The Dream of the City (24 page)

They got out at the Gran Casino stop. Juan walked toward the hotel without thinking twice. In the gardens stood a figure who waved on seeing them. She looked familiar to Dimas, though he couldn't identify her until he was close to her: yes, it was the cleaning woman he had met in the elevator and then in Ferran's room. He gave his father a sidelong glance and saw the old man was smiling.

“Well,” Juan said without hesitation, “I think this is a good time to leave you two alone.”

The woman, clearly nervous, walked over to a nearby bench. Juan walked off on the gravel path without looking back. Dimas followed her, filled with a feeling of disquiet, and the woman pointed to the empty place beside her on the bench.

“So,” she said, and then cleared her throat. “I don't know how to start. …” She looked at him with watery eyes. Her lips were trembling. After a long silence, she continued, “I'm … I'm your mother.”

Dimas went pale. He felt a pressure in his mouth and stomach and a kind of vertigo, as if everything were spinning all around him.

“I don't know what to say,” she went on, her voice cracking with emotion. “So many years have passed … Your father and I met up again recently, and we've been talking. … Son, I know that—”

“Don't call me son!” Dimas burst out. He realized his life would never be the same, that this news could endanger him, that his relationship with his father would change, that even his identity, his deepest sense of himself, was already changing. And there was nothing secure to grab hold of.

“I understand you, I understand you're angry,” she said, crying. “But everything had gone bad. I didn't have a choice. …”

“Choice?!”

She lowered her head.

“Dimas, please, let me explain. …”

He stood up. His initial disorientation gave way to a general anger against the world. And while his pain looked for a focal point, for a guilty party, it grew more intense, more constricted—he could feel it in his throat and his chest. And then something broke inside him and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“I don't need your explanations! You're no one! You're not my mother! You left us!” he shouted, enraged.

Carmela reached toward him.

“No! My child … I loved you so much, it drove me mad!”

Carmela's voice became a blend of noises and he could only make out the occasional word. Dimas was overwhelmed. He felt hatred for her, or wanted to, and the word
betrayal
burned in his thoughts like a hot ember. Now he understood why his father had seemed so happy: he was seeing her again, as if that was the best he deserved, as if the woman who had run away when they most needed her had a right to be forgiven. His hatred extended now to his father, spreading like a disease.

Without speaking, he turned and rapidly walked away. Dimas saw the streetcar that went down to Barcelona and got in without a second thought. He didn't want to see his father running to that woman who was crying her bitter tears; all he felt was hatred for her. Inside, he felt cheated, like his parents had stolen a part of his life, and an aimless kind of yearning filled him; all he could hear was the sound of crunching leaves. Undoubtedly, with a mother, things would have been different. And the uncertainty about his actions that he'd felt when he looked at himself in the mirror the night before in the London Bar returned to his mind.

But for some reason, as the tram descended toward the city, Dimas began to feel calmer. As if those buildings standing were like pillars where he could hang the thin threads of his own security. Barcelona was there again amid the mountains that pushed it out toward the sea. And then his doubts began to vanish and what he did and what he was became one and the same thing. He was Dimas Navarro and the city was at his feet, waiting to be conquered.

That night Dimas decided he wouldn't be the one to give in. But he didn't want little Guillermo to suffer the consequences of his anger, which had been caused by no one other than his father, so he went upstairs for dinner. Though the two adults tried to act normally, Guillermo could tell something had happened. Dimas walked with him to his bedroom and told him good night.

When Dimas left, his father was still sitting at the table. He gave his son a distant, sorrowful look. Dimas, far from being moved, was wounded.

“How many times are you going to let yourself be humiliated?” he asked in a whisper, so Guillermo wouldn't hear.

Juan shook his head with resignation.

“Son, you should have listened before you judged. I did and I can assure—”

“I'm not you,” Dimas interrupted. “I don't let people walk all over me.”

He walked brusquely from the apartment. Dimas was tired of his father's resignation, his acceptance, his refusal to face up to life and everything it involved. He decided to go out and began walking without a clear destination, looking again for shelter in the middle of the urban labyrinth, so hard, so overwhelming. He passed by a building in ruins. Just as with the Sagrada Familia, the sky could be seen through its windows, but unlike it, this place had already experienced its splendor. All that remained now were the memories of whoever had lived there. On one wall that remained standing, he could make out a painting or photo, an image that was both a memory and an absence.

Dimas thought that was a perfect definition of his father, the shadow of something that had once been and would never return again. He saw Juan old, alone. It seemed to Dimas an image worthy of compassion.

He walked away, his steps turning toward the hubbub of the center, the noise and bustle of the other Barcelona, the one that didn't sleep, that didn't give in, that fought for its essence. Like him.

CHAPTER 24

Since its birth in 1827, the Paseo de Gracia had been one of the most famous streets in the city. Even before people had begun to talk about the Ensanche, the bourgeoisie liked to stroll along this arterial that had room for carriages as well as pedestrians. More than forty meters wide, it became the meeting place for the best of Barcelonan society, the place where they would greet their friends, show off their newborns, maybe even look for a husband or wife. Little by little, both sides were filled with homes and palaces. Owing to the lack of infrastructure in those early years, the owners in those days became known as the “early martyrs of the Ensanche.”

It wasn't long until the age-old competition sprang up among the bourgeoisie to see who could build the most ostentatious residence, and the Paseo de Gracia soon boasted numerous architectural treasures built by the most recognized modernists of the time, people like Antoni Gaudí or Puig i Cadafalch. Each building had its own aesthetic, its sole pretension to be the most beautiful of all. This was exemplified in the Manzana de la Discordia, the Block of Discord, where no building was like its neighbor and all vied to be the most beautiful in an eclectic, elegant jumble.

It was in the midst of this environment that the Jufresas' new store was situated. For some time, Ferran had been looking for somewhere new, and he had pressed Francesc on the matter numerous times. He thought it urgent that they adapt to the enormous changes that were taking place at the beginning of the twentieth century. Now, a multitude of friends and customers, the cream of the crop of Barcelona's high society, had joined the family inside for the special occasion of its inauguration.

The appetizers were passed around amid formal conversations and pronouncements of admiration of the new locale, situated at number 10 on the avenue. The women's pungent perfumes mingled with the scent of the cigars. Feathers and tassels weighed down the hats and shawls that rounded off the women's extraordinary dresses. On the walls, a great quantity of shelves displayed watches, rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and all sorts of jewels under glass: the most spectacular ones of the collection, the most luxurious, with the largest stones, provoking the envy of many. Everything in the store served to emphasize that opulence. The décor worked to dazzle the customer as well, making one think that anything purchased there would be like admission into an exclusive club.

Ferran had taken care of the preparations and he was careful not to overlook a single detail. The family's prestige should shine through in every act, in every public appearance. He had invested a great deal in the new location, the place where now, at midday, an intense light was coming in through the large windows and the frosted glass door. Ferran took care to receive the guests, to make sure each of them was comfortable. To two of his most prized acquaintances he offered a guided visit through every corner of the jewelry shop. Compliments rained down amid glasses of Moët et Chandon. A half-empty tray of canapés of cheese and salmon was laid out on a table; Ferran offered some to his friends and raised a hand to signal the servant woman, Matilde, who had left the house that day to offer her services here. She took the tray, disappeared for a moment, and returned with another full of prawn brochettes.

Soon Ferran Jufresa, Andreu Cambrils i Pou, and Josep Tordera, the textile manufacturer, had picked a quiet corner to talk about business.

“You must be happy with the new place, Ferran. I have to congratulate you,” the deputy mayor said.

“Thank you, Señor Cambrils. I think the effort has been worth it.”

“It's well laid out and has much more light than the previous shop. You'll barely have to use the lamps,” Josep Tordera added, looking from one side to the other with his discerning eyes. “In the factory we have to keep the lights going the entire day. The power company is making a fortune off me. Sometimes I think about putting around candles and oil lamps to save a bit of money.”

“We need the jewels here to shine in all their splendor, that's why we have to have the lamps on. In our workshop, in Calle Francisco, which is old and dark, it would be impossible to work without electric lights.”

“Señores, while I am deeply interesting in the running of your businesses, for now I am more concerned with the second shipment being readied for Germany. Bring me up to date, if you don't mind.”

Andreu Cambrils i Pou was a busy man and he didn't care to waste time on banalities.

“Of course,” Ferran said, coughing slightly, and without setting down his glass of champagne, he began to speak. “The German army will buy everything we can sell them. They don't want to have to worry about supply.”

“Fifty more tons,” Josep Tordera added. “Imagine the profits. Especially now, when nobody's under the illusion that the war will end any time soon.”

Just over forty years in age, Josep was now running the textile business that his father had nearly bankrupted. Esteve Tordera had lost his judgment and sunk a great deal of the family fortune into satisfying the whims of his lover, buying and furnishing her luxurious apartment. When his wife and son pressed him, he confessed that he was madly in love with her. It didn't go much further, but, like every other business at that time, the company ran into difficulties and seemed close to going under; that is, until Josep took the reins and put things in order as best he could: asking for loans, despite the hardship the debt would represent, and eliminating unnecessary expenses. Since that unfortunate time, he had learned an important lesson: no one gives anything for free, and when you're down on your luck, you can only rely on yourself.

“And how did the first shipment go, Ferran? Any obstacles come up?” Cambrils i Pou asked.

“Not a single one, Señor Cambrils. The trucks arrived in Bilbao without a hitch. Naturally Bragado's assistance came in handy. The most complicated part was the sea crossing, because the French and English control the entire eastern front. The whaler traveled around Scotland to the north and stopped off once in Bergen. From there it hedged close to the littoral, arriving in Denmark and then took the Elbe River in to Hamburg, the final stop.”

“Excellent.” Cambrils i Pou raised his glass and said, “To the war.”

The toast was barely audible over the jubilation of Pilar, the matriarch of the Jufresa family, when she saw the Antichs enter the jewelry shop. She couldn't cover her excitement and she left to one side the Catalàs, whom she had been talking with for some time, and rushed over to the new arrivals. Her dress undulated in a sinuous movement as she walked toward the door; it had been brought straight from Paris just before the beginning of the war, as Pilar never failed to mention any time she was asked about it, especially as the beginning of hostilities was putting an end to the importation of luxury goods from France and England. Its designer was none other than the great Paul Poiret. Mothers and daughters glared enviously at the Grecian contours of the ochre fabric and the fox stole that covered the suggestive line of her bust. Pilar's hair was gathered in a great bun that showed off her neck—still supple for a woman of fifty-four years of age.

“Remei, Josep Lluís, and our beloved Jordi.” She smiled, showing her white teeth, while she took Jordi's hands in a gesture of welcoming. “I'm so happy you've finally been able to come.”

“It's a pleasure, Pilar. We're excited to see how the store has turned out. Some of us more than others, I have to say.” The father of the family gave a roguish smile and looked over at Jordi.

Josep Lluís Antich was a man of elegant stature, though somewhat bent over due to a problem with his joints. Men's fashion at the time was not especially daring, and like the majority of the men there, he contented himself with a black frock coat. A long corduroy coat was draped over his arm, and he handed it to the servant woman along with his hat and his cane with the gold pommel. Since he was the face of the textile company, his clothes were always of the highest quality.

“Father!” Jordi upbraided him with an angry face. His gaze strayed away from the group while his father began an animated discussion with Pilar and Francesc, who had also come over to greet them.

More than friendship, the two families were united by business: all the jewels in the clothing designed by Antich were supplied by the Jufresas. With Jordi's initiative and his knowledge of the latest trends in Europe, they had begun releasing, several years back, a line of clothing adorned with fine jewels: pearls around the necklines of the women's dresses, gold filaments running through the seams, buttons of mother of pearl and silver. Not only did the Antichs export, they also supplied the great department stores and many other smaller boutiques, and for that reason, if only from a commercial perspective, it was worthwhile to keep them happy.

“Laura is inside getting ready. She's coming out right now.” Pilar winked at Jordi, who continued looking around nervously. The young Antich cleared his throat.

“How timid these young men of today are!” Josep Lluís exclaimed in a jovial tone after taking a sip of the brandy he'd been served.

Josep Lluís Antich was convinced that the younger generations were going downhill and firmly believed that everything had been better in the past. Jordi had struggled to a certain point to oppose his father's opinions, but at this point in his life he no longer had faith in changing his mind; everyone had his little corner of the world from which to expound his ideas, and his father, being the head of the family, was not going to budge. His mother, with her exquisite manners, stood there beside him in silence. The neckline of her dress reached almost to her chin, and she barely took her hands off it, wanting to be sure it was always in its proper place. Her deep blue eyes followed the conversation without losing track of a single detail.

“It's just that today the young people have more options and they don't have to get married as early as they used to,” Francesc commented in a relaxed tone.

Pilar gave him a hidden nudge with her elbow. It wasn't the time to be contradicting any of their guests. Francesc looked at her sideways and took a drink from his glass.

“Bah! When I was a boy, things were much simpler,” Josep Lluís Antich said. “Now it's ‘we need to get to know each other,' ‘maybe I want to study,' ‘maybe it's better to plan for my future.' … Time flies by,
ticktock
,
ticktock
.” He rapped softly on his new wristwatch. “What we need to do is just set a wedding date and put an end to this foolishness.”

“That would be perfect!” Pilar exclaimed, clapping her hands. “It would be a magnificent wedding, and Jordi and Laura would be so beautiful together. Don't you think, Remei?” she asked.

“Yes, they're two good-looking children. I'm sure they'd be the couple of the season,” Remei responded prudently, not raising her voice.

Jordi began to feel uncomfortable. He didn't like to be pressured, especially not with so many people around.

“It's still early to be talking about all that,” he opined, looking at his mother and then the rest of them. “But if you're pressing me, I'll tell you one thing. I think that Laura would prefer to have the wedding in the spring. It's the season she likes best, and if we held the banquet in one of the gardens, we could enjoy a nice atmosphere without suffocating from the heat.”

“That's what I'm saying!” Josep Lluís shouted. “Initiative, son, that's what you need.” Without lowering his voice, unconcerned with who overheard him, he added, “And of course, you need to decide where you want to live. I'm thinking the Jufresa mansion may be a little full, am I right, Francesc?”

The latter nodded, visibly discomfited. He didn't think this was something that should be talked about in the middle of a roomful of people. Especially when the person most concerned with this issue didn't even know what they were talking about.

“Núria, where's your sister?” Pilar asked her eldest daughter.

Núria, who would be responsible for the new shop just as she had been for the old one, was walking from one end of the room to the other, trying to make sure everything was perfect. Since Ferran had come up with the idea, she hadn't relaxed once. Now she was making sure there was enough of cold Moët et Chandon, that the canapés weren't drying out, that all the servants' dresses were immaculate, that the best pieces from their catalog were on display and well arranged; in other words, that the gossips in attendance would find no overlooked detail to lambast. She had to stop a moment to realize what they were asking her.

“I don't know, Mother,” she finally answered. “She was taking apart some boxes of something or other in the storeroom.”

“Tell her to come out, there's someone here who wants to see her. We can't organize a wedding without the fiancée present,” Pilar said, looking at Jordi with a smile.

“Please don't worry, Pilar, I'll see her later. There's no rush,” Jordi said, and he excused himself, slightly overwhelmed. This wasn't a joke, and he had no idea how Laura would respond. She was vehement, passionate, rebellious, and if she saw herself pushed in a direction she hadn't chosen, it could cause her to react adversely.

“I'm not worried, Jordi. It's a pleasure,” she said, putting her hand on the young man's arm.

Núria showed a certain surprise, and after her initial joy at the news, she felt irritated at being the last to know. With the same determination she devoted to everything, she pushed through the crowd in the direction of the storeroom.

When she arrived, Núria saw her sister seated on top of some crates. She looked irritated and was smoking a cigarette.

“What are you doing?” Núria asked, waving her hand back and forth to clear out the smoke.

“Nothing. Why should I go to that party? Most of those people don't even know what we sell. They just want to eat canapés and show off their new clothes. I'd rather stay here by myself than get into another conversation about how good the salmon tastes.”