The Dream of the City (30 page)

He gulped down what was left in his glass and walked over to his parents. He sat in one of the empty chairs. His legs were weak.

“She apologized for what's happened,” he said in a conciliatory tone, resting his elbows on his knees. “She feels worse than I do. Blame was eating her up inside, I can assure you of that. Don't worry, I'm fine and all this will be over soon.”

“She's met someone,” his father commented, still looking at the ceiling.

“She would have told me,” Jordi responded. Though in fact, the same doubt was plaguing him.

“Sure, just like she told you she didn't want to marry you. You seem stupid sometimes, son. A single girl who leaves the country for that long, comes back, and goes on doing whatever she wants isn't someone you can trust. She's a liar and a manipulator for playing with you the way she did.”

“You don't know what you're saying, Father.” Jordi was beginning to feel weary.

“I do too know, and that is exactly why I know that things will not stand this way. If this engagement is broken off, the Jufresa family will have many things to regret!” he exclaimed in a blind fury.

Jordi stared at him incredulously. His father's personality, as well as his pride, were much stronger than Jordi's. Josep Lluís Antich always accomplished whatever he set his mind to. With little more than a thimble and a needle, he had started off in the textile business, in the very company he now owned. He had refused to have partners for fear that they would rob him behind his back, and he had fought hard to win contracts with most of the department stores in Barcelona. And if there was one thing he detested, it was humiliation. Since Laura had spoken to him in El Suizo, Jordi knew his father wouldn't just stand by with his arms crossed, but he also hadn't believed he would use what had happened as a justification to become enraged at the entire Jufresa family.

“If Laura breaks the engagement with you, our relations with the Jufresas will be heavily compromised. So the best thing for you is to do everything in your hands to get her back,” Josep Lluís threatened him before stomping out of the room. In the meanwhile, Remei watched her son's imperturbable face from her armchair.

“Mother, Laura and I will continue to be close friends; I don't want to cause any damage.” Jordi sighed, staring at the floor.

He knew his father and it was clear that whatever he had in his head, it was bound to turn into a disaster. But his mother had always supported Jordi when he had found himself in difficulties. For a brief period when he'd left the family business, she had passed him money that his father refused, and she had covered for him whenever he'd missed the family's celebrations. He hoped that this time, his mother would intervene for him, or at least suggest what he could do. Jordi looked at her defeated, anxious to hear her answer.

But all she said was, “If you don't want to do any damage, then you don't have to.”

CHAPTER 30

Second consignment sunken by Allied submarine near the coast of Inverness.

FDO. J. TORDERA

After the defeat of the Germans in the Battle of the Marne in September of 1914, the positions of the combatants had solidified even further. The army under Lieutenant General Helmuth von Moltke tried to reach Paris, but the English and French troops comprised a line of fortified positions stretching more than one hundred fifty miles. Dug down in their trenches, they rebuffed the enemy's intrusion with ferocity and any thoughts of an attack coming from the North Sea to the border between Switzerland and France were a mere fantasy. Moreover, now in December, it had been only two days since the victory of the British in the Falklands off the coast of South America; thanks to the strategy of Admiral John Fisher, the Royal Navy had reestablished its dominion over the seas. But even there, the equilibrium was fragile: the war depended on positions and the surface of the sea was becoming like the trenches. As a consequence, it had been difficult to get at the German forces from any point in the east.

It was for that reason that on December 10, when Ferran read the clipped lines of the telegram, sitting comfortably in his office, he couldn't keep from uttering a blasphemy: the second batch of cellulose they had shipped to the Germans had been attacked by a British submarine, and along with those fifty tons, his entire investment was lost. He cursed these new armaments, those unbeatable submarines and iron ships capable of launching explosives up to ten miles away. And he cursed himself for taking on the cost of the shipment in order to reap greater benefits afterward. If he had stayed in his role of intermediary, Tordera would have taken the better part of the loss, but now. … Ferran still didn't know exactly how much, but he could assume it was a devastating quantity of money that had been left scattered over the waters of the North Sea. The accursed war was turning out to be very costly indeed.

Andreu Cambrils i Pou was far from happy about the calamity. Ferran was sure that one way or another, he would soon receive word from the politician looking for the slice of the pie he'd been promised. He should let Chief Bragado know immediately, as he was probably the only one still unaware of anything. Ferran sat up, grabbed his coat and hat from the coat tree, slipped the message into one of his pockets, and was on the verge of opening the door when he heard knocks coming from the other side. Without waiting for a response, Laura opened the door: she was standing there with a wooden tray full of models for new pieces.

“We need to prepare more molds, Ferran. We only have one left for the Toulouse piece and I'm not sure how much longer it will hold up. It's our most popular bracelet.”

“I don't have time now. Put in an order for whatever you need.” His voice cut her short while he buttoned his jacket, and he didn't even stop a second to look at her.

Laura must have noticed that Ferran was distraught; he was normally immaculate in matters of dress, but today his hair was disheveled, his tie loose, and the collar of his shirt hung open, revealing his worry.

“Are you all right?”

He was aware that his relationship with Laura had never been as close as the one she shared with Ramon or Núria, and he decided now was not the moment to try and cultivate a greater closeness.

“I would be fine if you would let me by. I don't have time now for you and your little knickknacks.”

As Ferran left the office, crossing through the workshop, all the craftsmen looked back down at the projects that they had put on hold as they listened in. Laura swallowed and with a lowered head, she turned to her father's office, where he was absent more often than not since leaving the business in his son's hands.

Ferran did nothing to excuse himself. With a harried step he walked between the tables and then outside. It was still morning, but the gray Thursday clouds already bathed the day in yellowish light. He looked up and closed his eyes, letting the fine droplets of rain splash against his face and hair, soaking and cleansing him. He pushed Dimas aside when he came over with an umbrella to cover him.

“Wait for me inside; I'll be back in a few hours.”

Ferran started the automobile and it roared with power. The wheels slipped over the wet pavers and gave off a strange sound, very different from when they were dry.

In the workshop, Laura had picked up her charcoal again and was tracing a new sketch, thinking of making a pair of earrings. They would also belong to the collection she had named after the Sagrada Familia, the first piece of which had been the brooch with the three towers representing Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The idea was that all of the pieces would make clear reference to the Expiatory Temple she was assisting with, and to everything it represented. Gaudí's art had come to impress her so deeply that she wanted to honor its imagery with forms like those in his work, but rendered in lasting precious metal. Not copies, but pieces made in the same spirit. The forms, the curves, the
trencadís
… The incandescent light on the table lit up the details that she sketched out as soon as they entered her imagination. The folders and papers laid out on the table created shadows. On the nearest wall hung various sheets of paper with the outlines of elements that had been useful to her as she fashioned certain designs.

This time Ferran had stepped over the line; he had disrespected her in front of their employees, and as his sister, she deserved better, thought Laura. Besides, if she had gone to his office, it hadn't been to bother him, but rather because she was worried about the business. But her brother never had enough: greed and selfishness controlled him and he and his desires were all that existed for him; other people barely mattered. People like her brother lived from one day to the next fretting over their next objective: what they still didn't have and how they were going to get it. And when they did, they often took no pleasure in it, because they had to keep pushing, going from one thing to the next and never looking back.

Laura pressed the charcoal into the paper, clearly marking the lines of the earrings, which were composed of an interlocking pattern of the Greek letters Alpha and Omega. They were symbols of the beginning and the end, and they could also be seen on the Nativity Façade of the new cathedral. They were on the main portico, devoted to Charity, which represented disinterested love, the very opposite of what her brother personified. The portal was separated by columns from the other two, which stood for Hope and Faith; together they were the three Theological Virtues. The charcoal cracked over the paper, dirtying everything and making a disaster of the drawing, and smudging Laura's fingers as well, and she pounded her fist on the table in frustration. A few knocks on the door made her look up. Dimas appeared in front of her, and the morning was suddenly better.

He left it open behind him, aware of what the workers would think if he did otherwise, and came over to the table.

“Señorita Jufresa,” Dimas said aloud, so that everyone could hear him from outside. And then, in a whisper: “It looks like you'll have to do that one again.” He grinned. She did the same, and then asked, for the benefit of those listening in, “What may I do for you?”

Dimas improvised a quick response.

“Your brother has just left and I'll be here until his return. If I may assist you in anything, please let me know.”

“Of course,” she responded, feigning a distant attitude. “I do need to move some trays.” She pointed to those that were spread about the office, on the desk, the shelves, and the chairs.

“You have something on your face,” he whispered again, rubbing away, as softly as a caress, a smudge that the charcoal had left on her cheek. Laura wished that time would stop; his touch had made her shiver. But a knock at the door frame brought the moment to an end. Àngel Vila was waiting.

“I'm sorry for interrupting …”

“What is it, Àngel?” she asked. Dimas moved away from the table slightly, and his expression hardened.

“Nothing, I just came to see if I should take care of those molds that you had to talk to your brother about.”

Laura raised an eyebrow.

“Don't tell me you didn't hear our little dustup. …”

“Well …” the artisan responded prudently.

“What dustup?” Dimas asked.

“Between Ferran and me before he left. He seems to be having a bad day and he didn't want to hear anything about molds or anything of the kind. He ran out of the office like he was being chased by the devil. By the way, why are you not with him, Navarro?” she asked, again affecting a certain aloofness.

“He didn't need me.”

That was one thing, at least, that she could be thankful to her brother for, Laura thought.

“Is this the new piece you're doing? These drawings are lovely, if you don't mind me expressing my opinion. …” Àngel said.

At thirty-two years of age, Àngel had a gentle face with a permanent smile that revealed his irregular teeth and made small dimples appear in the corners of his mouth. His eyes were narrow and his cheeks round, in contrast to his diminutive chin. Laura knew very little about him except that he'd been working in the studio since he was a child. After the disappearance of Pau Serra, their most skilled craftsman, the Jufresas had found in Àngel a good substitute. Laura wasn't so sure when her father had proposed him, but even if Àngel wasn't quite as good as Pau, he had a steadier hand, and was a consummate professional and a good man.

“Thank you, Àngel,” she responded. “Not everyone thinks the same.”

“Laura, artists don't tend to worry about what everyone else thinks. Their power lies in their convictions, in their confidence in what they do, and they don't look away; they keep on investigating and drawing. … We have to fight for what we believe and not think about those who try to stop us in our tracks; don't forget that your name brings you fortune, and you owe it to yourself to take advantage of it.”

Àngel's tone had suddenly become serious, and his ever present smile had changed to a somber expression. There was no doubt it was an issue that mattered to him a great deal.

He had talked about conviction and strength, about being sure of your work and your own ideas. About fighting for change and taking advantage of opportunities. Laura knew very well the unhappiness of the workers in Barcelona; the protests and the strikes had been happening for years. The country was living through an economic crisis that it seemed incapable of overcoming, and those who paid the price for it were the same ones as always: the poorest, the most needy. The workdays stretched out to as long as fourteen hours, the pay was miserable, and the unemployed filled the streets, many incapable of feeding themselves. It wasn't long ago that a meeting had been called by a committee of unemployed workers in the Casa del Pueblo on the Calle de Aragón to require the upper classes to take responsibility and help the situation. The meeting had concluded with an attempt at a protest that was disbanded by the police, with five people arrested for resisting authority. It was incredible to Laura that those people, whose sole objective was to fight back so they wouldn't starve to death, had ended up behind bars. She had also heard about the anarcho-syndicalists and the socialists behind the UGT (Unión General de Trabajadores), both with their own strategies but each working for better conditions and equality. It was true she was a girl with good fortune, and she forgot sometimes that she also needed to fight her own battles.

After a long silence, she replied, “It's not so simple, Àngel. We can't just put jewelry on display, we have to sell it. But still, you're not wrong: I think I will try to change the way things work around here.”

“That would be very nice indeed,” the man said, and his smile returned.

She looked at Dimas and asked, “I suppose you two know each other, if only from seeing each other around.”

“Yes. A pleasure,” Dimas said, nodding to the artisan.

“The pleasure's mine, Señor Navarro,” Àngel responded. “I've seen you a lot with Señor Jufresa, but not often here inside.”

“Call me Dimas, please. I hear you've got a master's touch when it comes to metalworking,” he responded kindly.

And as if that phrase had granted him permission to speak at length, Àngel began to speak openly.

“Bah, all it takes is practice. But for this … There should be more jewelry like this.” He pointed at Laura's sketch, where the interlaced letters could be made out despite the smudging.

“They're also taken from the Sagrada Familia, no?” Dimas asked.

“Exactly.” Her feline eyes were riveted on Dimas. She was incapable of looking away from him. She only remembered Àngel's presence when he took his leave of them. “Àngel,” she called. She gave him everything she had taken to Ferran. “Don't forget these. Go ahead and get started remaking any of the molds we need urgently.”

When the artisan left the office, he closed the door behind his back, as if giving carte blanche to the two lovers. Dimas, unwilling to let that opportunity to be close to her pass by, came over to Laura, who stood up as she divined his intentions and walked to the back of the office. He pushed her against the wall and pinned back her arms. First he grazed his lips against hers, and then he kissed her. It wasn't a long kiss; they had to be cautious, since they could be interrupted at any moment. It was as if neither of them had thought of anything else the whole day. They looked at each other from close up, very close, and stayed there until they could no longer contain the urge to kiss again. They gazed intently at each other, as if trying to memorize every pore in the other's face.

“I'd like to be with you tonight,” she said, before lowering her face shyly.

“I'm sorry,” Dimas said, and kissed her on the neck. “Don't be angry, but I have to wait for your brother and I don't know how long he'll take. I would rather be with you tonight; I don't find Ferran too attractive, to tell the truth. …”