The Dream of the City (36 page)

Laura was stepping clumsily through the mud when she saw Jordi in the distance. She decided to approach him before he took his seat under the tent, now that his parents were elsewhere, and she walked faster, unconcerned with dirtying her white batiste dress, a pattern designed by Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. All she wanted was to speak with Jordi after those months without contact. Her friend was walking along gracefully.

“Jordi!” she called to him when she was near.

The silk umbrellas must have made it difficult to see or hear her, Laura thought when she saw that he didn't stop after she'd called him. She came a little closer. She was very near, only a few meters away, when a new umbrella flashed in front of her face. She tried to sidestep it, but the owner didn't budge. When she saw who it was, she stopped, surprised. Laura had never seen Remei Antich look at her so hatefully, with her lips tense and her eyes burning like hot coals. She had always thought the woman liked her.

“Leave him in peace,” she said. Her voice was stern, but hushed. “Have you not done enough?”

“I …”

“I will not let you trick me again with more of your lies. You have wounded the person I love most in the world and have brought enmity between our families. Do not come near him again.”

When she had spoken, Señora Antich turned and continued toward the place where Jordi had taken his seat. Her high heels drilled down into the soil and her dress of gold gauze was a sharp contrast to the cold and mud. She was a tall and attractive woman, not accustomed to speaking out. If she was doing it now, it was to show she was still wounded despite the time that had passed.

Laura watched how Remei sat down next to her son. She hoped that he would look over at her, that he would give a sign that later, they might be able to see each other. But instead, Jordi gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and looked indifferently across the distance toward Laura, as if he didn't see her. Then he turned his eyes to the platform where the mayor was making way for Count Güell. The nobleman would direct the auction, making use of his
honorable rhetoric
.

Laura heard a loud sound at her back and when she turned around suddenly, she slipped on the mud: her feet came out from under her and she fell onto her back. She felt a hard, painful blow to her rear end and stayed there sitting, with her legs outstretched, on the damp soil. She clenched her fists on the damp grass and closed her eyes to avoid the laughter of the children who came over to mock her.

CHAPTER 37

The next Monday morning, Dimas was pensive as he exited the Jufresa workshop, his head swimming with ideas. He was looking for a way to resolve the conflict that had suddenly arisen for his boss over Campo del Arpa. Ferran was exasperated, as the only means he could think of to put an end to the protests were drastic, to say the least. Dimas assured Ferran that his suggestions could only make matters worse, putting the entire project in danger, and promised he would find a way to put pressure on the neighbors that would be more effective and wouldn't resort to violence. He kept waiting for new opportunities like the deal he'd done with Ribes i Pla so that he could finally distance himself from Ferran Jufresa's activities. He needed to prosper on his own and show the world that he could aspire to a woman like Laura. But at that moment, there was little room to act: Ferran was upset about the vague time frame he was getting from City Hall, and he needed to take it out on someone.

The lack of regulation in the Ensanche was a boon to private investors looking to benefit from legal loopholes. Since the Cerdà plan had been approved in 1860 various proposals had been considered for new legislation that would take account of the newly incorporated areas. Taking advantage of the unity of the liberal government of the time, lawmakers attempted to reform the law of eminent domain established on July 17, 1836. Initially, policymakers thought to arrange a fund that would pay for the ambitious undertaking as well as the indemnities to the parties affected. In the same way, laws were modeled on a decree passed down in 1852 for the remodeling of the streets in Paris, which justified not only the expropriation of lands necessary for the city's expansion but also the buildings bordering them for an appropriate payment and in consideration of public health. Then in 1861 came the
Ley del Ensanche
of Posada Herrera, intended to replace the law of 1836, which justified eminent domain appropriations if they were in the public interest. But this project, like similar attempts, was rejected by the Spanish government in 1862. Their decision was taken in Barcelona to mean a definitive rejection of any parliamentary legislation regulating the urbanization of the Ensanche, and shortly afterward, a frenzy of investors and speculators tried to profit from the economic progress sweeping over the city. They were well aware that their century would shape the lives of generations, but this knowledge did not inspire an excess of scruples.

For that reason, the situation was one of great disorder: whoever knew the lay of the land would buy up properties that shot up in value in no time; but in that climate of distrust and of surging prices, others were sold on the basis of mere rumors that would then vanish into thin air. The first thing that came into Dimas's head was that he would need to find out who was in charge of the protests that were denouncing the expropriations so loudly. If he could find the leaders of the movement—and there wouldn't be many of them—he could offer them, in his boss's name, a good sum of money to keep quiet, or something worse if they wanted to carry on. If he had learned anything in those past few months, it was that money could buy almost anything. Without the strongest of their leaders willing to fight for them, the neighbors would stop rebelling and would cope with the changing circumstances.

It struck Dimas that, as always, the best way to find something out was from inside, so he went to a store where he bought the cheapest suitcase he could find, one made of cardboard. In another shop, he bought an oversized jacket and a black beret. Then he took the streetcar and got out at Campo del Arpa. He looked for a discreet spot between the buildings where he wouldn't be seen. Once there, he damaged the suitcase, rubbing the corners of it against the ground. He daubed it with a handful of dirt. When it finally looked old and used, he took off his overcoat, his jacket, and his vest and put everything inside, together with his tie. He ruffled his hair and put on his beret and his new jacket. He really needed a mirror to look at himself, but even without one, he knew the coat fit him badly, and that was what he wanted. He headed into the neighborhood.

Dimas knew that many of the residents were immigrants. Because of his father's roots, he thought, it would be easy for him to imitate an accent from Aragon and blend in as a new neighbor. He went into the first tavern he found and asked around among the customers like a new arrival in search of lodgings. Soon someone had recommended a pension nearby, and after he sat down at one of the tables, they offered him food and drink. The customers were all kind and easy to talk to: soon enough, the topic of the protests rocking the neighborhood came up. Dimas was well aware that criticizing the system was always a favorite activity among the worse off.

“I'm sure you'll manage to make them stick the Ensanche right where it belongs,” he said, bringing a spoonful of the potato stew with its little bits of meat to his lips. An older, stoop-shouldered woman, the owner's wife, had served it to him.

“We can't let them just destroy everything we have here. We're simple people in this neighborhood,” the owner explained from behind the bar after wiping his hands on his apron. He was an extremely thin man of medium stature with hardly a hair on his head.

The murmur among those present rose in intensity and everyone chimed in, agreeing with the barman. Men and women told their own stories about their neighborhood of small, humble residences that had been witness to so many of their lives. The area had been created to make room for the day laborers who had come to work the fields in Barcelona, and though those jobs were now gone, it remained isolated from the apartment buildings and the industrial warehouses that filled La Sagrera and El Clot de la Mel, reaching almost to the sea. The neighbors consisted mostly of workers employed in those factories.

Dimas felt guilty for enjoying sitting here in the tavern, knowing all the time why he was there. The place was simple, but it was welcoming, nothing like the places he had been with his boss. A scent of charcoal and oil floated through the air. And the portions were generous.

“Are you planning to stay here or are you just coming through?” he was asked by a man in his forties sitting in the back. Attired in a felt jacket, he had one hand clenched into a fist and the other one held a cigarette; strands of smoke flowed from his mouth. A beret like Dimas's was resting on the table.

“I'm here to stay. I had to spend everything I had to get here and now I can't leave,” Dimas responded without looking up from his plate, as if that would keep him from getting found out.

He talked a bit more about his origins. He told stories about his father in Abejuela, stories he had heard so many times, of penury mixed with the joy of childhood or youth. He tried to think of the motives that drove his father and mother to the big city and appropriated them to his own purposes. He saw the man's eyes sizing him up while he crushed his cigarette.

“There's lots of people in your same situation. Maybe you'd be interested in joining up with us. The more we are, the stronger we'll be,” he finally said.

Dimas sighed with relief; that invitation had been one of his objectives. He accepted willingly and everyone toasted, especially the man in the felt jacket. When Dimas asked the people whom he should turn to in order to volunteer, the man from the table introduced himself as one of the ringleaders. His name was Víctor Giménez and he was looking forward to seeing Dimas at the upcoming protests. Dimas agreed to meet him a day later along with his comrade, Joaquín Cuesta, so they could explaintheir activities. It turned out those two men were the top-ranking organizers of all those who were demonstrating in defense of their homes.

It was only with difficulty that he managed to convince them to let him pay for his meal before he left; they all took him for a poor man from the country and insisted on treating him to a shot of something to wash down his meal. The warmth of those people and their innocent solidarity moved him and made him feel guilty.

Once he'd left, Dimas retraced his steps back to the hiding place where he had damaged his suitcase. Making sure that no one could see him, he opened it, put on his old clothes, put the jacket and the beret inside, and combed his hair. He threw the suitcase into a corner and left his secret spot, adjusting the knot of his tie. He didn't like his deception, but it was the only way to mitigate the damage Ferran would do; Dimas would try anything he could to keep Ferran from employing violence. Now all he had left to do was speak to his boss.

CHAPTER 38

“Are you sure you're reading it right?” Tomàs asked Guillermo incredulously.

“What do you think, that I don't know how to read?”

“No, man, but it just seems impossible. … Maybe the wind is making your eyes water and you're not seeing right. What do I know?”

March was soon to arrive, and the days were getting longer. The two children had met when Guillermo left class and were sitting on one of the benches in the plaza next to the temple. Nit
was beside them, keeping his eye on the flock. Under a sky beginning to cloud over, the boys were reading one of the stories in the most recent issue of
En Patufet
. This boys' weekly had started up eleven years before, taking its name from the folk tale of the same name, which told of a boy so small that he had to sing constantly so no one would step on him. The boy's picture was on the cover of the magazine. It had pictures, stories, and comics, some of them funny: and when a new edition hit the shelves, it was a big event among the children who knew how to read. The two friends were in the habit of meeting whenever Guillermo managed to get his hands on a copy. Tomàs would listen to him while he read aloud.

“Let's see,” Tomàs insisted. “Explain it to me again: Who is the one who ends up with all the quarters then?”

“The faaaather,” Guillermo answered, at the end of his patience. “He's a greedy man and all he thinks about all day is money. His wife died, and so he's alone with his five children, and all he does is tell them how making money is more important than anything else in life. The children learn their lesson and when one day he has them choose between dinner and two quarters …”

“They choose the two quarters. I know that. But then what?”

“The next morning, when they wake up dying from hunger, their father tells them that if they want breakfast, they have to give him the two quarters from the day before, because now they have money to pay for their food.”

“And what does the father get out of not feeding them dinner? I don't understand. At my house I've been earning my bread for a long time. … Do they not have jobs yet?”

“Well, obviously not.”

“And you mean what they learn is you have to work to eat? I think they just end up confused more than anything else.”

“Look, Tomàs, I don't know. That's just how the story goes.”

Guillermo closed the issue and looked at his friend. He thought of how different Tomàs's reality was from his or from that of the children in the stories of Josep Maria Folch i Torres. He spent the whole day working, but it didn't bother him, and his parents were always kind to him and offered him whatever they had. Tomàs had never imagined living any other way, and he was happy surrounded by his flock. He hadn't gone to school, and he always said that sitting at a desk all day listening to a teacher say a bunch of useless things would be too boring for him. Guillermo rolled up the magazine like a telescope and then smacked his friend on the back of the neck with it, giving him a fright. Tomàs paid him back in kind and the two boys laughed a long time.

The sharp creaking of the wheels of a carriage dragged by a mule in the distance caught their attention. Loaded with stones, it was moving slowly toward the Sagrada Familia. With their backs to the boys, the more than thirty workers there were like bees crawling busily over a honeycomb. Pulleys dragged parts of the temple through the air to set them into their proper places, while on the ground, the hammers and chisels didn't stop working on the stones. The archivolts of the three portals were now under construction, showing scenes from the life of Jesus, such as his arrival into the world of the singing angels, kings, and shepherds. Though the donations for the temple's construction were scarce and the two cardinals, Torres i Bages and Pla i Deniel, had been forced to set up subscriptions to raise funds, businesses had now begun to collaborate as well. Although it was slow, construction continued. Antoni Gaudí himself had begun asking for money from friends and acquaintances so that the project wouldn't grind to a halt, and the Association of Architects in Catalonia had taken a collection among its members that had also brought in a few thousand pesetas more. The master had given his deepest thanks to the then president, Buenaventura Bessegoda i Amigó.

“Boys, where is the foreman?” the owner of the carriage asked when he was close to them.

“No idea, sorry,” Guillermo replied.

“Now I'll have to go in a thousand circles until I find him,” the man grumbled to himself. He looked old and tired. “This is how it goes with these gigantic projects where no one's really in charge,” he told the boys.

“Are you a stonemason?” Guillermo asked.

“Yeah, kid. Study hard and do something else, this work is too hard,” he answered with a sarcastic smile.

Hundreds of stoneworkers like him had taken stone from Montjuic since the days of the Iberians and Romans to build the better part of the city of Barcelona. So much rock had been taken out that people said the mountain was growing more of it. But it was enough to look at the holes and artificial cliff sides to see that they couldn't keep excavating it forever.

“Wait a minute!” Guillermo shouted.

The stonemason turned around wearily.

“I know someone nice who I'm sure can help you.”

“Well, I'd be very thankful. But … you wouldn't just be saying that to get a ride in the carriage would you?” he added jokingly.

“No, señor.”

“Come on, then, get in.”

“See you, Tomàs,” Guillermo yelled from inside, seated on the bricks and looking happily at the workers bustlingly past him. He felt a part of all that was happening there. It didn't take Guillermo long to see Laura's outline in the distance.

“Look, it's that girl over there.”

“A woman? Not too common to see one of those around here.”

They were going over to where Laura was talking to two workers when she turned in their direction.

“Damn. …” the stoneworker exclaimed, his eyes opening wide.

Guillermo turned toward him and saw the man was white as a sheet. Laura looked up, and her reaction was as surprised as his. Guillermo thought they must know each other. She ran over with an expression at once affectionate and incredulous.

“Pau, what are you doing here?”

The stoneworker stayed there bewildered, pulling his reins tight. He looked first at Laura, then at the ground. He seemed too timid to say anything.

“I don't understand. …” she said, confused. “They told me you were working for a different jeweler. What happened? Did they fire you?”

“Other jewelers?” He spat out his words. “What other jewelers? You all just threw me out; I was on the street. Thank God I found this. If not, I don't know what I would have done.”

Laura looked at him, puzzled, and then invited him into the workshop. Guillermo stayed there in silence on the cart. Laura hadn't even noticed him, so he tucked his magazine back under his arm and went to where he had left Tomàs.

“Luckily my grandson survived. But we had two really bad months.”

Laura and Pau Serra were talking in the workshop. They had found some quiet in the studio where they were working on the crucifix and the tubular bells. They were seated on two stools, relaxed, as if working side by side.

“It was really that bad?”

“It really was. We started to think it was over for us. He suffered a lot. He's been a weak kid since.”

“And how did it happen? My brother told you that you couldn't take care of your grandson on a workday—”

“No, it wasn't your brother,” he interrupted her. “It was that new guy. He was watching me and he found out I wasn't sick like I'd said. I don't remember—”

“Dimas. I don't know …”

He looked at her strangely.

Then Laura recalled that the men in the workshop normally called him by his surname.

“Navarro?” she tried.

“Yeah, that's it. Navarro. He told me there was nothing he could do to help me. Your brother had decided to get rid of me and the reason why didn't matter.”

Laura turned pale. When Pau asked her if she was all right, she whispered yes, absently. In fact it was as if a fist had grabbed hold of her heart and was squeezing the life from it. Her words were lodged in her throat. She couldn't believe they were talking about the same person.

“Are you sure he was the one who fired you?” she finally asked.

There was no doubt about it. He was going to add that at least Navarro had given him the money in his pocket to pay for the medicines that saved his grandson when one of the workers interrupted them. He needed the stone Pau had brought. The man got up and excused himself briefly while the worker, appearing rushed, stood there waiting.

Laura managed to keep calm, though indignation was burning her inside. She thought she should ask Dimas first and give him the chance to explain himself. That would be the most reasonable thing. Maybe Pau didn't know the whole story; maybe Ferran had threatened Dimas and he'd felt himself backed into a corner.

She stood up, promising herself that she'd talk to her brother and try to make him change his mind. She stayed in the workshop looking without success for something to occupy her mind. After a while she went outside and saw the stones had been unloaded and Pau Serra was waving good-bye to her from the distance. The cart disappeared down the road that led to the quarry at Montjuic. Laura remembered then that she'd seen Guillermo riding in the cart, walked all around looking for him, and found him far off, in the plaza, with his friend, the sheepherder.

“Guillermo, you're not going home to eat today?”

The boy was surprised by Laura's presence.

“Yeah. Right now, I was just telling Tomàs.”

“Will your brother be there as well?”

“If he gets time, I guess so. Wednesdays he usually comes.”

“Then let's go.”

“Are you going to eat with us?” he asked her, smiling.

“Well, we'll see. I need to talk to Dimas first.”

Guillermo and Laura said good-bye to Tomàs and began walking in the direction of the Navarro's home. She was hoping to speak to Dimas alone at some point, without anyone interrupting them.

“Did you know that man?” Guillermo asked her.

“Yes, we used to work together,” she said. If Pau Serra wasn't lying, Dimas owed her an explanation.

She hardly spoke the rest of the walk; all she could think of was Dimas and her disappointment. It seemed impossible to her that he could be so malicious.

When they were a few blocks from the apartment, Laura saw him from far away. He was walking beside an attractive woman and they were headed toward his doorway talking cheerfully. She felt a sudden, irrepressible fury mounting inside. She was ashamed of herself, feeling like a fool once more, and the old ghosts returned to her mind. She'd been stupid, an idiot; she'd been cheated once more, and she felt the urge to run away, to flee to somewhere safe, some place where she could feel sheltered.

She made some quick excuse to Guillermo almost without thinking and turned back toward the Sagrada Familia. The jealousy in her breast when she saw Dimas with that woman was the final straw. Laura wasn't strong enough to face him in that moment and find out if he really was the person she believed. No matter what, she thought, she didn't know much about him; in the time since they'd been together, he'd spoken little of his family and his past. When she asked about some detail, he would always respond evasively, making it clear he didn't want to share that part of his life with her.

The boy was surprised when he saw her depart so abruptly. Confused, he couldn't even manage to call after her. After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders in resignation; sometimes adults were impossible to understand. He carried on walking toward home.

When he was close to the door, he saw his brother and Inés and ran toward them. He liked her, and more and more he could imagine her as his new sister. For months now, Inés and Carmela had been stopping by, and his father was especially happy when they were all together, like on his fifty-third birthday that past January tenth. They had all gone out to dinner at El Jardí de l'àpat, a roomy restaurant in Guinardó with a nice terrace from which diners could see the entire city. There they had eaten pig's feet with mushrooms, grilled
butifarra
, charcuterie and cheese, toast with
xamfaina
and bread with tomato. The best moment was when they brought his father the plate of snails he had ordered. He had never eaten them, and that day, he was in such a good mood he decided to try. They watched him struggle with his stick, incapable of getting the creatures from their shell to his lips. With his one good hand, he squeezed the shells so tight, they flew off and almost hit Dimas in the head. He opened his hand to beg their pardon and his palm was covered with orange-colored sauce. Carmela couldn't stop laughing. Finally they all joined in, even Dimas, who had seemed much happier of late. Yes, it had been a wonderful day.

Guillermo met Inés and Dimas in front of the door to the building and both of them began to tickle him. His brother picked him up and set him on his shoulders. Then they went upstairs to Juan's apartment.

During lunch, Guillermo explained Laura's sudden escape shortly before. Dimas arched his eyebrows, and a worried look crossed his face. Inés elbowed him jokingly and he forced an awkward smile. He seemed preoccupied for the rest of the meal. When he was done, he took his jacket and overcoat and said good-bye to them. Just as he was walking out, a lightning bolt crossed the ashen sky and rain began to pour down. Dimas lifted up the collar of his coat, pressed his hat down on his head, and sped up.