The Dream of the City (17 page)

Dimas put the car in gear and took off through the curves of the Rabassada. A rabbit crossed in front of his headlights like an apparition. Around the next curve, Barcelona appeared in all its splendor, and now he could see the stars. The brightest of the streetlights shone around the Plaza Cataluña, as if they were transmitting their energy from that gleaming center to the rest of the city.

At the foot of the mountain, he veered right and went to park in San Gervasio. From there it was still a good walk until he made it to his bed and brought the day to a close. He left the car in front of the Jufresas' mansion. It was dark all around.

Then he headed home. His steps resounded amid the solitary streets, without streetcars, without people.

CHAPTER 17

The next morning, Dimas went to retrieve the Hispano-Suiza from the Jufresas'. Once behind the wheel, he ascended the Rabassada once more, much more calmly than he had gone down it the night before. He passed a streetcar as it was ringing its bells and just afterward, he saw the summit of Tibidabo. There, at the beginning of the century, an amusement park had opened, one more sign of the city's modernization. Admission was priced at two
reales
, a reasonable price for Barcelona's middle classes. He passed by the exit and continued along the road until he reached the casino, which was more remote but also more luxurious. Everything, including the landscape, had about it an air of exclusivity.

He slowed down and passed carefully by the tall cast-iron fence. At one of the valet stands was a guard who decided whom to let in, and at the other a man sold tickets granting admission onto the casino's fairgrounds. At that hour, there were already families waiting to get in, because the casino had newer and more exciting attractions than those at Tibidabo.

From the comfort of his seat, Dimas smiled when he saw the excited people. Though he didn't care for that sort of diversion, he understood their anticipation. He remembered the first time he went into the water chute, a kind of ramp you slid down at top speed in a little boat until you landed in a small pool. The boat would descend loaded with five or six people. The effect of the fall, the feeling of risk, of the impact against the water, made the people shriek and giggle with delight.

A hotel rose up to one side of the casino. It was part of the same building, but it had a different entrance. In its rooms, more than one customer had taken his own life after losing everything at the gaming tables the night before. Ferran had a standing reservation for a room. He paid even if he wasn't using it, to avoid the inconvenience of dialing 6204 and finding himself with nowhere to stay. Dimas greeted the porter, touching his hand to the brim of his hat.

He looked at his pocket watch and calculated that it was still too early to go in. He chose instead to take a walk around the grounds and headed toward the area where the attractions were. Though it was October and the mornings were cool, a group had already gone in to try the water chute. Over his head he heard the metallic noise of the roller coaster. He passed in front of the Palais du Rire, a funhouse with concave and convex mirrors that seemed to provoke great amusement, judging by the faces of the people who emerged from inside it. Those who tried their luck with the bow and arrow or the rifle changed from deep concentration, a rarity in that place, to jubilation or ridicule depending on their accuracy.

After a while, he retraced his steps and returned to the hotel. Again the porter greeted him, standing in a military posture. Dimas walked past one of the elevators, full of foreigners, and waited to go up in another. Its sole occupant was one of the serving women, recognizable by her black uniform and bonnet and her white apron. She was cleaning its interior.

“Good morning,” said the middle-aged woman with large dark eyes.

Dimas responded by removing his hat. She hardly dared to look at him, although she smiled gratefully. On more than one occasion, she had been responded to with utter indifference.

“Looks like a cold morning out there, no?” the woman said, trying to fill the heavy emptiness so common in elevators.

“It's not bad; I like it that way,” Dimas said, serious but kind.

“That's true, you know? This summer stretched out too long; it's time for autumn to get to work. But what I don't understand is the people who go up in that
guat
… in that, you know … that thing with the water. …”

“Yeah, I saw they were already lining up.”

The woman smiled, relieved he had understood her.

“What kind of fun is that, paying to fall down in the water?!”

The woman's smile made her look younger. Dimas wasn't normally inclined to chitchat, but he felt comfortable with her.

“Those diamonds on these rich people won't get wrinkled or shrink, don't worry,” he responded.

He left the woman laughing in the elevator and walked toward Ferran's room, turning his hat over repeatedly in his hands. There was no note on the door:
Ferran must be alone
, he thought. He knocked, and the door opened. Dimas entered cautiously and was relieved to see his boss was ready, clear-eyed, knotting his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. He looked at Dimas in the mirror.

“Good morning. You've come at just the right time. I'm going to the restaurant for breakfast. Have you eaten? Yes? Good. Take my things down if you don't mind and wait for me in the car, all right?” He left the room with a resolute step.

The atmosphere was rather stuffy in the room. Dimas opened a window and let in a bit of fresh air. He looked outside, contemplating the verdant landscape of the Sierra de Collserola. It seemed impossible that a little farther down, the big city with its smoke, its noise, and its bustle was stretching out its claws. He left his hat on a chair and sat down a moment on the edge of the bed. He thought about the woman in the elevator; humility was not something that left him indifferent. For all his life, he had breathed it in his house, through his father. And like him, despite her circumstances, that woman possessed strength, hidden dignity. But Dimas Navarro wasn't trying to be a better person. He didn't want to be like his father, even if he admired him. He refused to spend his life waiting for his rewards to come to him, the way the devout did, praying and praying and keeping faith that one day, their efforts would be reimbursed.

He was glad Ferran had left his change of clothes in his suitcase; he wouldn't have to bother folding and packing them; he could just carry the suitcase down and wait in the Hispano-Suiza. When he went to open the door to the room to leave, he heard a noise on the other side.

It was the servant he had met in the elevator, who jumped in fright and asked for forgiveness when she ran into Dimas.

“Pardon me, I thought it was empty, and I …”

“It's fine, you can come in. It's all yours,” he said, smiling.

He stretched out his arm and waved her into the room. Suddenly the woman stood still, looking at him and the floor, as if assaulted by some doubt or sudden illness. Dimas's brow furrowed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, worried and gentle.

She nodded, though her gaze remained somewhat lost and her lower lip was slightly trembling. She muttered some excuse and rushed into the room. Dimas walked out, not giving it a second thought, and walked toward the elevator.

When he arrived at the parking lot, he realized he had forgotten his hat. He locked the small suitcase in the trunk and went back to the room, grumbling. He hoped the cleaning woman was still there, he didn't want to have to look for a porter or ask at the reception desk to have the door opened.

When he arrived, he saw the door was shut. Worried she had locked it, he cursed, but he tried the knob anyway and found to his surprise that it opened. The woman was still inside, but seated on the bed now, drying what seemed to be tears with her apron. Dimas said nothing, but the woman sprang up.

“Please, sir, forgive me. … I didn't think you'd be back.”

Dimas scanned the room and then pointed at his hat, which was resting on a chair.

“I forgot it.”

“Oh, I see. … It's that … See, sir, I don't want you to think ill of me. I had a bad start to the day, and …”

Dimas nodded while he picked up the hat with one hand.

“Don't worry, it's my fault.”

“You see …” The woman twisted her apron in her hands and stared at him. Dimas wanted to leave, but something prevented him from walking out before the woman had spoken. He just wanted it to be brief. “I don't know where my head is today. Everything I do seems …”

She looked up and fell silent. Her eyes filled with tears. She couldn't say another word. Dimas didn't know how to respond. Nervous, he put on his hat, cleared his throat, and, just to say something, uttered the words, “Don't worry. I have to go anyhow. Are you all right? Can I bring you a glass of water?”

The woman shook her head and smiled at him kindly. She had sat down again on the bed and was once again using her apron as a handkerchief. Dimas took advantage of this moment to leave the room and said good-bye in a soft, almost sweet voice.

As soon as the door was closed, the woman stood up. She began to pace nervously around the room. The tears kept falling, but she didn't bother to dry them.
It can't be! It can't be!
she thought. She ran her hands over her face, trying to clear her mind. She stopped in front of the mirror and looked at her own image; her face, withered by years and work, looked back at her incredulous, ashamed. She stood there a few moments until she felt she had regained her composure. Then her lips pronounced the phrase that had resounded like an echo in her mind since that stranger entered the elevator.

“It's him; it has to be him.”

Dimas was standing and leaning against one of the doors of the car when Ferran appeared. He was in an excellent mood.

“You should have joined me, Navarro. I notice you don't eat too much. The breakfast here is outstanding. And in those dining rooms! You drive—I'm too full—all right? I need to be strong today; I have a lot to do. Yesterday, I sealed an important deal. You'll see. I'll tell you on our way to the office.”

Dimas sat in the driver's seat, put the vehicle in gear, and began to drive away unhurried.

“That's right, Navarro,” Ferran continued. “Yesterday was a perfect night for me. You can't even imagine! This thing with the war is going to be a great opportunity. You know what they say: Troubled waters make for good fishing. …”

Dimas wondered to what point it was right to make money off misfortune. He pushed aside those thoughts about morals, which weren't doing him any good, and focused on driving and listening.

“What happened is, yesterday, between the card games, the roulette, and one drink after another, someone introduced me to Josep Tordera and I managed to have a very fruitful conversation with him. Does his name ring a bell to you?”

Dimas answered with a question, “The textile manufacturer?”

“Exactly! So, Señor Tordera is in contact with industrialists who manufacture, among other things, cellulose, which is a kind of paste made of wood and plant fibers. …” He moved his hands as he spoke, as if feeling something between them. It was clear he lacked the necessary words to explain himself. Dimas remained silent. “So, what we're thinking is,” Ferran continued good-humoredly, “I mean, the point is, these layers of cellulose combined with charcoal are used in the filtration of certain gases. You can use cotton as well, but in wartime there's not enough on hand: You already have uniforms, bandages … But Señor Tordera has a large supply of it to sell in Germany.”

“Germany?” Dimas asked, surprised.

Ferran laughed.

“Don't get impatient, you'll see what it's all about soon. … See, the president of the government, Eduardo Dato, has proclaimed Spain's neutrality. But the country's divided into two factions: Count Romanones, the leader of the liberals, is a Francophile and he is behind the Allies. On the other hand, the army, like the king, prefers the German empire; they must find all that Prussian military culture fascinating. So the country's neutrality is good for us as businessmen, but, as good businessmen, we don't want to make any enemies. So Tordera, to cover his back, needs an intermediary to make the sale happen. We have to act with extreme prudence. And to top it off, both sides have spies everywhere, and if they find out about a shipment of supplies to the enemy, they won't hesitate to intervene. You have to realize, we still don't even know who pays better. …”

He took out a Cuban cigar from the breast pocket of his jacket. He lit it carefully, maintaining a silence that was meant to stoke intrigue, though his self-satisfied smile gave him away.

“I told him I have two trucks ready to go. We'll drive the material to Bilbao and we'll charter a boat from there. Then, we can continue negotiating. If we sell it to the French, we'll drive it across the border in the trucks; if the Germans want to buy, we'll push ahead with the boat and figure out where we can dock. The part with the ship is taken care of; I have an associate in the north who owes me a favor after a week he spent here,” he said, pointing back to the mountain, making clear he was referring to the casino. “There won't be any problem on that front. And you'll help me round up the trucks and the personnel to get the material Bilbao safely. I'm trusting in your discretion. I'll take care of the transport costs. Tordera's no fool; he was trying to pay me a fixed price for my services. In the end, I managed to get him to pay me a percentage for my services and the risks involved. It'll be a handsome sum. Don't think the plan will end up dead in the water; Cabrils i Pou assures me that despite what you hear, this is going to be a long war.” He laughed, blowing out a column of gray smoke. “And for you, too, all right? There will be money for everyone. At least for this first shipment, I need to have someone I trust at the head of it. So? What do you say, Navarro?”

Dimas thought that as long as the obligations were recompensed with extra pay, there wouldn't be a problem.

“What can I say? It sounds like a great opportunity,” he answered, looking away from the road for a moment to fix his eyes on Ferran. Ferran clapped him on the thigh.

“I'll get in touch with my contacts, and we'll see what the two contenders offer us. I think one of my grandfather's nephews has risen to a certain rank. … I don't know if you know this, but we Jufresas are descended from the French. And I have to check with Tordera about the bales of cellulose. You look into the trucks and the people. Try and find something cheap. The cheaper it is, the more you make, all right?”