The Dream of the City (19 page)

Laura nodded with a half smile of agreement. After a pause, she said, “I need to finish something I left hanging before all the light is gone.” She spoke hesitantly, as if suddenly absent, then said good-bye and returned to her workshop.

At that moment, Dimas felt an enormous emptiness opening in his stomach. And he had to stop himself from telling her how bad he had felt for firing Pau Serra. It was his fault the man was left without a job at sixty years of age, with a sick grandson in a home the size of a matchbox. But he held back, as he had done so many times, and walked home slowly.

He would have to accept his actions as being part of the path he had chosen. Once again: light and shadow, victory and defeat, good and evil struck his conscience. He had a sour feeling, a pain in the back of his throat that refused to budge.

CHAPTER 19

“You say you just passed by there. Why? Were you out for a walk?”

“I already told you. I live in the Calle San Pablo. I was coming from Pueblo Seco where I saw a couple of friends from work who were going to give me some tools.”

“Yeah? And where are these tools?” the policeman asked.

“I lost them in the scuffle,” the man responded. He touched his face slightly. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut and bruised and one cheek inflamed. “If you look for my leather pouch, I'm sure you'll find them. And if not, they'll be of use to someone. …”

One of the policemen present at the interrogation who had kept his silence until then approached the arrestee rapidly. He gave him a hard slap on his wounded cheek with an open hand.

“Are you accusing the police of stealing your goddamned tools?” he shouted.

The man raised his hands to his face again, and his eyes filled with tears. He didn't dare to utter a word of complaint. There was not even hate in his glance. Only terror, terror that the blows would never stop, that the clubs would rain down on him again with the insults and the kicks in the stomach that left no trace beyond days of being unable to keep down solid food and mute fear of setting foot outdoors.

“That's enough, Vicente, take it easy. I don't want any violence in here, you know that.”

Esteban Bragado looked at his subordinate with the condescension of an indulgent father. He made a gesture for the other man to leave. Afterward, he returned with a weary step to the side of his colleague who was leaned against the wall, where the paint was flaking off from the humidity. It was grayish in color, and impossible to say whether that was the original color or if it had acquired that dull tone over the years. The withered paint had been picked off in some areas, especially close to the corners. It seemed a kind of atlas of continents with imaginary borders, each one melding into the other, as if showing the world could be another way.

“Look, García,” Esteban said, turning toward the captive. “You're suspected of collaborating with the group of anarchists from the Calle Conde del Asalto. And you know what it means to be a suspect in this cruel world we live in. The pit at the castle of Montjuic is full of guilty men who said they weren't. Let's start again: Why did you go to Pueblo Seco? What groups of anarchists do you know there?”

“I don't know anyone from any group,” the accused affirmed again. Then he bit his lower lip and hesitated for a moment before continuing. “There's a guy with weird ideas who came to work from España Industrial, but nobody joined him.”

“What's he called?”

“His name?” the man asked unsurely.

“Names, García. I only want names. Is that so hard to understand?”

Esteban Bragado rose up forcefully from the chair and it slid away from him with a loud sound. He bent over the accused, who leaned back as far as he could. The policeman placed both his arms on the table until his face was directly in front of the prisoner's. If he listened closely, he could hear the pounding of his heart, racing, ready to leap from his chest. He spoke to him almost in a whisper.

“I can't hold them back forever,” he said, making an almost invisible movement with his head toward the back of the room. Against the wall, two hunting dogs looked at him unmoved. Then he sat back, seeming to give up. “Don't worry, García, there's no rush. You know what I need, and I have other obligations. I'll come back in the evening. I'll try to make sure they're not too hard on you. Remember: names. Four is enough. Maybe for my colleagues, too, but I can't promise anything.”

Bragado took his jacket from the seat back and left without a second thought for the defenseless condition of the prisoner. His eyelids quivered noticeably and he rubbed his cuffed hands one against the other. A scarlet stripe crossed each of his wrists. His hands were filthy, large and strong, accustomed to hard work. The policeman turned to his two underlings, who were staring at the arrestee, waiting patiently for their turn. Bluntly, as if the man in question wasn't listening, he said, “Make sure he holds out 'til the evening. Don't go too crazy; I don't want any hassle. Remember what happened last month with that whore of Carmelo's: Calzada ended up having to spend the whole morning filling out paperwork afterward. Right, Calzada?”

“Don't worry, Chief. He looks like a tough one.”

Bragado gave the prisoner one last look and smiled slightly. In a café, a smile like that could be taken for a gentlemanly good-bye, a concession after an agreeable chat, but in that context it took on a sarcastic, almost macabre aspect: He seemed to be saying good night to a man when the night was sure to be anything but good. He buttoned his jacket slowly and walked out with an unworried air.

He walked until he'd made it to the restaurant in the Calle Caspe. Esteban Bragado was forty-seven years old and had worked almost every position on the police force. He had started off hunting down undesirables in the old city in Leon, always in the shadow of his father, who also belonged to the force. For that reason, when he found out positions were open in Barcelona—a tough city where nobody wanted to work—he didn't think twice. He sent in his application, it was accepted without problems, and once he was in the City of Counts he started again from zero. Soon enough he was climbing up the ladder. The first few rungs may have been luck, but no one could say he didn't know how to play his cards. His little glimmering eyes gave him a look that vacillated between warmhearted and cheerful and cruel and ruthless. He'd been in the city sixteen years now and knew all the shortcuts, the alleys in the old city and the suburbs, the wealthy areas and the ghettoes. He had witnessed the creation of the Ensanche and the transition to electricity. For him, Barcelona seemed to be a modern metropolis, because he imagined all the other places he'd lived had stayed just as they were in his youth.

Bragado needed excitement, action. He managed to collect medals, and in the Tragic Week, he overcame the last hurdle between himself and his most important promotion. In those violent, conflictive days he knew how to act with a firm hand without attracting attention, always in the shadows of the big shots, adapting himself to whatever political changes came along. He came out of it stronger and well placed in the list of candidates for the chief of police of Barcelona. The nomination wasn't long in coming and once he'd taken over the office, his name and his person soon began to inspire a respect that more often than not was mixed with fear. There was no doubt that he hadn't let legalities get in his way when it came to controlling a city that had broken away from its reins some time ago. He put a stop to the anarchists, used snitches, created patrols composed of ex-policemen sympathetic to his thinking, and when his suspicions fell on someone, he didn't hesitate when the time came to fabricate evidence against them.

No one had been able to bring him down, and with the prisoners, he always acted correctly. Since he'd taken over the office, he hadn't once used violence personally. But under those apparent good manners was hidden an implacable inquisitor who had instructed his pupils well. That was why his superiors regarded him so highly: They knew he wouldn't act on his own, that he wasn't looking for personal glory to the detriment of prestige of the politician of the moment. Esteban Bragado was the kind of chief who was well aware of his virtues and knew how to put them in action but never forgot the hand that fed him.

That day Bragado had a date with Andreu Cambrils i Pou. He and the deputy mayor were meeting in a luxurious restaurant close to the Paseo de Gracia.

He finished his cigarette in front of the door, next to a porter dressed in a red coat with gold buttons that reached nearly to his ankles and a top hat with a gilded band around the bottom of the crown. Esteban looked up and saw himself reflected in the windows, and inside, he saw heavy velvet tapestries descending from the ceiling, giving the room a warmth that bordered on stuffiness. The guests were dressed elegantly and Bragado could feel the weight of his suit on his shoulders. Not that it was cheap or of low quality—for some time now, his salary had allowed him to live with a measure of comfort, without too many worries—but so many years walking the beat, living on peanuts, and dealing with thugs and hustlers had left him with a graceless appearance. His walk was awkward, as if he always bore a heavy burden on his back, and he wasn't much for words, though he knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue. That was why Andreu Cambrils i Pou trusted him.

At last Bragado entered the restaurant. His little fleeting eyes, professionally wary, gave the tables a quick inspection. He knew many of the diners, as well as their weaknesses. He kept a large quantity of information stored in his head without even realizing it; he didn't hesitate to use it when he felt like it, and he was skilled at taking maximum advantage of it. Esteban Bragado was a man who knew what to do with opportunity when it came along. His father, who had been the commissioner in Leon, had trained him well: When you dealt with men in power, don't think too much, but remember everything. And every bit of information should be used at the right time, not before and not after.

In the back of the room, alone at a large table, Cambrils i Pou was having a casual conversation with a waiter who prided himself on his friendly relations with the most powerful politicians in Barcelona.

“Ah, Bragado. At last,” the deputy mayor exclaimed.

“Am I late?” Bragado said, taking his watch from his pocket. It was still several minutes before the appointed hour. “My apologies, sir. I had to take care of something before I left.”

“Don't worry, relax.” Cambrils waved his hand in front of him, indicating the matter's unimportance. “Anything I should know about?”

“No, the usual: an anarchist who refuses to admit he is one,” the policeman said. Taking his seat, he ordered a fish soup from the waiter, who vanished immediately. Cambrils i Pou had already ordered before his tablemate arrived.

“The anarchists, what a headache. But they give us an excuse to grab up everything in sight. Really, we should be grateful to them.”

Andreu Cambrils i Pou treated everyone he came into contact with according to his proverbial standard of urbanity. Bragado feared these encounters and fled from them as soon as he could: He was always walking a tightrope, halfway between the obligation of fulfilling some direct order and the risk of taking some personal initiative that could get him into hot water. For that reason, despite his long experience in dealing with lawbreakers, he was conscious of what he was up against, that despite his promotions and his long time on the force he was not safe from
certain pressures
, as he called them. To say no to the requests of a politician would be an example of a personal initiative, and it could indeed get him into hot water. The shadow of Cambrils i Pou stretched far, and a policeman needed to keep the people in high places satisfied: no one was safe from a bullet fired in a dark, empty alley or a car accident on the way back from a family visit to a retired father in Leon. … Stranger things had happened.

“The thing is this, Bragado,” Cambrils began. “Barcelona is spreading out to the Besós and the seaside is of inestimable importance to our city. We should take better care of its image. In the past few years, people have taken a great liking to swimming at the beach. And as you well know, Barceloneta is becoming the leisure center for the young bourgeoisie, with the Oriental Baths and the baths at the shipyards, all relying on the soothing effects of the sea.”

“I know, Señor Cambrils.”

“And you will remember as well how much it cost us to ensure that this particular bit of sand was free from undesirables. I believe you were the one in charge of combating them while the successor to the office you presently occupy was still under discussion.”

“I remember very well, and I can never be thankful enough, sir.”

“Well, it happens that my cousin on my mother's side, Victor Pou i Artà, is a councilor in the municipal government in Pueblo Nuevo and they are now trying to set up an athletic club there modeled on the ones we have here.”

“In Pueblo Nuevo?” the policeman asked, trying to conceal his surprise.

“Yes, Bragado. I was shocked as well. It appears that a proximity to the Besós does not impede their access to clean, high-quality water. For my part, I prefer to go to Caldes de Malavella, but you know what they say, there's no accounting for taste.”

“I understand.”

“The problem is, those beaches are full of dive bars, flea pits, shanties, toothless whores, and all kinds of good-for-nothings.”

“Yes, you can't say it's the type of place you'd want to leave your wallet lying around.”

“Well, that needs to change,” Andreu Cambrils said, pounding his fist on his thigh. “Enough with living with our backs to the sea. We need to clean up these areas for our fellow citizens. The seaside can't just be left to pickpockets and malingerers. Decent people need a place to soak their toes in peace.”

“Understood. A couple of raids and some gangs of workers on the case and we can run all those undesirables out of there and have the place cleaned up by the end of the month.”

“The gangs I'll take care of. The other thing I'll leave in your hands. It's been a pleasure talking to you.”

Bragado glanced down at his plate. They had just served him the fish soup he'd ordered and he had hardly taken a bite.

Seated across from him, Cambrils i Pou began to tear into the two fillets of hake on his plate with two gleaming langoustines that seemed almost to still be moving. The fish melted in his mouth, and the sauce of parsley and garlic was perfectly thickened.

Bragado shook his head, as if clearing away an unpleasant image, and left the spoon on one side of his bowl. He cleaned the corners of his lips. He nodded at the politician, who spoke with his mouth full, saying something unintelligible, then the chief arose from the table and walked off, buttoning his jacket. The afternoon sun burned his eyes as he emerged from the semidarkness of the lavish restaurant. On the street, he crossed paths with a beggar who stepped aside, recognizing him immediately. If he had found a hole to crawl into, he would have hidden himself inside it like an ostrich. But Chief Bragado wasn't in the mood to add any names to the list of arrestees. He would go see Vicente and Calzada: he was sure they'd already come up with the four names he needed to break up the Conde del Asalto gang. Or at least to strike fear in them and make them think twice before acting again. The civil governor would be happy. Then he would take care of what Cambrils i Pou had asked.