The Street of the Three Beds (25 page)

The bartender lit an oil lamp and to the summons of “C'mon, on your feet!” he went around the room unhooking ropes. As soon as the rope slackened, the sleepers tumbled
forward like rag dolls, some of them all the way to the floor. Watching them, Maurici forgot why he'd come, until his gaze stumbled on Dr. Miralpeix's brittle frame bending at the waist. His eyes were still closed. As they blinked open, they roamed around the room. His head bobbed on his chest, his face gave no sign of recognition. His body swung limp on the bench without losing its balance.

He watched his antagonist for a long time. The good doctor was the only customer wearing a coat and tie. The cuffs of his trousers and sleeves were frayed; the black fabric shone unevenly with wear and tear. Curiously, it was he, Maurici, who felt vulnerable and strangely helpless. Other pursuers of Dr. Miralpeix had beaten him to the punch and done his work for him. Giants had become windmills.

And he knew what to do. For the last time, he walked away from La Mina.

Hotel Colón

December 5, 1914

Dear Maurici,

I expect that, after years of not hearing from me, this letter will come as a surprise. No doubt you will ask yourself what I want from you. Do not fear that in my old age I should call on you to make claims as a father, to complain about loneliness, or to meddle with your life, whatever it may be. On the contrary, I have instructed my lawyer not to forward you this dispatch until a week after my death. By this provision you will be exempt from the obligation—if you, indeed, regard it as such—to attend my funeral.

You should know exactly how my possessions will be disposed of. You may not be aware that shortly after we saw each other for the last time at the cemetery, on the saddest day I ever knew, I sold the factory. Without Lídia, that which had been at the center of my life no longer interested me. I didn't feel capable of getting up in the morning, sitting at the breakfast table by myself, and working as a slave all day just to come back to an empty apartment where she wasn't waiting for me. I lacked the strength to do it. Moreover, our foreign clients—especially the French ones—often asked about you. I won't say you were indispensable—no one is and, besides, you never cared for the factory—but a few people, not just customers but also workers, did miss you. In any case, it was too big a burden for one man alone. The buyer was a powerful investor who owns all sorts of
business concerns in Barcelona. In truth it was no bargain, for right away he had to replace the looms.

I have donated the country villa to San Juan de Dios Hospital. Given its ideal climate and location, it will be converted into a health resort for respiratory patients. Neither you nor I—both of us, each one in his way, urban men—have ever had any use for it. If you ask me, not even your mother was as partial to it as she pretended to be. It was the idea of a villa that appealed to her. A two-story house with a garden and a lily pond . . . That's how your mother was, may she rest in peace.

As you know, we seldom went to the country after your early childhood. The state of neglect the house had fallen into would have required costly repairs: there were leaks in the second floor, under the roof, and broken windows downstairs; the bottom of the pond was cracked and the water, murky and covered with brown leaves, bred maggots and toads instead of goldfish; the fountain spout was clogged. God knows when the gardener had last been there, for the hedges stood higher than the walls and the weeds had suffocated the rosebushes. It was a ruin, but the plot is valuable and there's still time for the monks to salvage the building.

And now I must come to a matter that will make you unhappy and that you'd rather not hear about again. Most likely, you've managed to avoid it these past years. I imagine that's why you left home. Unpleasant things, however, can't be put off forever. Sooner or later we must face them, sometimes even accept them.

La Perla d'Orient, which no doubt brings you bad memories, goes to Mrs. Prat. I know full well that you, too righteous to dirty your hands with this sort of enterprise, would not have wanted it. Suit yourself. No matter how much you may hate Mrs. Prat and how morally superior to her you hold yourself to be, consider that she's the widow of a ne'er-do-well who left her penniless. On top of that, she supports a retarded
brother who needs constant attention. You've never been in financial straits; otherwise, you might not despise her as much as you do.

As for the boardinghouse on the Street of the Three Beds, which surely you don't want under your responsibility either, after Miss Pràxedes's death I turned it over to Josephine Délacourt (alias Margarita, as you may have known her). She's a capable woman who now enjoys the freedom and resources to make what she wants of it. The oldest tenant, the one with the strongest claim to ownership, left a few years ago. Rumor has it that she married a well-to-do young man. As you can see, Maurici, everyone looks after number one.

I haven't heard anything from Dr. Miralpeix. At some point he left his apartment and moved from one hotel to another until I lost track of him.

In all honesty, I hope you will give up your foolish pursuit and that, if you don't, you'll never find him. Nothing good could come from this encounter. You must protect yourself, must build a wall around you that sets you apart from undesirables. Certain people, like Dr. Miralpeix, are necessary but must be kept at arm's length—away from your circle. Never allow someone of his kind to sit at your table. There lies the secret, in that distinction. If you haven't yet learnt that, let me tell you that you have to open two compartments in your mind: one for those you love and one for those you use. You must come to terms with the idea that what your eyes don't see never happened. The right hand needs to know nothing of what the left does. If this strikes you as too cruel, I'm sorry. I haven't written the laws that rule the world. They have been passed down from century to century.

Finally, the family apartment belongs to you. I moved out a few months after your mother passed away. Without her, it seemed to grow so big that I felt lost in it. As you can see from the stationery I'm writing on, I live quite comfortably at the Hotel Colón. The only reason why I didn't sell the apartment was because the maid and the cook would be put out in the street and, of course, I didn't need the money anyway. I could provide Júlia with a reference letter and, no doubt, she'd find a good position,
but Doro is too old. No one will hire a maid over sixty. Not that we have any obligation toward her—we've treated her well, we've always paid her on time, and I've even set up a small allowance for her. The latter seemed to me a bit extravagant, but your mother in her last days asked me to do it. On my death, you will inherit the apartment and also the problem of what to do with Doro, who for the time being is living there and keeping house with Júlia. Since you're so fond of moral dilemmas, I'm willing you this one: it's in your hands.

Frankly, when we parted ways I intended to teach you a lesson by disinheriting you completely and leaving you with only the clothes you had on. Nevertheless, over the years I reached the conclusion that the apartment rightfully belongs to you. In a certain sense, you've earned it. You grew up in it, and you took care of your mother in her final days. In it there are all the things—the piano, the Japanese screen, the art works she had personally picked—that, because of your affinity with her, if nothing else, should be yours. If, unfortunately, I can't say that you've been a good son to me, I suppose you were to her. I wouldn't want her to curse me from the grave, particularly now that I will soon be joining her.

Perhaps you'll wonder what my life is like at the Hotel Colón, I who had always worked from dawn to dusk and had never known how to enjoy myself. When I lost your mother—the only person I've really loved and needed—those values I had respected as if they were written on the Bible turned upside down. I realized that she was right after all—that wealth is to be spent and even squandered, that life must be thoroughly consumed like a lavish feast. For the first time, I was piqued by the curiosity to sample the pleasures that both she and you so relished.

It may surprise you to know that I keep a suite with lacquered furniture and satin drapes. I get up in the late morning, after having my breakfast served in bed, and throughout the rest of the day I enjoy, at last, the benefits of my membership at the Equestrian Club. I play cards, and the habit of dining at the best restaurants has awakened in me an
appetite for oysters, caviar, and lobster. I drink champagne with every meal, and I've traded Spanish cigars for the Cuban brand you used to smoke. I go out every Saturday evening. I don't miss a single opera when it's in season; the rest of the year I go to the theater or am invited to the homes of old acquaintances with whom I still maintain good relations.

As you can imagine, at this rate my fortune won't last long. You could say that I blow money for the sake of it, without rhyme or reason. You need to understand that for the first time I'm not responsible to anybody and I must confess there are moments when this thought is liberating. What will I do, you may wonder, when the cash flow stops? Everything has been planned. Once I'm down to the amount needed for my funeral expenses, I'll gladly bid farewell to this world. It will be my decision. I have a right to it, don't you think? No need to wait for a stroke, or some unmentionable disease, or typhus—which has recently ravaged Barcelona again. I'll leave when I please and as I please, and it will be a week before you read these lines.

Your sudden disappearance from industrial circles has transformed you into a legend. Unreliable sources claim that you live in the old city and manage to make a living as a lawyer—to tell you the truth, I didn't think you had it in you—and that you still play squash at the Condal. They also say that you married a penniless girl who came out of the blue. Evil tongues throw in for good measure that she already had a child before she married you . . . As you can see, I'm not completely in the dark as to your comings and goings. I remember telling you once, in the course of our last conversation, that I have many contacts. Those still left, quite a few, actually, amuse themselves speculating about whatever has become of you.

So, what do you think of this war raging in Europe that has divided the Barcelonese into Francophiles and German sympathizers? I suppose that you, who know France, value its refinements and speak its language, lean toward the French—like
every member of your mother's line. But let me tell you, it's the Germans who are destined to save Europe. They have mastered technology, and technology is the future.

I don't think I've been unfair to you. If it's true that you married a girl who was poor and already a mother, I don't know what to say about that. I can't pretend I understand you, Maurici. I never have, and it's too late to start now. If I wasn't so sure that your mother was incapable of an indiscretion, I'd be tempted to believe that you are not my son. What's beyond dispute is that in every respect you are hers. At any rate, be your family as it may, put it above everything else. In the long run, you will find out that there isn't anything else.

My hand is tiring and I must change to go to the Eden with the Moragas. I seem to recall you had been a rather loyal customer of the Eden, although no one has seen you there for quite a while. In half an hour, their chauffeur will pick me up in the motorcar they've just bought.

Shortly after you receive this letter, my lawyer, Mr. Punset, will get in touch with you. For now, there's no more to say but to send my regards to your family, which I will never know, and wish you good luck.

Your father,

RODERIC ALDABÒ CLOSAS

Maurici's hands had grown cold from holding the letter. When he finished reading it, he showed it to Caterina and said, “He didn't even want me at the funeral.” Of course, his father had died many years ago—he didn't remember exactly when. The man who'd signed that letter was a stranger. Still, he read it once more as if he hoped to find in it some clarifying message, the key to their relationship. Deep down he knew, however, that the relationship with his father was a permanently unfinished chapter of his life.
He folded the sheets and buried them in one of those drawers that are never opened, together with Rita's faded picture.

His weary steps took him to the family apartment, where he was going to let Doro and Júlia know they could stay indefinitely. He couldn't afford a big place with servants and, what's more, once they were gone he could dispose of it as he pleased. When the two women saw him standing at the doorway after six years, they made a show of tears and affection befitting the return of the prodigal son. Past formalities seemed out of place.

He paced slowly down the hall and into the quiet furnished rooms, fossilized inside the caves of time. He'd call a moving company to haul the piano, the screen, and a few art objects to his apartment. No point in sorting out the displays in the cabinets: there was nowhere to put them in the new home. As he asked Doro about a suitable moving company, his memory flashed back to the Fidelity cards that years ago he'd found in the office. He burnt in the ashtray those that remained in the bundle tucked in the back of the drawer. There were very few. The smoke seemed to purify the room. As the ashes flickered out, his eyes strayed toward the leather chair that, like a sarcophagus, still held the contours of his father's body. Then he realized that room kept the worst memories of his life like a putrid treasure. He closed the door behind him, with a nauseating feeling tempered by the hope of never opening it again.

Life in the narrow street began to flow calmly, like a forgotten undisturbed creek. After endless headaches and false starts, he managed to run his law practice. His legal learning, patchy to begin with, had ended seven or eight years ago and since gone fallow. Trade law was the only branch he'd kept up with; unfortunately, he couldn't expect industrialists used to hiring experienced corporate lawyers to line up at his door.