, could attain a high degree of perfection. He planned to take care of everything from the stonework to the furnishings and windows, the ironwork, and other ornaments. At times, with his own hands, he would spend hours building complicated oil lamps for the temple's interior.

From the beginning, Laura found herself enveloped in a feverish rhythm of creative activity, so much so that she began to doubt her abilities. And yet, she didn't allow herself to give in to her reservations. It was a magnificent opportunity she'd come across: not only to participate in a labor that was destined for eternity, but also to live through a creative experience of enormous complexity, a total work of art.

Her first job was to make models of salamanders based on designs that she had been given. To avoid wasting material, she made them first on a small scale. She had to prepare a number of the creatures before she reached the desired result. She barely had any contact with the master, but she caught wind that he had been pleased with her work. After the final modifications, there arrived at the workshop a salamander in soft material, of equal size to the one that would be placed on the façade, where it would serve the function of a gargoyle.

The models were placed throughout the room where the sculptures were stored, some of them hanging from the roof. At first it seemed eccentric to Laura, but when she realized how large the number of figures in question was, she understood: If they had been left on the floor, the room would have become not only cramped, but impossible to use.

Ever since one of her sculptures was hung in the room, Laura would pass through it to stare at that strange tree adorned with the most impossible fruits. Her early doubts vanished one by one: There was still much for her to do and to learn, but already, a piece of hers was to be included on the Expiatory Temple of the Sagrada Familia.

In mid-September, Laura was asked to do drawings of children because models were needed for the figures of the pastors and angels. Armed with her folder, paper, charcoal, and conté, she went outside. She walked in the direction of the provisional schools located in the Calle de Mallorca, where the daunting Glory Façade would one day be erected. She ambled along tranquilly, enjoying that late summer sun that was still warm, but soothing, and the light that turned orange as it touched the ground that surrounded the temple. The boys were still in class, so she looked for a place to sit and watch them in action when they came out for recess. She thought of the child who greeted her the first day; he seemed a perfect model for a cherub, with his fair hair, bright eyes, and his face at once arch and tender, giving him a humane aspect that would undoubtedly please the master. She also remembered the other one, the sheepherder, whose serious mien, halfway between youth and adult, had also attracted her attention. He would be an obvious model for the pastors.

While she waited, she slid the conté across the paper, trying to capture the subtle curvature of the school buildings' roofs, which reminded Laura of waves in the sea. The soft brownish-red of the crayon was perfect for the exposed brick structure. The walls, also flowing, conveyed lightness and strength in a way Laura found astonishing. Anyone else, she thought as she went on with her sketch, would have built a simple structure—four walls and a slanting roof—but not Gaudí. He had looked for something different, something that would be unique.

The boys emerged from the schools in a jumble, despite the teachers' calls for order. Laura watched them awhile, trying to guess at their ages. They were divided into three groups, each consisting of two grades; she could make out Guillermo among them. The boy seemed not to see her as he rushed to the yard with his school friends. One of the boys had a ball made of rags and they ran behind it following the rules of the newly fashionable sport of soccer.

Laura took out her charcoal and sketched out a few figures. She enjoyed observing the boys' concentrated expressions. They still lacked the restraint of the adult world and expressed their feelings with complete liberty, so far from prejudice, so sincere. Their eyes opened wide as they followed the ball, the joy of a goal making them laugh with joy, and likewise, the disappointment of the opposing team was so solemn as to break one's heart. But in the end, the happy normality of youth was banished by a high-pitched whistle: It was the teacher, calling them to return to the classroom.

They all headed back with a weary walk, as if the abundant energy from a second before had vanished. Laura smiled. She remembered that she too had regretted returning to class when she had studied at the School of Saint Teresa. It consoled her to return through those hallways designed by Gaudí—though back then, she didn't realize he was responsible for them—so full of light, they seemed to be passageways through heaven.

It was then that Guillermo noticed her. He ran over and asked her, with his breath racing and hair disarrayed, “What's your name? I asked you the other day, but you didn't hear me.”

“Hello, Guillermo. My name is Laura,” she replied, offering her hand. He looked at her without knowing quite what to do. Finally, timidly, he offered his in return.

“What are you doing? Are those drawings? Can I see them?”

“Of course. It's you all playing soccer.”

“But that's Gómez going for a goal!” He pointed at the picture. “He's good, but sometimes when he kicks …”

“Guillermo! Come here, please!”

It was the teacher, who was shouting with his hands on his hips. No one else remained in the yard.

“Go on, go, don't make the teacher wait,” Laura told him gently. “Later, when you're done, I'll show you the rest. I also drew you.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his eyes wide as dinner plates.

“But run, or else they'll punish you and make you stay after class.” Turning to the teacher, she added: “I'm sorry, it was my fault.”

Guillermo said good-bye to her again as he ran off. Laura watched from the distance as he entered, ducking the slap on the neck the teacher had ready for him.

When class was over, Guillermo ran outside. He already had his bag packed with his books and writing utensils. He was a little disappointed when he didn't see Laura waiting there, but soon he spied her. She was still drawing, but she had moved to another spot, and now she was drawing a governess who was out walking with a very young girl.

“Hi, Laura!” he said in a singsong voice.

Laura looked up a moment from her drawing and greeted him in return. Guillermo looked at her hands, which were moving fluidly over the paper. He observed how she colored in the dress of the governess by smearing the charcoal with her fingertips. But what most caught his attention was the portrait of the girl: The face was completely accurate. To Guillermo, it seemed like magic.

“It's like a photograph. …” he whispered admiringly.

“Thank you,” she responded, satisfied. “Do you want to see the ones I did before?”

The boy nodded. They excited him, especially the one of him; Laura had captured his face when he was kicking a goal, his head raised along with his left fist, celebrating the way he had seen the professional footballers do on the field belonging to the Football Club Barcelona, close to the School of Industry.

Laura could see in the boy's face that he wanted to ask her for it, but didn't dare. She took this drawing out from the rest and offered it to him.

“If I give you this one, will you let me draw you another day with more time?”

It seemed impossible he could open his eyes any wider.

“Yeah, of course! Just wait 'til my brother sees it!” He nearly gave her a kiss, but the voice of another boy demanded his attention. A bit remorseful, he explained, “They're waiting for me. We're heading home together.”

“Go along then before your friends get mad,” Laura said to calm him down. “And don't worry, I'm the one who seems to be making you late everywhere!”

Guillermo turned to his friends. When he reached them, he showed him the drawing and pointed to Laura. She had time to wave before she went back to the workshop at the Sagrada Familia. The air blew warmly while she placed her drawings in a folder.

That night after dinner, Dimas came by the apartment. Juan, who was absorbed in his reading of
La Vanguardia
, the daily paper, pointed to a pot on the stove.

“There's stewed beef with potatoes. It's still warm. And some bread as well.”

“I already had dinner, Father, but thank you. Is Guillermo in bed?”

“Yes, and what an evening we had together. He couldn't stop talking over dinner and showing me some drawing and going on and on about I don't know who …”

While he spoke, Juan turned the pages, licking the thumb of his good hand. His other arm hung useless, though normally, whenever he sat in the chair, he would prop it up on his leg in a position that masked his disability. Dimas frowned as he looked at him; his father seemed tired. Still, he knew that since he'd been bringing in more money, Juan had stopped running the errands that had irritated Dimas so. Now, when he saw him like this, he thought it might have been better when he had something to keep himself busy.

“I'm going to tell him good night.”

He went into Guillermo's room and found him awake. In a low voice, he said to his brother, “Go to sleep now, it's late.”

“It's hot; I'm not tired.”

Dimas looked at the closed window and went to open it; the night was mild. He propped open the window slightly.

“Did you see my drawing?” Guillermo blurted out.

“Father said something about it. Did you do it at school?”

“No, it wasn't me,” he answered, as if tired of having to explain something obvious. “The girl did it for me, the one that works at the Sagrada Familia.”

“A teacher?”

“No, not in the school, in the church!”

His impatient tone showed that he was getting tired.

“There's a woman working on the temple itself?”

“Yeah, and she's really pretty. She drew us when we were at recess. Look, I've got it here. …”

Guillermo bent over and took a sheet of paper from under the bed. Dimas took it carefully in his hands.

“Wow, you look like a champion,” Dimas mused as he looked at it attentively. “It really is good. You want me to hang it up on your wall?” Guillermo agreed, yawning. “I'll put it up and you go to bed then.”

Dimas stood up, and after a quick look around, found a nail that had once held a painting. He held up the paper and pressed it onto the nail. Once he'd made sure it was hanging more or less straight, he told his brother to cover up and left the bedroom whispering good night.

“Is he asleep?” Juan asked, looking up from the paper.

“Almost. I'm going out.”

“I'm going to bed soon. Good night.”

Dimas left the apartment and locked the door carefully. As he walked down the stairs he remembered what Guillermo had told him and thought,
A woman working at the Sagrada Familia? And pretty? She must be a nun
. And he smiled at the boy's naïveté.