The Dream of the City (41 page)

“I haven't gotten into anything,” he said, defending himself with a touch of bitterness. “You think I'm involved with this, too?”

“No, son, don't get angry. But when the police come asking questions …”

Dimas's sadness became an unstoppable rage gathering in his chest. He realized he was reacting against the wrong person, though, and he tried to calm himself down. With great force of will, he said, “The police do their job, and in their attempt to find out the truth, I suppose they often take a wrong turn. I haven't done anything, Father.”

“I know, son. I'm sorry. Where I grew up, the policemen rarely came around to ask questions. If they did, it was a bad sign, you understand?”

Dimas and his father looked at each other in silence. The son understood this prudence coming from a man who had lived in the countryside, where a neighbor's suspicion was tantamount to a guilty verdict. Bragado's words had been on Dimas's mind since he'd uttered them in the presence of Francesc Jufresa's body. He knew the chief was an attack dog and wasn't accustomed to letting go of his prey. Dimas would need to cover his own back, investigate him at the same time, and try and figure out what lay behind that robbery.

His father got up and went into the kitchen. Dimas remained sitting there, thinking, his mind racing uncontrollably through the recent events. Everything flashed by quickly and the arguments against him came up over and over again. A feeling of vertigo began to overwhelm him. His head hurt and his tongue was dry and sticky. His father put a hot bowl of stewed green beans in front of him.

“This was left over from lunch. We didn't wait for you because we weren't sure when you'd be coming. It's still warm.”

Dimas realized he hadn't eaten a bite all day. As soon as he ate the first spoonful, he felt better.

“They're really good, Father.”

“Your mother taught me to make them, son.”

CHAPTER 44

It was the first time Dimas had ever seen the workshop dark and completely empty. Ferran had decided to close it down for a week along with the jewelry shop out of respect for his father's death. But the day before, he had sent Dimas a message: he needed to be there that Monday, first thing, and Dimas had obeyed him. He only hoped it had nothing to do with that visit by the police to his father's apartment the day before.

Everything the thieves had left scattered around the room had already been picked up and put away. Even so, the scene looked completely different from the one Dimas was used to. It was as if a strange presence inhabited each of the objects, the walls, and the shadows under the extinguished lamps.

“What are you waiting for, Navarro?” Ferran surprised him in the aisle with a bundle in his hands.

He opened the door to his office. Ferran put what he was carrying in the drawer of the mahogany desk and closed it. His eyes were sunken over two dark rings. It had only been a day since his father's burial, and grief was tearing him to pieces. That morning he had decided against wearing a suit; under his coat, he was clothed only in a shirt and gray pants. He sat down and leaned backward. He motioned for Dimas to sit down in front of him and then he stared at him, scrutinizing his face.

“We have a suspect,” Ferran suddenly announced. He looked exhausted. His normally energetic gestures were now lethargic.

Dimas was relieved to hear the news, though still nervous after seeing the effect of Bragado's news on his boss.

“I'm so happy to hear that, Ferran. I hope the son of a bitch spends the rest of his life behind bars. Your father was a great man.”

“Of course. Of course.”

“Who is it? How'd you catch him?”

Dimas began to pull at the thread, not only to confirm that the suspicions swirling around him had settled on someone else, but also to try, one way or another, to liven up his boss somehow, who was closer to a sleepwalker now than to the dynamic, tenacious character he was used to.

“It's one of the workers in my own house …” Ferran said, stressing his last words.

Dimas's muscles tensed over his bones. Ferran must have noticed and responded with the same brusqueness that he had maintained up to that moment.

“Àngel Vila.”

Dimas's nerves gave way to confusion. Suddenly he saw himself on the edge of a cliff, about to fall without anyone to catch him, and the sensation of vertigo was so strong it made him nauseated. Ferran didn't lose the opportunity to dig into the open wound.

“Yes, I know that you two had become friends. You can even go on that way until they find him …” he hissed. Then he continued in a firmer tone, trying to maintain his composure, “As far as how we found him, we have some proof that points in his direction, things appropriate to an imbecile like him, like the fact that he didn't show up at the workshop the day after the robbery. He wasn't at the funeral, either: he was the only employee who missed it. Doesn't that seem strange to you? Moreover, everyone knows about his anarchist connections.” He seemed to spit out the word
anarchist
with contempt. “Or at least everyone except … you. Even though you were his friend, am I right?”

“I respected him, if that's what you mean.”

Dimas preferred not to add more fuel to the fire. Speaking of Àngel in the past tense, he felt a heavy weight on his shoulders, a grim feeling about what destiny his friend would face. He feared that anything that came out of his mouth would only make the situation worse or even corroborate some aspect of the accusation against him. Despite the various lines of argument swirling in his mind, Dimas was convinced the man couldn't hurt a fly. He was striving for better working conditions, but he wasn't a thief,let alone an assassin. An anarchist might go to protests or even resort to violence, but that was a far cry from cracking a safe in your own workplace.

As he thought about it, Dimas remembered Fregoli, the Italian disguise artist he had once seen while in Ferran's company. His boss had been enchanted to see how that entertainer could change into forty different people at lightning speed, each time with a different face. Àngel wasn't like that, Dimas thought. Unlike many of the men Dimas had come across in the course of his life, Àngel seemed honest. That was probably why it hadn't been hard for Dimas to get close to him.

He needed to know more about what had happened, to talk to Àngel before the police got to him, unless they already had. Ferran's voice roused him again.

“In any case, we're certain he didn't act alone. So we're also looking for the bastard's accomplices. I don't suppose you'd have anything to do with it …” At last, Ferran showed the influence Bragado had on him.

“No,” Dimas responded straightaway. “I don't think I've ever given you reason to think I'd do something like that.”

“Nor did I think you could lie to me, but you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Campo del Arpa job. It appears you still haven't done what I ordered you to do even though you said you had agreed to do it. Tell me, how do I know I can trust you, Navarro?”

Dimas looked down and bit his tongue. Finally he decided to speak.

“I had a great deal of respect for your father,” he responded in a grave voice. “I haven't yet done what you asked me because it seems to me both drastic and risky, but that has nothing to do with this tragedy.”

“You're wrong!” Ferran shouted, losing the measured tone he had kept throughout the course of their conversation. He leaned over the table and pounded his fist. “You also represent the safety of this workshop, of my house, of my family! You are the one responsible for this happening! You should have been paying attention to any little danger that popped up and instead you were busy with your whores!”

Dimas rose up in his seat, ready to respond to Ferran, but he held back. For a moment he feared he knew about his relationship with Laura, which was now at an end, and that for that very reason he was trying to insult him. But then, thinking calmly, he understood; it was his boss's pain and frustration talking. Ferran needed something from him; he was looking for a way to give meaning to the absurdity of life. Dimas had no answers.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Ferran's eyes were burning red.

“That's no use to me. You're no use to me.”

Dimas instantly understood what he meant. He stood up, picked up his hat, and slowly walked toward the door. Before he opened it and left the workshop forever, Dimas looked one last time at Ferran and said, “I'm sorry I let you down.”

At nightfall that same day, amid the opaque shadows that were scattered over an old apartment in the Calle Hospital, in the Barrio Chino, a man cloaked in an overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat was waiting for two men he had an appointment with. The sound of shoes clacking on the staircase let him know they had arrived.

The two men looked around distrustfully when they arrived. The door of the apartment was cracked. When they pushed it, it creaked, and they were met with a dense, impenetrable darkness. They decided not to close it behind them so that a bit of light would come in. The apartment was completely empty, without furniture or even curtains. The wood floor squeaked under the thieves' worn-out shoes. They could see a bit now in the narrow space thanks to the light in the hallway.

“Is anyone there?” Murillo asked in a hoarse whisper. His face and shirt were filthy; he hadn't been home for days.

Quiles brought both his hands to his mouth and blew out a gust of foul, rum-scented breath while he rubbed his palms together.

“Fuck, it's colder in here than outside.”

“Stop complaining, it's the same everywhere. When they pay us, you'll get all the heat you want and you can go back home. But for now, shut up. And let me do the talking.”

Quiles followed the order, snorting and falling silent. He let Murillo take the lead. Though both men were near forty, his friend had seen a good deal more of the world than he had. He'd even been behind bars once on account of a snitch. That's where he'd met the guy who hired him for this most recent job. Only four nights had passed since the robbery at the Jufresas, but all that was far away now.

A figure emerged from the back of the room and took a few steps toward them. As it stepped away from the penumbra, its features began to emerge. The dim light from the street filtered in through the window, and they could see a man with a powerful frame, of medium height. He moved slowly, sure of himself in the small space.

“We thought you'd gotten tired of waiting,” Murillo said, laughing.

A few seconds passed in silence, and the atmosphere grew increasingly tense.

“I don't know what you're laughing about. I'm thinking about it now, and I still don't see what's so funny. You let this get out of hand.” The voice bore down on them threateningly. The brim of the man's hat hid the better part of his angular face.

“No one told us the old man was going to be there. I just gave him a bump on the head so he'd stop shouting.”

“You just said the word. He was old, and a bump on that empty head of yours isn't the same thing as it was for him. Your error is going to cost you.”

“But the rest of it was like butter!” Murillo argued. “We left what we got at the station in a locker. And besides, listen, we were over there this morning and we checked and it was empty.” Murillo narrowed his eyes to signal he knew more than he was letting on. “I'll bet you everything we have coming to us that whoever opened that suitcase got hard as a rock when they saw all that gold.”

Murillo spoke casually, but he was afraid of not getting what he was owed. He had reached back: under his corduroy jacket he had the same blackjack he had used to beat Francesc Jufresa.

“Leave your hand where I can see it, Murillo. I'm paying you more than you deserve, you idiot. And I don't want to ever see you again,”

“All right, all right,” he said, showing both hands. “After tonight, I'll do whatever you think is best.”

The man in the hat came over with an envelope in his hands and handed it over. He was wearing gloves; Quiles didn't notice. Murillo took the envelope and opened it anxiously; his hands were shaking. He didn't stop to count the bills; he just fanned them out and looked at them. He let out a long, monotonous laugh, unaware of anything else.

The unknown man passed by the two men, who were absorbed in their newfound wealth, and stopped at the door. He closed it completely and the two men turned around, surprised. The darkness enveloped them. Before Murillo could raise his blackjack, a shot in the chest knocked him to the floor. Quiles understood his end had come and ran desperately toward the window. But before he could make it, his body hit the wood floor, a bullet in the back of his skull. His eyes remained completely open.

The man unscrewed the blunt silencer from his Campo-Giro automatic pistol. He placed it in his pocket and knelt down to retrieve the shell casings. Then he turned to Murillo and picked up the envelope and the money. He felt through the pockets of Murillo and Quiles to make sure he hadn't missed anything. In Quiles's coat he found something that didn't surprise him in the least: Who could trust a thief? The rat had held on to a jewel. He went over to the window and examined it against the light, where he saw the shapes of three cypresses carved in white gold.

He pocketed it, looked at his watch, and waited in the dark for help to come. This was the only night they had to act.

CHAPTER 45

After Ferran dismissed him, Dimas's anxiety only grew. Not so much for the firing itself—in a way, he had already feared it—but for the fact that they were incriminating
Àngel
Vila. Of course it was strange that he hadn't gone to work, but far from making Dimas suspect him, that led him to think something strange had happened. That evening, after hours of wandering around pointlessly, he decided to grab the bull by the horns and look for him.

There was no one on the lower floor of the building where
Àngel
lived. A neighbor told him that both Àngel and Neus, his wife, always spent the whole day working and usually didn't return home until very late. But anyway, the neighbor said, she hadn't heard a peep from Àngel in days. Dimas thanked her for the information and covered for himself by saying he was an old friend who had stopped in for a visit.

Unable to stay still, he decided to take advantage of the evening to comb through the bars Àngel had shown him a few nights back. He thought it unlikely he would find him in one, especially in light of what had happened, but it was all he had to go on; maybe he could find some friend or acquaintance of his, someone who could give him information or let him know the police were after him.

Dimas didn't find a trace of
Àngel
in Quimet and Quimet, nor in the Gran Café Español. Nor was Salvador Seguí in attendance that day. He went over to one of the tables where a discussion was taking place and left a message that he was looking for
Àngel
. The patrons looked at him distrustfully, until one of them recognized him, and then everyone began to calm down. He wasn't an undercover police officer.

Next he walked around the area where he had once seen
Àngel
headed into a clandestine meeting, but that, too, was unsuccessful. Those who attended the meetings changed places as much as possible to avoid surveillance by the police.

Finally, very late, Dimas went home, tired, with a feeling of powerlessness and defeat. He preferred not to tell his father that he had gotten fired; there would be time for that later. He had enough money to rest easy for a good while, so he wasn't worried about work. He decided he would get up early and return to Àngel's house. After the fruitless search, he felt an even stronger urge to preserve his friend's good name; he didn't want another story like that of Pau Serra.

Dimas slept little and badly. The next morning he arrived at Àngel's house and met with his first surprise. Two policemen were guarding the entrance to the building. They didn't say anything to him, but they stopped their conversation and openly watched him as he walked past. Dimas knocked, and after a moment Neus appeared through a crack in the door. She was thin, with brown hair, and was no older than thirty. She was dressed in a nightshirt of thick fabric with a shawl thrown on top. She looked at him suspiciously, scowling. Dimas introduced himself, and when she heard his name, her expression changed: Àngel had told her about him. She invited him in and gave her weariness and her worries free rein.”

“I don't know where he is. The people from the syndicate have hiding places they won't reveal, especially with the police after him.”

Dimas nodded. He hadn't thought of that possibility, and he was relieved to hear it.

“And that night, was he at home?”

Neus shook her head.

“He went to a meeting with the CNT. Since then he hasn't been back. I told the policemen that over and over, and they won't believe me! It's …” Her eyes reddened. “It's like they've just decided he's guilty.” Her voice broke while her tears began to flow.

“I know Àngel would never do something like this,” Dimas said in a serious tone. He put his hand on top of Neus's, which were clasped together in terror.

She gave a brief, grateful smile and then it disappeared in the depths of her grief.

“Maybe you're right. Maybe he'd hiding out,” Dimas went on. “I'll find out everything I can.”

Neus gave a timid “thanks.” Then Dimas said good-bye and left.

The street was growing livelier. It was a clear, radiant day. As he passed by the policemen again, they stopped him.

“Hey! She give you a good price?”

Dimas continued walking, acting as if it didn't concern him.

“My colleague asked you a question,” the other said, approaching him menacingly.

Deep in his thoughts, Dimas stopped dead.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, slightly aloof.

“The girl,” he said, and he pointed up to Àngel's lodgings. “She's not bad, right? Now that her husband's on the lam, that's when it's time to strike …”

Dimas clenched his fists and restrained himself from responding to them with similar coarseness. If he did, they'd have reason to detain him. He couldn't play into their game. Even so, his blood was boiling; he couldn't keep his mouth closed either. He answered in the calmest tone he could muster.

“I don't think that's the correct way to talk about a married woman with a job, especially as you gentlemen are representatives of the law.”

The two policemen looked at each other perplexed. They were expecting a more visceral reaction, and Dimas had caught them off guard. Both stepped forward a bit while one of them replied, “And since when do people like you respect the law? Because no matter what kind of suit you have on, if you're visiting that anarchist whore, that must mean you're friends with the terrorists.”

This was no game. Dimas counted to ten in his mind to not let his fury get the best of him.

“I don't know any terrorists. Do you two?”

The policeman pursed his lips and cocked back his fist to punch him, but his partner held him back, pointing at the façade of the building. A number of sleepyheads were peeking out. Then a police car appeared and stopped short right in front of them. The officer in the passenger's seat shouted, “Hey! You two are done keeping guard here. Get in!”

One of them headed straight for the car. The other followed him reluctantly, but not before he said to Dimas, “We'll get you another day.”

Dimas stood calmly where he was until he was sure the two policemen were well inside the backseat of the vehicle, the doors were closed, and the car was on its way. Then he found a taxi. The driver was frightened when he saw him get in so fast. But when he saw the money Dimas waved before his eyes, he smiled contentedly.

“Follow that police car, fast!” he ordered.

“Journalist, huh?”

“Wise ass,” he said.

“Well, hold on, there are curves up ahead!”

The taxi took the chase seriously and never lost sight of the other vehicle. Dimas wasn't exactly sure why he was chasing the police, but he was certain that doing so would help him in his investigations. After crossing through the old part of the city, the police car headed toward Barceloneta. It left behind the bullring and stopped in one of the last alleys before the beach, where a group of people were milling together. Dimas paid the taxi driver generously and jumped out. He pushed through the onlookers and saw what was attracting their attention. It froze his blood.

Three dead bodies lay on the ground. And one of them was Àngel Vila.

Dimas stepped away for a moment from the crowd, which was held back by the police. He couldn't believe it. … In a matter of a few days, everything around him had been plunged into tragedy and death. He remembered the promise he had just made Neus, Àngel's wife. Then he thought of Laura: She had treasured Àngel Vila as well.

Dimas stepped back in among the pedestrians and saw a proper journalist with a pad and pen talking with a neighbor.

The man, a fifty-year-old with faded hair, was happy to air publicly all that he knew. Every few moments he would clear his throat and then continue with his bluster.

“Those three men are the ones who perpetrated the attack and assassination of the patriarch of the famous Jufresa jewelers. The always efficient police of our beloved capital have managed to track down those thugs who, when they found themselves cornered, refused to turn themselves in, as more noble souls would have done, and instead looked to shoot their way out, leaving our authorities with no choice but to answer back with the same, though, as can be seen here, with greater accuracy and skill, as all three of them are now dead. A just end to those who take the path of crime instead of the honorable path of hard work.”

Many of those present, including several children, applauded after the orator had spoken. Dimas moved away from them. Before then, he hadn't dared to look, but now he felt it was his duty. The man's pompous words had irritated him and stoked his indignation. Àngel was no criminal, not even close. What was he doing here? Maybe the police had thought he was an anarchist like Seguí, a dangerous person? More than once he had heard that people who discomfited those in power had been implicated in murky doings as an excuse to arrest them or even liquidate them. Could that be the case now?

He couldn't take his eyes off the bodies. Maybe there would be some clue, some important fact he was missing. His gaze wandered over the corpses. The two unknown men had numerous bullet holes and dark spots of blood. The other was Àngel. … When Dimas looked again at his lifeless face, he felt a profound emptiness, just as he'd felt with Francesc.
Àngel's
body had bullet holes too, in the chest and in the neck. “Rest in peace” was all it occurred to him to say.
Àngel's
cheek was also bruised and he had deep grooves in his wrists.

Along with the cadavers were the pistols. One of the unknown men still held a revolver in his hand. Àngel held an automatic pistol. Dimas found the presence of an automatic unusual; they had only recently gone into production and were usually destined for the military, although with money, you could get anything on the black market. Still, there was something strange about the whole arrangement. Something didn't add up.

Several vehicles arrived to dispose of the bodies. The police told the public to step back and open a path for them. It was hard for those watching to leave a place that they knew would soon be in the news, and many stayed there until they were forced aside. The police started shoving. Dimas, trapped among them, felt himself being dragged slowly back, as if he had fallen into shifting sands. One of the men close to him shouted at one of the officers.

“Hey! I've lived in this neighborhood all my life! You don't have the right to make me go! Who do you think you are?”

The young policeman put a hand on the butt of the pistol in his gun belt.

“You fuck with me and I'll shoot!”

Other neighbors started shouting and the turmoil grew after the officer's threat until a superior came and nearly dragged him away, trying to calm down the masses. In the middle of that yelling and screaming, Dimas was thinking, his brow furrowed, as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. He couldn't find bullet holes anywhere in the buildings. He didn't see shell casings on the ground, despite the presence of an automatic pistol. There was no odor of gunpowder. The bodies were lain out in a three-meter radius. … There wasn't any gunfight: this was a setup. They had tortured Àngel first, and then they had lain the three of them out when they were already dead, like setting a stage.

Dimas was at the limit of what he could take. Angry, confused, he left as quickly as he could.