The Dream of the City (31 page)

Laura tried to silence her laughter while she luxuriated in Dimas's lips as they moved along her ear.

“And tomorrow?”

“It may well be he'll need me all day tomorrow, too. I can't promise anything.”

Laura grunted and pushed Dimas away with both hands. The entire situation was unjust, she thought: that they had to hide, that they couldn't announce their love in public, for fear Ferran or someone from the workshop or her family would find out. The thought of loving Dimas freely, without having to control herself, surrounded her in a whirlwind of lust that flew in the face of her upbringing.

“It's fine, you work for him, there's nothing we can do. We can't be together; we can't see each other every day and act as if nothing was happening. I can't resist you, and I have to sneak around to find my way into your arms. … It's too much. What's the point? What's the way out? I have to go. … I'm leaving,” she said, blushing and frustrated as she walked toward the door.

There was no time for her to grab the doorknob; in two steps, Dimas had reached her, clutched her around the waist from behind, and pulled her into him. He spoke in her ears in a hoarse whisper, heavy with passion and longing, but also with anxiousness, hunger, rebelliousness, decision. His voice sent electric shocks through Laura's mind, her chest, her arms. He spoke to her of staying together, despite everyone else, of struggling against conventions and the fate imposed by those around them and working to forge their own destiny. He said he would fight the entire world if he had to so she could be his forever, in the open, without hiding, without shame, without asking for forgiveness. He would work tirelessly, he would prosper, he would be the best to be deserving of her, so she could be his wife, not just a fling with the boss's sister or some fleeting adventure. He had never been in love, he had never felt anything like that, and he didn't want to lose her. And he wouldn't give in. He would always come back to her arms, he would never tire of repeating it, because that was where he belonged. Laura couldn't resist him.

He said to her, “Don't leave like this. Let's see each other Sunday, let's run away, even if it's only for the day.” Unwilling to let her go without an answer, Dimas held on to her from behind, pressed his cheek against hers, radiating heat. “Say yes. We can do whatever we want.”

“Fine. Sunday,” Laura conceded, defeated but content, although she knew it would be risky to be seen with him.

“You won't regret it,” he whispered, or rather panted, next to her neck.

“I'm going to open the door,” she said while she rearranged her dress and made sure her hair was still arranged over the nape of her neck. “It's almost lunchtime and my sister is meeting me here. I promised her.”

“Laura.” Dimas turned her to face him.

“I'm not angry, really.”

“It's not that, I wanted to ask you if you'd spoken with Jordi. …”

“Yes. I'll explain everything to you Sunday. Right now I'm in a rush.” She gave him a tense smile.

At that moment, they heard a woman's voice on the other side of the door, far away, calling Laura's name. The intensity grew with the approaching steps, coming closer to the office where the lovers were hidden. Laura's eyes were as wide as saucers: It was her sister,
Núria.

“Laura! Where are you?” she repeated.

Laura kissed Dimas quickly on the lips and opened the door to the office, making sure the door closed completely behind her back. She took her sister's arm and hurried toward the exit.

“Sorry, I was getting some sketches in order,” she said without a pause. “My apologies for the lateness.”

Everything was fine; Núria hadn't seen Dimas. For a moment, Laura had lost her breath thinking she would be found out.

Shortly afterward, Dimas opened the door softly and looked out to see if Laura was gone. Once out of the office, he saw Núria turn her head toward him slightly, with an uncertain expression. Àngel came over. Seeing the distressed look on Dimas's face, he offered, “If you're not busy right now, I can show you what I'm working on.”

“Of course,” he answered.

Dimas followed the artisan to his workspace like an apprentice on his master's heels. They passed a number of tables with their partitions until they'd reached the other side of the workshop. As he walked, Dimas reflected on the conversation he'd just had with Laura and their situation at present: He wasn't worried about Núria, he was sure she suspected nothing, but Jordi Antich bothered him; he was the perfect match for Laura, wealthy, cultured, from the same social class, the inheritor of a prosperous family business, from a bloodline as highly regarded as her own, or perhaps even more so. Dimas had none of that; at least, not yet.

He continued musing while Àngel showed him a number of the finished pieces that would soon be placed on the store shelves. Some were very small, but all glimmered brightly; and there were some with complex patterns in relief, colored enamels, and contrasting intensities.

“These are the ones the girl designed. She's got talent, there's no denying it. These have been in the Jufresa catalog for years, but they've had a special something since she came along. Of course, I have to mark up and chisel the stones so the designs turn out the way she wants, so in a sense, they're also mine, too.”

Dimas looked at Àngel's smile. He was proud of his work. He enjoyed what he did, and when he spoke of each of those tiny treasures, his face seemed to fill up with a kind of light Dimas didn't know how to describe. He didn't feel the same about his own job. The lies and the fraud he committed at Ferran's command were nothing to be especially proud of; he couldn't make jewelry out of nothing, he had to leave that in other people's hands.

The workers soon said their good-byes; it was midday and they all left for the nearby tavern for a bit of lunch. Dimas was surprised by their camaraderie, as they were all very different from one another and yet they respected one another like members of a family. They invited him to come along, to be a part of that union, but he was obliged to say no, lamenting that he had to wait for his boss. Dimas knew he was different now. From the moment he'd entered the office of his boss in the depot in Horta, he'd accepted he would never again share a half liter of wine at lunchtime or get into coarse conversations about women or what he would do one day if he ever managed to get ahold of real money.

After he declined the workers' offer, Dimas went to eat alone quickly at another tavern close by; he then returned to his post to see if Ferran had returned.

Ferran arrived back at the workshop after a dreary afternoon. Dimas looked at his pocket watch: it was past eight, and he had spent the entire afternoon and evening there, waiting, while all the other workers had already gone home.

His boss lurched forward; he smelled of alcohol and cheap perfume. He stepped into his office and came out after a few seconds. Dimas watched Ferran stumble and clumsily slip what looked like an envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Take me to the casino,” he ordered.

CHAPTER 31

“Sometimes it's worth it to indulge yourself, Navarro,” Ferran said, leaning back into the seat of the Hispano-Suiza. It had been hours since the sun had vanished behind the Sierra de Collserola and the darkness covered his face completely.

Dimas listened in silence, his eyes on the road.

“Believe me.” Ferran's tone was intimate, his words heavy. His words reached Dimas's ears on a tide of alcohol and effusiveness. “A good wine, a real tablecloth, fine crystal, silk pajamas … trifles, maybe, but everyone wants them. And only a few of us can have them. Do you know what I'm trying to say?”

“That everyone wants to get rich.”

“Yeah, but there's something else, too. When you get rich, you're a king. You live in a tower up high over everyone else. And when you've got it, you have to protect it, no matter what. And what that comes down to, in the end, is a bunch of small details.” Ferran's eyes followed the sinews of the road as he spoke. “Important details, that's true. There have always been classes, but the lines between them are thinner than ever before. What distinguishes one group from another? Scrupulous behavior, airtight honesty, or the opposite, a good list of contacts.” He placed particular emphasis on the last phrase. “In Barcelona there's no lack of fine jewelers. The population's growing every day, but the poor are growing faster. Soon there won't even be room to navigate with this car.”

Then he fell silent. The vehicle roared through the curves under Dimas's steady hand. In the distance, the outline of the Gran Casino appeared against the heights of the mountain. The yellow light of the streetlamps separated the structure from the dark monotony that spread out from the firmament. Ferran settled down in his seat, and his clouded gaze sought some point far past the windshield, lost in the infinity of the sky. His voice rang out once more.

“The casino, for example. Everyone wants to go there, but only a few of us can get in. What's the pleasure in losing money hand over fist?” he asked, looking straight at Dimas now.

“The possibility of winning, maybe?”

“I don't think that's it. Your hands sweat when you lay your money on the felt and the wheel begins to rattle,” Ferran uttered with great seriousness. “In fact, you could get up and leave before the ball stopped and the feeling would barely change. It's the mere fact of playing against someone, you know? Of being able to gamble something others don't even have. The vertigo of risk, of defeat. But I rarely lose, that's not in my plans.”

“But it's always possible … To lose, I mean.”

“What are you saying?”

When they had crossed through the imposing metal gate, Dimas cut the motor.

“I mean that the casino creates a warm atmosphere where the customer feels safe, but the casino never loses. It represents the illusion of sanctuary with its heat, its big luxurious salons.” Dimas got excited as he spoke. “And the customer relaxes; sometimes he wins a little, sometimes he loses more than he wins, until one day he finally lowers his guard; his thinking is blurred by alcohol and he loses more than he means to.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“It's what I imagine. I have the impression that the casino never loses.”

“Right. And you think today's the day it might happen to me,” Ferran said, rebuking him.

Dimas realized he was on slippery ground and began to take back his words.

“Well, I'm not …”

“You think today's the day my
thinking
might be diminished.”

“I wasn't trying …”

“You think you'd do better?” Ferran looked at him with glazed eyes. They were still inside the car, stopped in front of the staircases of the glamorous building, and the people walking by them, ready to bet it all, stared back at the two of them, a little discomfited.

“Not at all. The same thing would happen to me as to anybody,” Dimas said.

“You know something, Navarro? You're right about that: It could happen to anyone. But I'm not anyone, and I hope you think twice before talking to me that way again. Maybe you think you and I are the same? It could happen to anyone, he says!” And Ferran laughed boisterously as he opened the door to the car.

He stumbled out and Dimas stayed there with a wounded feeling gnawing at his breast. He felt guilty for offering advice to the man, who had responded by insulting him, reminding him that he'd always be an underling, and upbraiding him in the process.

While Ferran belonged to a bourgeois family and moved among politicians and industrialists, Dimas's neighborhood was filled with run-down houses, miserable vegetable gardens, factories, and rats. No matter how much time he spent at Ferran's side, how many fancy suits he bought, how long he drove a top-of-the-line Hispano-Suiza, his coming and going in the mansion in San Gervasio and the respect and love Laura gave him, as long as he took orders from Ferran, he'd continue to be the same Navarro who ran errands for his boss. And he was getting tired of being treated that way.

Dimas leaned against the hood of the car and admired the scene of utter leisure that surrounded him: He preferred standing outside to being huddled inside the vehicle. For some time now, the cold had been seeping into his bones. Suddenly he heard steps at his back and he turned around and saw Inés. His sister had seen Ferran walking into the casino hours before and took advantage of her break to come talk to Dimas. She lifted her cigarette girl's vest over her head and laid it on the hood of the car. She ran her hands up and down her arms to stave off the cold. Dimas took off his coat and put it over her shoulders.

“It seems like every fat cat in Barcelona has chosen tonight to put it on the line.”

His relationship with Inés had grown closer since she visited his father's house. They saw each other often: Carmela worked all day in the hotel, and as she herself had explained, Inés hated to eat alone, so from time to time she would surprise him with something delicious she had made herself. Dimas certainly appreciated the company.

“You shouldn't complain about the number of people,” he said, already in a better mood. “It's good for the business.”

“Yeah, but my rear end has been pinched so many times, it's killing me,” she responded, sucking in a breath and pulling the overcoat tighter over her uniform; she was freezing. “I swear there are times when I want to turn around and slap them. If I had my way … All those snobs with their elegance and their manners, in their hearts they're still low-grade hicks. All they know how to talk about is money and their latest conquests, and the two of course go hand in hand. If only I could, I'd show them! But their day's going to come; one day I'll have my revenge on all them and they won't see a hair on my head after that …”

“What are you saying?”

“Ah, don't pay attention to me. Inside there, people flap their lips, and no one's ashamed to say anything in front of the cigarette girl. They must think I'm one of their mindless whores.”

Just then, a chubby figure in a tuxedo with a lazy step came out of the casino and approached the car. The two siblings were silent while the man looked from one side to the other, in search of someone. The ember of his cigarette glowed there in the darkness, then fell to the ground and broke into a thousand tiny sparks. Seeing his driver, the man passed the car and was bathed in the glow of one of its headlights. After he'd walked on, Inés continued talking.

“That one that just came out, Camps, for example: You see how he's lumbering along? He's just spent a fortune. And yet”—Inés lowered her voice, as if about to tell him something delicate—“I just heard him tell the editorial director of
La Vanguardia
to hold off on reporting that his business is bankrupt. He wants to make a discreet sell before the news gets out. I don't know what he can do with just a few extra days.”

“Maybe he already has a buyer in mind, or he thinks that there's still time to find a decent bidder before the real situation comes to light.”

“You think?”

“It's a possibility. When someone buys a business, they take over everything to do with it, the assets and privileges but also the debts, and no one wants to owe anything to anyone. So the longer he can put off the news about the actual state of his accounts …”

“… the better a chance he has of finding someone willing to pay a good price for the company,” Inés finished his phrase. “You know your business, don't you?”

“Or maybe I've just spent too long on the dark side of that world.”

Dimas stayed there a moment absorbed in his own considerations. He had certainly spent his share of time in those murky waters and he knew how to move through them; he had the strength and the intelligence he needed as well as the contacts Ferran had spoken of before. He had shown his skills every time he had managed to extricate his boss from a new predicament, every time he'd solved a problem Ferran couldn't solve on his own. Dimas raised his head and looked Inés in the eyes, saying, “Do you know what assets Camps talked about with the director of the newspaper?”

“I heard something about a shipment of five tons of copper that doesn't show up on his books.”

Dimas nodded thoughtfully.

“I have an idea …”

“What?” Inés asked, full of curiosity.

“Before I tell you, I have to make sure it's going to work. But if I make it happen, it won't be the last enterprise we embark on together.” He smiled at her.

“That would be nice. … Let's see what I get out of it. The last time someone gave me a present, it was a garter they wanted to watch me put on afterward.” Seeing Dimas's expectant eyes, she said, “Don't ask.”

He couldn't help but laugh.

“Come on, tell me what else you know about this Camps character,” Dimas said when his laughter had died down.

As they went on talking, Inés forgot the humiliations of her work and Dimas forgot the arrogance Ferran had shown. Their relationship was quickly becoming like an old friendship based on the life they could have had together if everything had been different, if they had grown up under the same roof, but without the bad parts that often accompany it: there was no resentment, no envy, no judgment; they appreciated each other exactly as they were at that moment.

They had been talking for some time when Inés, who had kept her eyes on the stairway the whole time, saw a silhouette appear against the gleaming lights of the façade. It was Ferran.

“I'm leaving. Your boss is on his way. I'll stop by one of these days,” she said, handing him back his coat and putting on her vest for work.

When Ferran passed Inés, he stopped in his tracks and turned to watch her walk by. Then he came up to Dimas and whistled in admiration.

“I see you don't waste a second, my boy. Who's that?”

“One of the employees. She came out to smoke and we've been talking.”

“I see that.” Ferran gave a lascivious smile and carried on talking. “So look, we're going to kill two birds with one stone here.” He felt in the pockets of his black blazer. “Just so you see that the casino doesn't always win, here's a little taste for you. Don't spend it all on … tobacco! Ha, ha! Sweet blond tobacco …” He laughed at his own joke and slid a big sheaf of bills into the breast pocket of his jacket. He must have made a fortune, judging from the size of the tip. “Blond tobacco. You hear that!” Ferran got into the car, and Dimas did the same.

The young man drove fluidly. His boss didn't take long to fall asleep. He rested his neck on the seat back, and with his head turned toward the sky, he opened his mouth. His breathing was sonorous; if not a snore, then at least a resonant buzzing.

As he approached the mansion of the Jufresa family, Dimas thought of the importance of information, of the usefulness of knowing what others were up to. What Inés had told him floated in his mind like the image of an island where he could take refuge. He was convinced that he'd been called to be something more than just being Ferran's shadow, and he couldn't waste the rest of his life doing so. He had worked hard, he had made it far, and now it was time to climb the wall Ferran had put in his path. For his father, for Guillermo, for his mother, for Inés … and for Laura. For Laura, too.

When he arrived at the Jufresas' mansion, Dimas had already made his decision. He awakened Ferran from his sleep and helped him into the house.

“You're a good friend, Navarro,” he said.

“It's nothing.”

“Come in and let's have a nightcap.” Ferran's words were as clumsy as his steps.

Dimas didn't want to deny him this time. When they arrived in the salon on the lower floor, his boss flopped down in an armchair and asked him to pour a gin from the bar. In the time it took Dimas to make the drink, Ferran had already fallen back to sleep. He raised the glass in his direction and toasted, “To your health.”