The Dream of the City (45 page)

“I love you.”

And this time, she asked, “Forever?”

Dimas closed his eyes and Laura traced circles on his stomach with her fingers, as if prefiguring a sort of eternal return, a circle of time that would repeat itself over and over, every morning for the rest of their lives.

CHAPTER 50

Laura's voice awakened Dimas from the slumber he had fallen into.

“We have to do something.” He opened his eyes and looked at her inquisitively. “We can't just stay here with our arms crossed.”

Dimas remained immobile for an instant until he realized what she was talking about. Then he nodded his head and spoke resolutely.

“You're right. We need to see your brother and explain things to him. He needs to know Bragado isn't on the up-and-up. We should decide with him what to do.” He sat up on the bed and looked for his clothes. “It's a little late, but it's best not to wait anymore.”

Laura was satisfied with his decision. With Dimas at her side, she felt safer, and the path before her seemed clearer.

Unable to avoid another kiss, they dressed quickly and walked out onto the street, the warmth of the other's body still clinging to them. The cold seemed to have become a fine film that tried to creep in beneath their garments. They walked with hurried steps to the car, but they didn't manage to make it inside; a man was there blocking their way. He pointed a large pistol at them. Though he had never seen a silencer before, Dimas could guess at its function.

“I think you lovebirds and I need to take a walk.”

Bragado's voice was stony and left no room for argument. His gloved hand held the weapon without a trace of timidity. Dimas looked from one side to the other.
Where is the watchman when you need him?
he thought.

“I gave him a nice tip and told him to go get a drink to warm him up. The badge convinced him,” Bragado explained, reading his mind. And with an unusually fast movement for his corpulent body, he grabbed Laura by the arm; pulling her close to his side, he buried the pistol in her ribs.

“I'm sure you'll just play along and not try anything stupid, Navarro, unless you want this gun to go off by accident. Let's get in the car; Señorita Jufresa will drive.”

His jaws clenched, Dimas was about to talk back, to ask him how he would justify shooting the daughter of a well-respected family, to warn him he was getting into hot water … but Laura's pallor and the police chief's cold determination were stronger. It wasn't the moment to take risks.

Bragado made Dimas start the Peugeot, then sat in the backseat and told Laura to drive. The policeman reached between them with the pistol and rested it against Dimas's side. Laura, unable to contain the slight tremor in her hands, asked where she should go. Bragado calmly replied, “To the workshop.” The couple looked at each other in surprise. “And get a move on. No sudden movements, nothing to call anyone's attention. Go where I tell you and everything will work out fine.”

Laura obeyed his precise instructions and he guided her through the least populous streets of the Ensanche until they arrived into the maze of alleys in the old city, where they left the car. Keeping his pistol on them the whole time, Bragado pushed them to walk straight to the workshop quickly. Dimas remained silent, but inside, he was boiling with rage. Once at the door, Laura didn't know what to do. The policeman told her to knock. Her eyes as wide as saucers and her expression full of doubt, she looked over at Dimas, who was confused as well. After Laura's knock, the door opened. It was Ferran. In his right hand, he held a pistol, half covered with a cloth of red velvet. For a moment, Laura was overjoyed. But only for a moment. Until her brother stepped aside and had them pass through, Bragado's revolver still pointing threateningly at their backs.

“What is this about?” Dimas asked.

Ferran, clearly nervous, hissed for him to be quiet and pointed his weapon to where the two of them should go. As if with feet of lead, Laura and Dimas walked into the shadows of the workshop, trying to understand what was happening. They couldn't look away from Ferran, who was sweating profusely. Incapable of bearing the weight of their stares, he lowered his gaze to the floor, as if possessed by a fever that was making him faint. Bragado aimed at them and told Ferran to look at them. He spoke to him while he looked at the couple.

“Everything will work out, don't worry. You came here because you forgot some important document you needed for the insurance company. The lights were out and you heard noises. You went quietly to your office for your pistol, and someone shot at you in the darkness. You just defended yourself: two shadows were bearing down on you, and they were armed. Then, when you turned on the lights, you realized it was Laura and Dimas.”

Ferran looked up. Despite the absence of light, they could see his unhinged expression; his trembling lower lip betrayed him.

Bragado began to pace around Laura and Dimas in the aisle that separated the groups of worktables. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. At that moment, Dimas felt the aftereffects of his beating worsen: it felt as if his wounds were eating into him. Bragado's slow steps resounded through the workshop with a ticking sound, like a clock.

“Of course it was a surprise and a terrible blow to see that one of the bodies belonged to your sister,” he continued. “But the poor girl had fallen into the web of that radical, Dimas Navarro, the friend of the anarchist. She naively let herself be carried away by the promise of a life of adventure far from her bourgeois family. They came here to get who knows what. … We'll never know, but the weapons will leave no doubt as to their intentions. When they search his apartment, the police will find the jewels from the robbery.”

“Ferran,” Laura interrupted, “what is this all about? Have you lost your mind?”

Bragado stood directly in front of her.

“Maybe so.” The chief looked her in the eyes for several seconds. Finally he grimaced and continued: “Sometimes plans don't turn out right. Your brother was on the verge of ruin, and I proposed to him that we rob the workshop. The jewels wouldn't show up and he could collect the insurance. The thieves were just puppets, so when it was over, he would have the money plus the gold and the stones. And all for a small fee. But …”

This time it was Dimas who spoke.

“But they didn't figure on Francesc being here, and then they killed him.”

Laura couldn't help but cry out. Dimas tried to go over to her, but Bragado stopped him. He clicked his tongue and replied, “None of that should have happened. I'm sure they just wanted to knock him out and they went too far. But what's done is done. It was no longer a simple break-in; it was a murder, and there had to be a guilty party.”

His eyes filling with rage, Dimas clenched his teeth and said with a hiss: “And why Àngel? Why all that? How many more are you going to kill? Ferran,” he said, looking past the chief, “how many more have to die?”

Bragado pursed his lips.

“Àngel was a known anarchist; implicating him in this was just killing two birds with one stone. The story of the robbery was believable, just like the idea of the jewels disappearing into the hands of the goddamn terrorists plaguing this city. The worst part of it was you getting into this, you idiot, trying to play amateur detective. If you'd just stayed at home, none of this would be happening.”

Behind him, they heard the trembling voice of Ferran.

“But we could let them go. … We'll give them part of the take and they can leave for wherever they want.”

The suggestion irritated Bragado, though his voice didn't change.

“That's not the solution, and you know it. They'd be blackmailing you for the rest of your life. When these two die”—he pointed at them contemptuously—“then the case is closed. You'll have a pile of cash and I'll be able to carry on with my career. Don't fuck around, Ferran; keep the bullshit to yourself. I told you before, when you take this step, there's no turning back. And you were convinced the robbery was the way to go.”

Ferran ran his hand through his unkempt hair.

“But … that was just a robbery! That was all! The family wasn't going to lose anything, it was all profit. The insurance money, the jewels … I would get time to get back on my feet, to push ahead …”

Bragado never took his eyes off Dimas, who looked like a caged animal, ready to pounce. Pale and weak, Laura leaned against one of the tables. Her shock and bitterness had defeated her.

“And what's your situation now, Ferran?” the chief continued. “Do you want it to get out that you were behind the robbery and the death of your own father? The death of the thieves and the anarchist? Do you think your connections will save you? No, Ferran, no. You'll end up like me, with your neck in the garrote and your family in ruins. Remember, you're doing all this to save them, trust me.” Bragado's voice turned suddenly more gentle and persuasive. “This is the only possible solution. Yes, it's sad, but tomorrow you'll be out from under all this; I'll take care of it after that. And debt free; remember what that felt like? And your family and your business will rise to the top. The Antichs will come back to you. Everyone will want to buy jewels from the Jufresas, who survived and triumphed after an unjust tragedy. The upper bourgeoisie always stick to their own when the anarchists and radicals attack. They'll welcome you with open arms and they'll be beating down your doors to have you marry their daughters. Even more when they see that, despite everything, your business is pushing ahead heroically. You'll look like a winner, someone who can overcome any obstacle. And you'll always have me at your side to keep anyone from getting in your way, because one hand washes the other. Do you understand, Ferran?”

The elder Jufresa had lowered his arm. The pistol was pointed at the floor, like his eyes. He looked like a child on the verge of tears.

“You're crazy, Bragado, you're sick,” Dimas said in a guttural voice.

The chief of police reacted by stepping forward, bringing his weapon close to his body.

“I was going to kill you first, but now I'll do her. That way you'll see her writhing in pain for your stupidity. It'll be the last thing you see before you die.”

“No!!!”

A shot rang out in the workshop and wounded their ears. The chief of police jerked: The bullet had struck his left shoulder. Taking advantage of the darkness, Bragado leaped over the tables like a wild beast and hid in the second row. Dimas grabbed Laura by the arm and threw her to the floor to protect her. Only Ferran was standing, with the smoking gun and his eyes lost, streaming tears.

“Enough bodies, Bragado! This isn't what we agreed on!”

Ferran looked disoriented from one side to the other. Huddled under a table, Dimas whispered to Laura not to move. Despite his wounds, Dimas jumped at Ferran, knocking him down and getting hold of his weapon.

“He's going to kill you! Stay down!” he said quietly. Ferran obeyed him and stretched out on the floor.

With the gun in his hand, Dimas crept through the line of tables. He stopped and held his breath. He needed to hear where Bragado was. The pain from the beating made him clench his teeth. For a moment, he was afraid Bragado would hear the gnashing of his teeth.

“You're so naïve, Ferran, and so stupid.” The chief's voice rang out bitterly from the back of the room. “You think I'm going to let you live now?” He mimicked a dry laugh. “No, Ferran, not now. I can get rid of you all and leave this illegal revolver in the hands of your flunky's cadaver, no problem. You and your pathetic family aren't shit to me.”

Bragado coughed. It was a good sign, Dimas thought: the wound was taking effect, and he was getting weaker. He took off his shoes to step more quietly and began to move cautiously toward the back of the room. He stopped, listening again for Bragado's voice. The policeman must have stopped moving; no matter how much he tried, Dimas couldn't make out his shadow from that distance. He needed him to talk.

“You're a son of a bitch!” Ferran shouted angrily, at just the right time.

Dimas turned toward Laura, who was also peering into the darkness, trying to see something in the midst of all that darkness. She couldn't see his face, but she could tell he was standing still, though shaking.
Fuck, Bragado, say something!
Dimas thought.

“Son of a bitch? You're a failure, Ferran, a spoiled, useless child. You never fought for anything; you always had a silver spoon in your mouth. You're a piece of shit,” he spit hatefully.

Dimas smiled and sketched the layout of the workshop in his head. Bragado was close. He held his breath again—it was getting harder, his nerves were frayed—and he dragged himself along the floor in search of him.

“I warned you when you started with your two-bit scheming. … You're dealing with real men, brave men—we don't back down for feelings or other bullshit—men who have something you don't: balls.”

Dimas heard a gurgling, like someone drowning. The hair stood up on his neck: He was two yards away. He opened his eyes wide and saw Bragado's round body. Dimas rested his hand atop the one with the pistol to keep it steady. He pushed down on the hammer with his thumb and the chamber turned. He moved slowly, but he couldn't keep the pistol from clicking. Bragado leaped in his corner; Dimas had just enough time to curse. Two more shots, one like a stampede and the other like a dry echo, filled the silence of the workshop and lit it up with blinding flashes. The silence became heavier, persistent. Laura couldn't help herself and shouted, “Dimas! Please! Dimas! Talk to me!”

The bitter scent of gunpowder filled the room. Laura burst into tears, unable to contain her panic, clenching her fists and pounding the floor.

CHAPTER 51

“Laura! Are you all right? Ferran, the lights!”

Dimas's voice was faltering. His pupils still dilated, he looked at the shadow of Bragado, who seemed no longer to be moving.

“I'm fine, Dimas.”

“Don't move. …” The young man held his breath.

He cocked the weapon again and aimed, though now with his pulse a bit steadier. He felt an immense dread and the pain of his wounds was throbbing; he wasn't sure whether Bragado had hit him or not. The lamps began to flicker, lighting up the room. Dimas, still on his stomach, looked at the police chief. His head was lying back on the floor, turned to one side. Dimas couldn't see his face. Bragado's hands were outstretched, his palms turned toward the sky. In one of them was the revolver, but his fingers appeared lifeless. Little by little, Dimas sat up. Keeping the gun on the chief, he moved over closer. He had to find out if he was really dead. With one foot, he kicked Bragado's weapon a yard from his body, until it collided with the foot of a table. The man didn't move. Dimas took another step. Then he saw the wound in his shoulder, a small hole in his coat surrounded by a large spot of dark blood growing larger and larger. Bragado seemed asleep, his eyes almost closed. From there, Dimas could see how under his head, another pool of blood was forming, giving off a strong scent of iron. He looked to one side and saw Ferran unmoving. Dimas shook his head in silence. He uncocked the pistol, lowered his arm, and called to Laura.

“It's over.”

She stood up slowly. Her face was lined with tears and dread, especially when she saw Dimas turn white with terror: a hand had grabbed his ankle. He was about to react, level the pistol, and fire again. But then he saw the policeman's face: Bragado was in his death rattles, trying to lift his head up. His glassy eyes looked at the ceiling, his mouth was open and choking. A thread of viscous blood trickled down his chin. After everything, Dimas couldn't help but feel compassion for him. After a few seconds, Bragado's head dropped to the floor.

Dimas shook his ankle to free himself from the chief's grasp. He put on his shoes and walked over to Laura, who seemed incapable of budging. Her timid quivers were the prelude to a disconsolate grief that burst forth when he wrapped her in his arms. All the fear and the tension flowed out in those tremors that Dimas tried to allay with his hug, warming her up while his hands stroked her hair. At the same time as they embraced, Laura looked at Ferran, who lowered his face, humiliated, and still marked by the terror that had assailed him seconds before. He was the very image of failure, of desperation. He repulsed Dimas at that moment, and his remorse tore at his insides like a wounded animal when he remembered that not long ago, only a few months ago, in fact, he had felt nothing but admiration for that man.

For her part, Laura calmed down, little by little. She stopped crying and her body recovered its strength. She pulled away from Dimas softly and dried her tears.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” she insisted.

She tried to smooth her hair and turned to her brother, who was immobile as a statue. Now his face was full of shame, as if all the feelings whirling through his head had been distilled into that one sensation.

When he saw the two of them turn toward him, Ferran expected them to say something, to insult him or hit him. He couldn't bear it anymore, and he fell to his knees.

“You should use that pistol to kill me, Navarro. I don't deserve anything better.”

Laura and Dimas didn't respond. The silence took over the room like a dense, heavy blanket. Ferran couldn't take their mute contempt.

“Please … Let's end this once and for all. I'll write a confession that will clear you both of guilt, I'll even tell where the jewels and the gold are. … I don't deserve to live. For God's sake, I let them kill my own father! I can't live with that!” He brought his hands to his face and burst into tears.

With a determination and seriousness that shocked Dimas, Laura went over to her older brother.

“That's enough, Ferran.”

She pulled his hands from his face. Her brother, obedient, looked at her.

“Forgive me …”

Laura slapped him. Then she grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him to his feet. Docile as a lamb, Ferran followed her. His face was bright red. He looked shocked, almost frightened, at his sister. Though she had struck him, Laura didn't seem overcome by indignation or rage. She spoke to him resolutely.

“Enough whining, enough regret. Get hold of yourself: don't be such a coward that you're begging people to kill you. That's the easy way. I know you didn't intend to, but you've done great damage, damage that can never be repaired. At least be man enough to stand up and face everything you've done, brother. Bragado's dead and not many people will cry for him, maybe not even his own wife. But you have a family and a name to defend. Live up to your name, for God's sake!”

Ferran's expression changed from stupor to something like determination and admiration. He listened gravely to what his sister said. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to get himself in order.

Dimas, in the meanwhile, felt a surge of pride on seeing Laura act that way: firm, serene, precise, brave. Anyone else in her circumstances would have let their rage get the best of them. But not her. He said to himself it was impossible not to love her, and that thought filled him with wonder. How was it possible to feel so much love in the midst of all that had happened? Then, unconsciously, he answered himself: love was the very thing that blossomed and showed itself in the hardest moments, when everything looked desperate.

He no longer felt like a castaway clinging to a raft in the middle of a menacing, dark ocean; now he knew he was safe, and he was sure he'd picked the right road, the one that brought him together with others, that saw the world as a place to belong, that didn't look at others as enemies but rather as people to be cared for and learned from.

Ferran had pulled himself together; he even gave a hint of a smile, a smile Dimas knew well, of a triumphant man, sure of himself. But now it was full of clarity and solemnity. As if for the first time he was speaking seriously after a life of jokes and gossiping.

“You're right, Laura,” he said. He lowed his eyes and paused. Then he looked up slowly and examined his sister's face, with trembling eyes, as if recognizing it after a long time. “I … Where can I begin?” He hesitated. “I was always afraid of being inferior to the others. From the time he was young, it was clear what Ramon would do. Núria never doubted her destiny. And you … you're the one in the family with talent. Papa always said so.” His voice broke, but he continued. “Because I was the oldest, it was my responsibility to carry on with the business. But I let my pride get to me; I thought I was better than others. Instead of being humble and devoting myself to learning, I refused what was right in front of me and tried to jump ahead. I did it for myself, for you all, for everyone, but that's not an excuse. Now I realize I was jumping into the void and I dragged you in with me. It would have been so easy to trust you and your ideas. … We could have been great partners, you know? But I mucked everything up.” He shook his head and looked at the floor. After another pause, he concluded, “And now I have to pay for my errors.”

He put his hands on Dimas's shoulders. The latter frowned but didn't move away.

“I owe you an apology, Dimas. You're a good guy and I should have trusted you more. I'm sorry I sometimes made you do things you didn't want to. That won't happen again. One favor: help my sister in whatever she wants to do. I can see you love each other.” He turned to Laura, who was listening attentively to his words. “Little sister,” he said, this time smiling sweetly, “you're the head of the family business now. I only ask you not to make the same mistakes I did. Have faith in yourself and your talent. Soon everything will be normal again, and with time, this will just be a bad memory.”

He stood up straight, like a soldier awaiting inspection. He put on his jacket, smoothed it out, and stretched his hand out to Dimas and said, “Navarro, please, give me the pistol.”

Laura gasped. “No, dear, don't be afraid for me,” Ferran said. “I'm going to close myself inside that office and write a detailed confession that I will hand in to the police, and I will need the gun, with my fingerprints, for proof. It's my duty to prove Dimas is innocent. I will tell them I shot Bragado. I know what my fate is, don't worry. Now, please leave me alone.”

Dimas handed Ferran the weapon, though still doubting. Laura went over to him, and they held each other. They walked to the door with their shoulders slumped, exhausted by all that had happened. They left the workshop without looking back.

Once alone in the office, Ferran set the gun on the table and took a blotter from his drawer along with several sheets of paper and a pen and inkwell. With the same enthusiasm he had formerly brought to his business deals, he set to writing out all the details of the robbery.

From time to time, he would interrupt the scribbling of the pen and look fleetingly at the pistol. He hadn't lied to Laura: His destiny was already written.