The Street of the Three Beds (2 page)

“You can say what you want about your father. I'm sure he doesn't regret a thing and he's happy with his life. And as for us being young, you're twenty-five and I've just turned twenty-two. We're not kids anymore.”

When they were about to cross the street, they stopped to let a rag picker's cart go by; an upturned wicker chair and an old mattress peeked from under a tattered blanket. He took advantage of the interruption to change the subject.

“Would you like to eat at the Eden this Saturday? I'll buy you a dress for the occasion. You'll see, it's a very nice place.”

Usually he was cautious not to appear in public places with Rita. This policy of extreme discretion had produced good results of late. It wouldn't do at all for some acquaintance of his parents to see them together. After Rita had finished her day's work he
never waited for her in the neighborhood. Instead, they'd meet in the gardens near the Governor's Palace, or in the park, or they'd go straight to some discreet little hotel near the hills that enclosed the city. When he walked her to her boardinghouse, he never went up. The mystery in which he cloaked their relationship provided a piquancy that satisfied his experienced—and somewhat jaded—erotic palate. On this occasion, however, it was worth taking a chance if only to steer the conversation away from the subject. Even so, he'd chosen the Eden conscious that his parents' social circle didn't go there because it was frequented by women of easy virtue.

Rita tried out a faint smile.

“Oh, Maurici, Maurici! I think you're trying to bribe me!” She punctuated each syllable with a gentle poke of her finger on his chest. “There's going to be no Eden if we don't clear up this matter first. It won't take long. I'll go to the doctor and we'll know what's what. If my suspicions are confirmed, you can start preparing your parents.”

Even though the sun and the early moon were competing for a clear sky, Maurici's afternoon was rapidly clouding over. He stopped walking and leaned against a building like a boxer against the ropes.

“Don't get ahead of yourself, dear. I've already told you, that can't be.”

“Oh, really? Why not?”

“Well . . . because we're too young, and I'm not situated yet, let alone ready to get married and have a kid.” He tapped his leg with the rolled-up newspaper, shifting uncomfortably as if he were suffocating inside his suit. His gaze, a little arrogant, sought escape down the street.

“Ah, you're not
situated
! You're not ready! Then what good are your studies and your father's business? And me, what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Wait till the
baby's born and raise it till your future's set? Or till you drop me for the next seamstress that comes along?”

“Don't be that way, honey. Of course I'll help you. There are lots of things we can do. Look, going to a doctor is not a bad idea. You don't want to be tied down with a child right now. You wouldn't be able to support it, it would interfere with your life, it would get between us . . . I'll pay for everything. You don't have to worry about that.”

Her face grew more and more tense. “What are you saying? I can't believe you're talking to me like this. Who do you think I am? How could you think I'd be capable of something like that?” Rita's voice became so loud that passersby turned around to look at her. “To think I considered you a gentleman, a decent man, the son of a good family. I'll tell your father and your mother, everyone will know about this. You're going to find out who you're dealing with!”

Maurici, more cornered than ever, decided to go on the offensive. “And who do you think is going to believe you? How do I know it's mine? And what about you, how can you be sure? You must think I live on the moon. All those trips back home where you say you have no family? . . . Who's waiting for you? There's bound to be someone. Perhaps that guy you mentioned a few times, what's his name?”

“Mateu. He's crazy about me, but I've never given him the time of day. He'd have been thrilled if it was his!” She regretted ever having mentioned Mateu. How stupid, to try to make her lover jealous.

“C'mon, darling. Don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes. I've been around. You'd had plenty of practice when we met.”

Despite the rage welling up inside her, Rita managed to calm down enough to debate the choice between outraged dignity and tears. On previous occasions, tears had done the trick. So she instructed herself to cry, working herself up till tears flowed from
her eyes. The exertion was so great that her peaches and cream complexion darkened like a ripe tomato.

Maurici rolled his eyes helplessly. “Rita, honey, don't go making a scene here in the middle of the street . . .”

“Don't touch me! Don't come near me!”

He let a few seconds go by until the weeping subsided. “It's pointless to argue about this till we're sure . . . Look, let's drop it for now. You're upset and worn out. We'll discuss it later on.”

She dried her tears with a lace handkerchief. Maurici had temporarily calmed down and, if she got him worked up again, the ground she'd gained might be lost. Victory wouldn't come in a single battle: if she wanted to win the war, she had to do it one fight at a time and accept that she couldn't win them all. She looked up to his face, he started to smile, and they set out down the street together.

At the corner, she said coolly, “I have to go into La Perla d'Orient for a second. If you want, you can wait for me. If you're in a hurry, go on.”

“What do you need?”

“Some petticoats and a strip of embroidery your mother asked me to pick up.”

Maurici watched her disappear into the store. He leaned against a street lamp and opened the newspaper, but despite his effort to concentrate, the print danced before his eyes.

“His Majesty Alfonso XIII has inaugurated a new section of railroad that will run from León to Oviedo.”
Obviously, Rita's trying to hook me with this pregnancy nonsense. So unoriginal, it's enough to make anyone laugh. The oldest trick, making a man believe there's a baby on the way, and then . . . no baby. By the time you find out, you're already caught.
“Veterans of the war in Cuba meet in the Cafè de la Lluna to
sing songs from Havana.”
More than one poor sap has swallowed hook, line, and sinker in situations like this. You'd have to be a fool to fall for that, but me, I've been around the block a few times. Who does she think she's dealing with? Some amateur? She's sharp, I'll give her that, but I wasn't born yesterday.
“Worker stabbed in the shipyards.”
Better to ignore her and forget about it. If it weren't for this shadow of a doubt . . . what if she really . . . ?
“This morning Manuel Domínguez was stabbed . . .”
No matter how unlikely, better be cautious. I won't do a thing till I have proof, that's for sure. And even if she's in trouble, no one can make me believe it's mine . . .
“. . . seven times in the thorax and abdomen by an unknown assailant. The time of death has been established between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. The body was found . . .”
Absolutely not. With all the precautions I've taken, it's impossible. For God's sake, I'm a big boy; I know exactly what I'm doing.
“. . . by the night watchman Salustiano Sotomayor when he was making his regular rounds.”
No, absolutely not, pregnancy is unthinkable. What time is it getting to be? Seven fifteen. She'll be coming out any minute. Let's see if she's still sulking. What's the most expedient thing to do? Bring it up again from a new angle or wait for a better opportunity? What should I say to calm her down and still leave myself room to maneuver?
“Although there are no witnesses to the murder, because at that time of night the neighborhood was almost completely deserted . . .”

He couldn't stop turning it over in his mind. If there was really something to what she was saying, the most convenient solution might be to offer her a tidy sum to cover her expenses and those of the newborn for a reasonable period of time. Where to get that money: that was another matter entirely. He'd have to ask his father, and for that he'd need to come up with a good excuse. He could find Rita a new situation. If only she'd settle for that and not make a fuss.

“. . . Two friends of the victim, who worked in the Montlleó factory, and had spent the best part of the night with him in the Sanlúcar tavern on Santa Madrona . . .”
Twenty minutes. She's been in there twenty minutes. That's another one of her defects that drives me up the wall. I always have to wait, she's never on time. Why should I have to wait for anyone, much less a goddamn seamstress . . . She'd be singing another song if I'd stood her up a few times. Then she wouldn't take on airs or be so demanding. But I have to confess, I'm hooked on her. She's a habit that'll be hard to break. A damn shame, just when things were going so well.
“. . . testified that Manuel Domínguez was inebriated and that he had spoken with some of the regular customers, including one named Paco . . .”
What the hell's she doing all this time in La Perla d'Orient? Chatting like a magpie with the salesgirl, I bet. She does it on purpose, just to annoy me. This girl's trouble.
“. . . with whom he'd started a violent argument, each of them insulting and threatening the other.”
And if she won't settle for the money and babbles about the whole thing, which I doubt, I can always deny it. Her word against mine, guess which of us they'd believe. Who's going to take the word of a nobody named Rita against the word of an Aldabò? With my father's influence, they'll shut her up and put her in her place. Father would never let a snake like her ruin the life of his son, his only son. He dreams of marrying me off to a Carulla or an Andreu, or that snotty Marsini bitch. Besides, I'm in no rush. I've no desire to get married just yet. Not until I'm at least thirty. Marriage is too long as it is, so why make it eternal?
“Manuel Domínguez, according to one of his companions, Olegario Riera, threatened to break a bottle over the head of his adversary, the abovementioned Paco.”
At any rate, no matter how this turns out, I'm in for a good scolding. Father's not going to like hearing about my escapades with a servant. He's so damn strict! I'll have to put up with the same shit he put me through the last time, when he caught me with that maid. Only this will be
worse, because that one wasn't pregnant. But Father raised hell when he had to buy her off, even though to him that was small change, less than a day's profit. It didn't help for Mother to say I was only having fun, that if a man doesn't sow his wild oats while he's single, he'll sow them after he's married . . . It was like preaching in the desert. I'm sure he's never sowed any wild oats, so that stuff will make no impression on him.
“Following this, the man known as Paco fled from the tavern in the direction of the docks chased by Manuel Domínguez.”
The bells of Santa Anna just rang a quarter to eight. Closing time. If she doesn't come out soon, I'll split. I've been cooling my heels here more than half an hour. The joke's gone on long enough.
“The police are seeking information about the prime suspect, Francisco Cardona, alias Paco, who apparently has disappeared.”

Maurici checked his pocket watch. Twelve minutes to eight and Rita still hadn't come out . . . And Rita never did.

* * *

Agitated and oblivious to what he'd read, he threw the newspaper on the ground. Despite his decision not to wait for her, he peered impatiently through the glass door. Inside the store there were no customers, just a woman collecting pieces of cloth behind the counter and a man sitting at the back. He shoved the door open and went in.

“Good evening. I'm waiting for a young lady who came in a while ago.”

“What young lady? We've had quite a few customers this afternoon.”

The saleswoman—in fact, she seemed to be the owner—was a handsome, middle-aged matron. As she spoke to Maurici she concentrated on gathering rolls of cloth scattered on the glass counter, which also served as a showcase. Inside were
delicate camisoles with satin bows and corsets with metal ribs that looked like ancient instruments of torture.

“A blond girl, good looking. Fairly tall, wearing a hat with flowers, and a blue, striped dress.”

“No one dressed like that has come in.”

Maurici smiled. “You're mistaken. She was with me and I saw her come in.”

“No, sir. I'm telling you, you're the one who's mistaken.”

“Perhaps someone else waited on her.”

“We're the only ones here, Jaumet and I. There's no one else in the store.”

Maurici couldn't help noticing how smoothly the woman's fingers handled the material. Without knowing why, this irritated him. “Are you sure she isn't in the dressing room?”

Without looking up, the sphinx replied, “Look for yourself.”

Somewhat hesitantly and without conviction, Maurici walked through the store, long and narrow like a tunnel, until he reached the back where Jaumet was seated on a low chair. As he approached him he could see that the man, despite being well past forty, had the vacant look of those who live permanently in the age of innocence. Maurici muttered “Good evening,” and the man responded with a nod and a broad smile. Behind him hung the curtain of the dressing room. Maurici opened it and stood looking at a booth less than six feet square with a bench and a full-length mirror. The clothes rack, nailed to the wall, was empty.

The interior of the store was painted a cream color that had darkened with time. Two crystal chandeliers hung down from the high ceiling. The wall behind the counter was lined with small drawers of the same color, with porcelain knobs and tiny labels.
Maurici stupidly ran his gaze over them, as if Rita might pop out of one. Even at the risk of being rudely dismissed, he ventured, “Isn't there another door?”