The Dream of the City (35 page)

Laura's feelings of guilt were mixed with an irrepressible fury. There was neither charity nor understanding in her thoughts. She felt powerless because she was a woman, compelled to conform to conditions imposed by others or be condemned to the judgment of the public. Her thoughts were frantic, diminishing her happiness and all the joy she'd felt that day. It was as if all the good fortune in her life had become a disgrace, a tribulation. And that feeling of sinfulness grew and made her guilt grow stronger. She remembered the commercial arrangements between the Antichs and the Jufresas. The thought that her own decision could affect her family's business seemed to her an unjustifiable burden.

“Don't worry, dear. All this will be worked out,” her father said to calm her, as if he was reading her mind.

“I don't understand what that man could be thinking,” she responded, exasperated. “As if I should know what's passing through the mind of the Antichs before they do, and somehow intercept it. I'm going to talk to Jordi.”

“Don't say anything to him, Laura, it will only make it worse. I've known Jordi's father for a long time, and he's not going to change him.”

The room glowed from the orange light of the fire. Mobile shadows roiled over the books in the back. Her father's eyes looked tired. Laura took his hand.

“I'm sorry I didn't see what was happening earlier. When I spoke with Jordi, he admitted he'd been wrong as well. I don't understand …”

“You have to realize that Josep Lluís is used to things turning out the way he wants.”

“But that doesn't mean it will always be that way. Things aren't as easy as you want. And anyway, our relationship is none of Señor Antich's concern.”

“Exactly,” her father agreed.

Laura sat silent. Her gaze turned to the fireplace, as if attracted by a magnet. The flames flickered in her eyes like inextinguishable sparks.

“I'm sorry, Papa, I'm so sorry.” She asked for his forgiveness again as she lowered her eyes to the floor, embarrassed, lost.

“Don't apologize for not conforming, Laura. I'm proud of you for not just being what everyone else expects, for looking for the best way to live the short life you're offered. We're not all as strong as you, so stay how you are, no matter how much criticism you encounter on your path. The world isn't ready yet for people like you.” Francesc smiled tenderly and lifted her chin up with his hand.

Laura hugged him with all her strength, inhaling the aroma of his clothing, that scent that had been familiar to her since she was a little girl. It was true, she had never wanted to marry Jordi, she had never seen him as her future husband, and she had made that decision long before she fell in love with Dimas. She pulled away a bit and looked into her father's eyes. Her expression was calm.

“I have to tell you something else,” she said. Francesc bowed his head expectantly and closed his eyes. “There's someone else,” she finally confessed.

Her father opened his eyes and grinned knowingly, with a slightly roguish air. He placed his hands on her cheeks to contemplate her face in all its splendor. At that moment, he seemed to understand that his little girl was now a woman.

“I won't ask who it is; I would rather you tell me when you're ready. I only ask you one thing.”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Make sure that he's worth it.”

Francesc looked at his daughter, his gaze clear, unmistakable, and she understood his request. She had never felt anything like what she was now experiencing with Dimas. Nor had she stopped to reflect on the consequences their love might have, maybe because she was afraid of ruining it, maybe because she didn't think that keeping their love hidden mattered, or because, up to that moment, she preferred living in the secret world the two of them shared. Whatever it was, she knew that what now happened wasn't going to be easy.

“I promise,” she said.

In fact, it hadn't been long since she'd known Dimas, but she was ready to give him all the time he needed. She believed he was well deserving of the risk. She felt closer to him than to any of the people who had formed part of her life for years. And she certainly wasn't going to abandon him because a family that wasn't even hers imposed it. As her father said, she had to follow her own road, even if it was tortuous and full of obstacles. She knew she could always count on her father's support and for that reason, she wouldn't let him down. She would do whatever she could to help him, and that included designing a collection so dazzling it would render the Antichs' vengeance toothless.

Both Laura and Dimas had been living until then on the splendor of early love, when the two people involved are blind and don't think about tomorrow. But little by little, this would begin to settle, like the colors of a painting exposed to the sun. Then reality would assert itself, and love, if it was worth as much as Laura thought, would become less perfect, but stronger, more real. In these contending realities, Laura and Dimas had crossed paths on two roads that a closed-minded, hostile world had decided should never meet; while Laura was fleeing from traditionalism, diving down into the essential, for humility, Dimas was trying to ascend and reach a prestige like that of the Jufresas. Laura didn't believe it all came down to money, to the craving for enough money to pay for what would come tomorrow; nonetheless, their common path was not yet marked out, and it was uncertain. They had met in the middle of that road to walk the rest of it together. But first they had to choose a way that would be right for both of them. Would it lead upward or down?

VI

TEMPERANCE (GLUTTONY)

One must eat to live and not live to eat.

—Antoni Gaudí

CHAPTER 36

February was almost over. Unlike the tensions of the recent months, the Jufresa family hoped that this unsettled period would finally come to a close with the winter. They would have to face many social occasions that would put them to the test—including the one taking place, an aerial exhibition and charitable auction, this very day. Judgment of the family had happened during the Christmas party of Pilar Jufresa and it would happen today as well. The number of attendees at Parque
Güell the past
twenty-fifth of December had been much smaller than in previous years; the shadow of the Antichs stretched very far. Naturally, the majority of people were motivated by personal interests to take one or the other side, worried about losing the loyalty of a family that had a voice in the most important business sectors. The Jufresas had to make great efforts to remain dignified, with stoicism but above all with elegance, despite the scorn they were being subjected to.

The former hippodrome of the Casa Antúnez was used sporadically for aeronautical shows; the first flights took off from those fields situated between Montjuic and the sea. Under the wheels of those flying contraptions, the oval track where the thoroughbreds had run was gone. The grounds could accommodate twenty-five hundred people who faithfully paid a price unattainable for most people's wallets. They sat in the stands and watched the pilots' maneuvers. Outside, a multitude of onlookers ran from one side to the other, their boots and shoes splattered with mud, trying to catch a glimpse of the excitement.

It hadn't been so long since 1910, when Julien Mamet took off from the same site in his Bleirot monoplane made of tin and paper, powered by a single engine. That had been the first flight in Catalonia and the second in Spain; the first had take place on September 5, 1909, in Valencia, and the pilot had been Julián Olivert. Since then the exhibitions had continued to take place with regularity.

On that unpleasant Saturday morning, Pérez y Garay, squeezed into his leather jacket, took off in a model H.F. 20, created the year before by the brothers Farman for reconnoitering enemy positions in the European war, used by the armies of the French, the Italians, and the Spanish. Spain had lent the pilot and the plane for this exhibition to raise funds for the Red Cross and the soldiers wounded in the conflict.

All those present were prepared to demonstrate their commitment to the noble cause by offering or buying some object of value for the auction. Mayor Boladeres i Romà had donated a prized crystal decanter in the art nouveau style and the industrialist Count Eusebi Güell had donated a painting by Pablo Picasso dedicated to his deceased friend, Carlos Casagemas. The Jufresas, who needed to show their good qualities now more than ever, had also offered a necklace with large gemstones set in glimmering gold.

As was common in such gatherings, each family's contribution had unleashed complex rivalries to determine who was the most generous of all. In this way, good deeds became a corollary of ambition and appearances, the two main forces driving that social circle. Apart from that, there were caterers with exquisite food and drink that each attendee had paid richly to partake in. Trays with the finest cheeses and pâtés, canapés of a thousand different colors, white wine, red wine, and rosé, as well as all kinds of liqueurs from the sweet to the fiery attracted the attention of all the attendees. Of the two thousand available seats, those at the charity ball represented a mere five hundred. But the majority of them preferred to stand.

The mayor, accompanied by his wife and a small retinue from City Hall, among them Deputy Mayor Andreu Cambrils i Pou, occupied the first row. When the propellers began to spin, they were the first to shut their eyes and lift their hands up to protect their faces from the powerful gusts of air, and Señora Boladeres i Romà even made a quick movement to keep her long dress and veil from flying up. Francesc Jufresa, who was farther off conversing with the jeweler Enric Clarà, couldn't help but grin.

“It's admirable that you're in such fine humor, Francesc.”

The Clarà business had been founded shortly after Jufresa's grandfather's, on the Calle Fernando VII. He had always been one step behind, as had his small shop, which went under-recognized there in the dark streets of the old city. His product line had been slower to respond to new trends than the Jufresas had. And yet now, out of the blue, he had struck gold. And Enric Clarà was hardly the man to let the opportunity pass to show off his newfound fortune to his eternal rival.

“Why wouldn't I be happy? We're all here together in support of a good cause, all of us know and respect each other, there's good food, good drink …” Francesc responded cheerfully.

“True, true, but … after all that's happened with the Antich family, I assumed you'd look more crestfallen. I understand they're not the only ones who have broken their ties with you.” Clarà didn't take his eyes off Jufresa. “That's not the kind of blow you get over in one day, Francesc. None of us would find it easy to let go of worries about the future of our business and our families.”

While Enric Clarà sipped his white wine, Francesc thought he saw a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Life is full of obstacles, Enric,” Jufresa responded. “But our family is strong. So there's no need for alarm. We don't only do business in Barcelona; we have foreign contacts as well, and our exports are growing by the day.”

Francesc began excusing himself, saying he needed to look for his wife, when Clarà's voice echoed from the bottom of his glass.

“That's for the best, Francesc. For the best. I would not care to have to feel guilty for taking advantage of such circumstances. After what's happened, Josep Lluís Antich has signed an exclusive contract with us. I imagine you knew that, though.”

“I did indeed. And allow me to express my sincerest congratulations, Enric. I believe we've all come out winners from this little dustup that at first seemed so unfortunate.” Francesc shook his hand firmly and his acquaintance did the same, not bothering to wipe the smug smile from his face.

Francesc politely took his leave and walked away calmly. No one could have imagined he was boiling with rage inside. With time, he had learned to steel himself in the art of dissimulation, a resource highly valued among the Barcelonan elite. The less others knew of what one was thinking, the less they could interfere in the course of those thoughts. Francesc realized that everyone there was clad in a mask, just like himself, and that in reality, no one knew anyone.

In the meantime, after an agile takeoff, the pilot was flying his machine with grace. He had a steady nerve as he pirouetted through the low clouds, enthralling the attendees, who broke out in applause every time the machine turned. The strident roaring of the motor caused those present to raise their voices as they took advantage of the large gathering to fill themselves in on the latest news and gossip. Their attire consisted of tuxedos, English-style frock coats, furs, tulle dresses with skirts and matching jackets, ankle boots, flats and high heels, and hats of all shapes and sizes. In a gathering of that sort, appearance was everything, and the icy cold provoked more than a few shivers in those who were slaves to fashion. The point of the thing was to show they had the costliest clothes, the flashiest car.

In a group composed solely of men, Ferran was listening to one of the captains of the air force, in his blue uniform displaying all his medals and insignia, while he discussed the progress of the war, his hat in his hands. The industrialist Eusebi Güell, dressed in all black, was also among the listeners, and he stroked his long white beard and asked questions of Captain Àlvarez, who responded to him respectfully.

The captain mentioned the Frenchman Roland Garros, who had mounted a machine on the front of his plane and covered the propellers in protective metal plating so he could fire on the enemy without fear of destroying the blades. Before then, the pilot had needed to use his weapon at the same time as he held the controls, and many airmen had died, not from being shot down, but from losing control of the craft.

“The Germans must have their hands full with that invention,” one of the listeners announced with a weary voice. It was no secret that the better part of the people there, the most conservative parties in the city, had lent their support to the Germans.

“I'm sure they'll come up with something soon. They're resourceful …”

“Or else they can steal it. If they capture one of those French planes …”

At this, some laughed, and others responded, offended, “That kind of dirty trick is a specialty of the French!”

“Gentlemen …” Deputy Mayor Cambrils i Pou interrupted as he approached the group.

The men all stepped away from the soldier and greeted the politician with deference. Count Güell was the first to return his attention to the captain and carry on with his questions. He wanted to know how far along the conflict was that was tearing Europe to pieces.

The officer updated him. “The English trounced the Germans at the Battle of Dogger Bank in the North Sea. Admiral Von Ingenhoghl tried to take advantage of the departure of the British cruisers to the west to attack and destroy a couple of stray units. He ordered Admiral Franz Von Hipper to set off for the Dogger Bank on the twenty-fourth of January. But the British were waiting for them. …”

Ferran, who had remained silent the whole time, raised his glass to the politician, smiling and turning a deaf ear to the information about the war.

“Excellent party, Señor Cambrils.”

“Thank you. But it hasn't been solely me. All of your families have participated,” he responded, turning courteously to the other guests. Wearing a tuxedo and tie, with his hair slicked back behind his ears, Andreu Cambrils i Pou showed himself to be a skilled and amicable conversationalist. A moment later, he turned back to Ferran, his expression now stony: “I'd like to talk with you, if you would be so kind.”

He pulled the jeweler to the side while the other men engrossed themselves in the anecdotes of the soldier Álvarez.

“I've already spoke to Bragado about what I'm going to tell you now. You know he's there in the back, he and his wife. She took part in the organization of the auction and has been of great assistance.”

Was this the politician's way of reproaching him for not playing a bigger role in the events? The other families had not been in touch with the Jufresas about anything, and the blame all fell on his sister Laura. Ferran was going to beg the politician's pardon when the latter continued.

“But it's not the auction I want to speak with you about, Ferran.”

“What is it then?” The young man leaned in, already nervous.

The deputy mayor cleared his throat before continuing. It must have been a delicate issue, because if there was one thing the politician had, it was the gift of gab.

“It's about the construction in Campo del Arpa. It seems things are going slower than we'd wished.”

“Slower? What does that mean?”

“This year, it's not going to be possible to build in that area. The neighbors are organizing and are on the verge of submitting official complaints. It hasn't even been a year since the
Mancomunidad
was founded and they're trying to avoid any kind of scandal that might endanger it. We've already got our hands full with the workers' protests. For now, City Hall doesn't want to push thing, so they've decided to take things slower …”

“But we've invested a lot … a lot of effort into this project.”

Ferran began to feel warm despite the cool wind. He had lost too much with the shipment of cellulose that sank in the North Sea. After that, it had been impossible to resume negotiations with the Germans to recoup his expenses, because the British had imposed an embargo and would intercept any ship that crossed the Mediterranean or the English Channel.

“I know, Ferran, I'm the first person interested in everything coming out right. Don't worry, nothing has changed. It's just going to take longer than we'd hoped.”

“All right,” the jeweler responded, smoothing down his lapels and breathing deep. “Then I can assume that in the course of next year the city will be looking to expand into that area,” he resolved, hoping to force the situation to his favor.

“Probably,” Cambrils i Pou nodded.

Mayor Boladeres i Romà came up to them and waved over Cambrils without worrying about interrupting their conversation. Though Ferran hadn't even noticed, the pilot's exhibition was now at its end and the auction was about to begin. The young man clenched his jaw in frustration and said good-bye, while they ignored him. His eyes swept over the large space before him. He should go to the tent they had set up, to be present for the sale of the necklace, a new model they were presenting in the attempt to quell rumors about the family's losses. Ferran was doing everything he could to make the Jufresas' crisis pass quickly and quietly, so he could get on with the next chapter of his life as a businessman. Others weren't making it easy for him. He put a great deal into making the family's losses seem minor, but it seemed that the harder he worked, the more the stain on them spread. This new setback with Campo del Arpa was unacceptable. He decided to speak with Navarro Monday morning to find a solution that would swing the balance back in his favor as soon as possible.

Laura jogged past him, holding up the folds of her dress and panting.

“You don't have to run, sister. The auction will start whether or not you're there.”

“Forget me,” she said to him, and hurried on.

Laura didn't care to waste time talking to her brother. In the past month, her family had stopped blaming her; even her mother had spoken with her again after the long weeks of reproaches. Everyone but Ferran, who remained glum and resentful. Laura had accepted the consequences of her decisions, listening to the criticisms but also defending herself against the most vicious accusations. And throughout, she went on seeing Dimas in secret, to avoid aggravating tensions. For now, the most reasonable thing was for no one to know how close they were. Only her father knew that there was someone in her life, and he still wasn't aware of who it was. She hoped that one day she would be able to stroll out in public with her love as she'd done that Sunday on the beach in Sitges, but for now, it was impossible. Nor did she wish to cause more harm to the person who had been, until recently, her closest friend. She hadn't spoken to Jordi since that now distant dinner in El Suizo two months back.