As expected, he sat at the piano and by request played Mozart’s “Turkish March,” a few passages of Spanish operetta, and two traditional Catalan songs that were performed by Flora—who had a pleasant enough voice. The grand finale was a piece by Brahms, played in a duet with his mother, which received a warm round of applause. Maurici knew how to delight in more than one way.
The scent of women’s perfumes blended with blue cigar smoke. Grandma had fallen asleep long ago with her chin on her necklace while one of the young boys sobbed tiredly, as if he didn’t mean it. As it grew dark more people sank in their seats, more glasses of Venetian crystal were abandoned to their brittle fate, more maids came and went, more cheeks became flushed, and the air grew thicker with coffee and alcohol fumes. Lídia had one of the steamed-up bay windows opened to let in the cool April breeze. Maurici, generous as he was in every respect, called the servants to distribute extra gratuities. This gesture confirmed his fine qualities in the eyes of the guests, who welcomed it with due admiration. The maid, the cook, and the chambermaid curtsied and, whispering, “God bless you, sir!” withdrew to the kitchen to face the spoils of battle. When, at last, the Aldabòs felt reassured that Maurici’s birthday had achieved posterity, they brought the party to a close.
* * *
The opulence of the Aldabò home was as oppressive as it was recent. Roderic Aldabò had grown up in a dark, humid first floor on Príncep de Viana Street, where his parents ran a corner store: a hole-in-the-wall that sold firearms to policemen and the military. They named him Roderic after his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and, since they had only one son—the second had died in early childhood—and lived frugally, they could afford to give him an education. The boy turned out to be serious and disciplined, not in the least inclined to mischief. He was also quite reserved, and didn’t have any vices or a hole in his pocket. Soon he found employment at a textile business where he worked hard from dawn to late evening. Shortly after he turned twenty he fell in love—with the intensity of introverted temperaments—with an uptown girl who moved in circles well beyond his reach. Lídia Palau was tall and dark, had an amber complexion, and heavy black eyes. Roderic was an accountant and lived surrounded by numbers; Lídia played the piano with a passion she concealed under the serene exterior her son would inherit.
Lídia wanted a villa with a garden in Sant Gervasi but her husband was opposed to it.
“Too expensive, too ostentatious, and too far from work.”
“Daddy would put some money down, I’m sure.”
“I’d rather buy a house I can pay for with my own income.”
Lídia sighed. “All right, but nowhere near Príncep de Viana.”
Thus they moved to a spacious second floor with a north and a south side on the fashionable Passeig de Sant Joan by the Arc de Triomf.
Ten months later, when the baby was due, his father took for granted that it would be a boy and that he, too, would be named Roderic. To Lídia, Roderic sounded too warlike, too feudal. Besides, she felt an unspoken animosity toward her father-in-law and didn’t want to evoke his harsh figure every time she addressed her child. Maurici, on the other hand, was a sweet name of nuanced musicality that suited a sensitive spirit. Given the fact that Lídia’s father was the child’s godfather, her preference prevailed.
When Maurici was a boy, every Saturday he would have dinner at his maternal grandparents’ home, while Sunday mornings were devoted to the Aldabòs. The three generations attended mass together at Betlem Church, whose ornate baroque style attracted both the petit bourgeois and the working class. The Palaus, for their part, had always favored Santa Anna. Maurici remembered that after church they’d go to the fair at the top of The Ramblas. Even from Betlem Church he could hear music and voices blaring from megaphones that promised all sorts of wonders. On Sundays they set up the stand that attracted most visitors and was the children’s favorite. It featured Amphitrite, a siren of mythical proportions, revolving inside a glass column full of water. Her hair was green like algae and she had the gift of reading the future. He ran to spread the palms of his hands on the glass, calling her “Amfitite, Amfitite,” and for a minute fell under the spell of the blue and green iridescence of her fish tail. There was always a big crowd surrounding the column. She flipped over in the water a few times and, as she swam close to him, the rounded glass made her appear even more gigantic. Then she stopped with a big-toothed smile to read his tiny palms. After a few seconds that seemed to last forever she turned upward and suddenly her head shot out of the water, shaking her hair that lashed her back like a cat-o’-nine-tails. In a clear voice, the siren predicted that that child would be much loved; that the lifeline of his hand bore the mark of those graced by the gods, who had assigned him his own protective fairy and would never forsake him. He didn’t understand what the business about the gods meant, but he rather liked the part about the fairy, which always put a smile on his face. The audience threw coins into the fishbowl. He watched in awe how the siren’s profits twinkled a moment in the water and then sank slowly to join the treasure at the bottom.
After they built Plaça Catalunya at the top of The Ramblas there was no more Amphitrite and he broke into the loudest, longest crying fit of his otherwise sunny childhood.
The memories of the siren, the sibyl that seemed to have accurately prophesized his future, often came hand in hand with a darker moment of his past that he’d never managed to leave entirely behind. When he was considered old enough to exercise what’s known as good judgment, Grandpa Aldabò announced he’d take him to a public execution. Grandma, a mild, unassuming country woman who died a year later, made it clear that she was against it, as was her daughter-in-law, who balked at the prospect of having her son witness such a cruel act. Their arguments and protests were useless.
“The child’s a growing tree and it better grow up straight,” the grandfather insisted. “My father took me and then I took your husband. It’s a lesson that lasts a lifetime, believe me. If he’s ever tempted to do wrong, you can be sure he’ll remember it. They say they’re gonna ban public executions, so we better go while they’re still around.”
Roderic took the side of the father and the morbid family tradition. As for Maurici, who in spite of his good judgment had no idea what an execution was, he yelled enthusiastically, “I want to go!” The die was cast.
It was at the crack of dawn on a January day. The flames of the street lights on the sidewalks still flickered. Holding his grandfather’s hand, he walked half asleep until the frostiness of the morning woke him up. They stood against a façade to let by a herd of milking goats, followed by a horse cart that collected garbage. Maurici envied the garbage man because he played a long horn. They reached the end of the street and turned onto the deserted boulevard. Most buildings were still dark. Silence was disturbed only by sounds from bakeries, where the first loaves of bread rose in the ovens, and from dairies, for it was time to milk the cows. People were already gathering at the empty lot next to the women’s prison. They picked a spot from which even he, from his low height, would be able to catch every single detail. His curious eyes covered the entire space, noticing that there were other children present. At the front line and scattered around the corners he also saw those men armed with notebooks and pencils who were called journalists. The crowd stood in front of a wooden structure; from one of its beams, hung a rope with a noose at the end. Behind it loomed a large object covered with something that looked like a fleece.
“What’s that, Grandpa?”
“The gallows.”
The word was new to him. “What’s the gallows?”
“The place of the execution,” his grandfather answered, his eyes riveted on the prison door.
“What do they do at the execution?”
“They punish the guilty.”
“This man who’s going to be punished, what has he done?”
“He’s killed three people.”
“Three?” Maurici r
epeated, as if the number itself could dispel all his doubts.
“See that thing behind the rope? That’s the wheel, covered with a lamb fleece so that the humidity won’t rust it. After they execute the prisoner, they’ll give the fleece to the executioner.”
“Who’s the executioner?”
“The man who executes the prisoner.”
Everything came down to that business of execution, but precisely what it was still eluded him. So far, Grandpa’s explanations had not helped him visualize it.
Down the boulevard came an overcrowded streetcar drawn by a team of mules and marked with a sign that read: “To the gallows for twenty-five cents.” People of all ages—old, young, small children, even a mother with a baby in her arms—were getting off. Some of them carried baskets as if they were going for a picnic to the springs of Montjuïc mountain. Maurici let out a yawn, thinking perhaps of the food in the baskets, and remembered how often his grandmother said, “Tall and slim as you are, and yet you can eat at the drop of a hat.” Despite the cap, gloves, and scarf that protected him, plus the hot coffee with cream he’d had at home, he could feel the cold creep in.
The lot was filling up. Some balconies of the boulevard were crammed with neighbors wearing coats over their nightgowns; one man had his dog sitting beside him. A few sunbeams pierced through the darkness and shone in a sky that held a blue promise. The bells rang in a nearby church.
“What time is it?” Maurici asked. “How long till the execution?”
At least he’d learned to pronounce the word correctly.
“They should’ve come out already.” Grandpa craned his neck to see if he could find out the reason for the delay. “Usually they’re on time.”
Rumors rippled through the crowd. As minutes ticked on, the public—a gigantic octopus spreading its tentacles—grew impatient and shouted, “Come on! Hang ‘im once for all! Hang ‘im! Hang ‘im!”
Maurici turned his eyes to the gallows and, for the first time, had an inkling of the purpose of the rope.
His grandfather joined a group engaged in a heated debate. As he approached them, Maurici heard:
“The robe! They can’t find the robe!”
“What’s the robe?” he asked.
They kept talking fast and gesturing frantically without paying attention to him, so, raising his voice, he insisted, “What’s the robe?”
A man in denims and canvas shoes answered, “It’s like a cloak convicts wear.”
A chubby old woman with a scarf on her head said, “What’s the proper color today?”
“Yellow. It’s got to be yellow,” explained a well-dressed man with white hair, a grey beard, and a cigar between his lips. “The color for parricides.”
Now, that word he’d definitely never heard. “What’s parr . . . ?”
“Be quiet, boy, don’t ask so many questions,” his grandfather commanded.
“Excuse me. One should always give an answer to a child,” the man with the cigar cut in. And, turning to Maurici, he added, “They’re people who kill their parents or their children, son.”
“People don’t kill their parents or their children,” whispered Maurici, trying to imagine an absurd scene in which he and his father were about to kill each other.
The man smiled cryptically behind a cloud of smoke. “When you grow up you’ll see: in this world it takes all kinds, all kinds.”
“But somebody just said he already had the robe on,” said a young woman in plain clothes who held a bag of peanuts in her hand.
“Yes, but it was black, the color for ordinary murderers,” the execution expert pontificated.
On her part, the fat woman ventured, “Oh, I don’t know. On these occasions black seems more fitting than yellow, don’t you think?”
“If it must be yellow, they should find a yellow robe and get it over with.” Grandpa was running out of patience.
The man in denims made his contribution: “They can’t find a yellow robe in the prison.”
“How d’you know?” asked the chubby woman with the scarf on her head, becoming more and more curious.
“I know the executioner. They let me in and they told me themselves.”
“Now what!” Roderic Aldabò shouted. “You mean they don’t have a yellow robe ready? There’s time enough to prepare for an execution, for goodness sake . . . why are they caught with their pants down?”
Maurici giggled at the bit about the pants.
The girl with the peanuts came up to the fat woman, whispering with an air of secrecy, “They say he killed his wife and his two kids.”
“Goodness gracious! The man’s a monster!”
“What d’you call the ones who kill their wives?” jumped in Maurici, intent on expanding his vocabulary.
“They don’t have a name,” his grandfather answered and quickly added, “they got no right to keep us waiting!”
“Listen,” the fat woman addressed the worker in denims, “since they let you in, why don’t you go? You can be back in a jiffy and give us the scoop on what’s going on in there.”
“That’s right!” rejoined the peanut eater, beaming with excitement.
Given their insistence, the man meekly obliged. Meanwhile, others had approached and the group kept getting bigger. Maurici complained about being hungry until his grandfather promised to take him to breakfast after the execution. Clinging to that hope, he decided to be patient.
Everyone wondered if the man in denims, who had vanished through the prison door quite a while ago, would ever come out again. To kill time, somebody explained that the executioner was a peaceful man who lived in a little house on the outskirts and raised rabbits and chickens.
At last the messenger came back with a report. One of the lawyers had suggested that, since at the time Barcelona was celebrating Carnival, some clothing store or other should have a yellow robe available.
“But what store will be open so early?”
They waited another half hour. The volume of the chitchat rose like the buzz of locusts on a summer evening. Some children played, running through the lot and hiding among the adults. Maurici was tired and wanted to get back home, but his grandfather ordered him to be quiet. After a few inquiries, the man with the cigar announced, “It won’t be long now. They’ve found a robe at Malatesta’s Costumes, but it has a pink trim that has to be removed.”
“Enough of these shenanigans!” somebody yelled.
A moment later the prison door swung open and its black mouth spat two guards and a convict, followed by an unprepossessing figure the man in denims identified as the executioner, and other men Grandpa called representatives of the court. They marched slowly and in silence, as if the way to the gallows were a promenade.
To this day he can see the convict decked out for a costume ball, his face hidden in a black hood. He can see the harlequin parricide: the criminal clown parading to the gallows in the yellow-and-black checkered robe that rises and swirls in the breeze. He hears children’s laughter and a playful voice sing the opening bars of “The Dancing Giant” that’s promptly hushed. By contrast, the shouts of “Pervert!” and “Child murderer!” rise higher and higher. Finally, it’s a member of the marching retinue that demands silence.
Guards, convict, and executioner climbed onto the gallows. The authorities remained below, in the front row. The guards took their positions at the back corners of the scaffold. The executioner lifted the fleece to uncover a toothed wheel and then placed the noose around the hooded, faceless head. One of the men asked the prisoner if he had a valediction. The silence behind the hood lasted several eternal seconds. Then there was a smothered squeak, as if someone was winding a clock, and Maurici noticed that the serrated wheel had begun to turn.
He’s not sure what came next because suddenly Grandpa slapped his face. He felt the blood rushing up to his head but didn’t cry. As he started to complain Grandpa cut him short, raising a finger to his lips and whispering, “May you never forget!”
Whe
n he turned to look at the platform, the hangman was rolling the tongue of the convict the same way the maid rolled the carpets at home. The harlequin’s body hung limp like a rag doll. The colorful robe waved in the breeze like a flag on a holiday. The sun had just come out.
A section of the audience clapped, another shouted acclamations. The fat woman who’d been talking with Grandpa crossed herself and, a little further, another prayed with her head bowed and her hands folded. The children, released from their mandatory silence, gradually resumed their games of hide and seek. Roderic Aldabò ceremoniously took his leave from his neighbors and, holding his grandson’s hand, said, “Come on, Maurici, let’s go have breakfast.”
* * *
That night, after Lídia tucked him in and blew out the candle, a table appeared in the middle of his bedroom. Darkness grew brighter and at the same time a string of pearls began to take shape and levitate in mid air, dancing like a puppet. Then he heard the sound of a mechanism cranked into gear, as if someone were winding a clock. From the shadows emerged a man who looked like his father, and from a certain angle like his grandfather, who smiled at him as he turned the wheel and said, “Parricide! Isn’t it a lovely word?” When he tried to shout “No, Daddy, no!” he came face to face with his mother.
“Maurici! Son! What were you dreaming?”
“The gallows, I’ve seen the gallows, and a rope of pearls, and . . . a man, a man that . . .”
“All right, all right, it was a dream: forget about it.”
She ran her hand through his curls, as if to erase the nightmare from memory.
“But the man turned the wheel and said . . .”
“That’s because of the shock you had today. I was afraid of that. Don’t worry, it’s just a dream. It’s over, see? You’re here, in your room. It was just an unpleasant dream. And you mustn’t think of unpleasant things.”
“Never?”
His mother hesitated for a moment and then answered, “Never.”
Lídia’s magic turned out to be so powerful that he never dreamt of the execution again. And that’s how he learned that one could easily, and for good, turn one’s back on unpleasant things.
The Street of the Three Beds Page 3
