The Street of the Three Beds

by Roser Caminals-Heath

“Don’t be afraid to speak up, Daddy’s not gonna be mad at you.”

  “Well, she says, there’s a house for girls like you and they’ll give you a good job. And we all lived happily ever after.”

  “Is that right, are you happy here?”

  The face that, seen up-close, wasn’t at all childish, took on an inquisitive expression.

  “Why d’you wanna know?”

  “It’s my responsibility. Daddy has to look after Hortènsia because Hortènsia’s such a pretty girl . . .” He kissed her, caressed her, “She’s Daddy’s favorite . . .”

  “Shall we play for a while?” she suggested suddenly.

  He tried not to look annoyed and let her go. She walked nonchalantly to her dresser and took a phallic-shaped wooden stick out of a drawer. She threw it on a square of the hopscotch game and, pulling up her skirt, jumped through the three following squares on a single foot, until she sat in the middle of the board and began to adopt raunchy postures.

  “No, no, no. If you don’t behave, Daddy will get mad.”

  She kept her spot on the floor as he came over to sit next to her.

  “That’s not how this game’s played. Pay attention to my questions. Do you like living here?”

  “Sure! I don’t have to work hard like when I was a maid and Miss Pràxedes is like a mother to us.”

  There was no trace of ambiguity in her voice.

  “Then you must be very grateful to your lady for her recommendation, right?”

  “Yes, sir. My lady was a fine lady. She ran a store. Miss Pràxedes is a fine lady too. Her family has property in the country and she’s the heiress, but she’d rather be in Barcelona. And she has her own fortune!”

  Hortènsia demurred, lowering her eyes and adding imaginary lines to the board with her finger.

  “Where did your lady live?”

  “Up there, past the university.”

  “Shall we play a guessing game? You wanna bet I’ll guess where she lives?”

  Maurici, willing to take a risk, smiled. She was put off and at a loss for an answer.

  “She lives on Aribau Street. You have to say true or false.”

  “I . . .”

  “Her name is Mrs. Prat. True or false?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “With her lives a man who’s not all there. True or false?”

  Hortènsia, incapable of keeping her cool like Margarita, gave up the schoolgirl charade to show alarm.

  “For the love of God, mister, you didn’t hear it from me . . . I haven’t told you a thing, have I? Don’t tell Miss Pràxedes. I’ll do whatever you want free of charge, but don’t . . .”

  Panic distorted her features. She was on the verge of tears.

  “Don’t be afraid. I have no intention of telling anyone.”

  Maurici’s eyes and voice were so reassuring that she calmed down.

  “Didn’t Margarita tell you,” he continued,” that I’m curious, even interested to know who you girls are, where you come from?”

  “Nobody tells me anything. I’m new, you know.”

  “And you really want to stay here?”

  “This is home. I got food and a roof over my head, and if I get sick they’ll take care of me. On her birthday Miss Pràxedes treated us all to the Café Suizo. Ever been there? It’s right around the corner, on the square.”

  He nodded, astonished at her guileless celebration of the charms of that hell. He felt as if he were immersed in the dream of One Thousand and One Nights, hanging by a thread and for his life on the yarns that these three Sherezades spun, hoping to find in them some clue to Rita’s fate and, perhaps, his own.

  “. . . There were artists, Miss Pràxedes said, talking about ‘the opera.’ I had never been to a restaurant and I thought it was so nice! Now I’m making friends with Margarita but not with Violeta, . . . that one keeps to herself. Margarita’s very smart. She says one day she’ll be the boss and I’ll live like a queen. But I don’t want Miss Pràxedes to die; she’s like a mother to me. Margarita says if I leave all I got left is the streets, and I’m afraid of the streets. Once, when I was still a maid, I was walking down The Ramblas all by myself and a man came up and said the filthiest things to me . . .”

  He realized that Hortènsia lived her fantasies literally and unquestioningly, that she was incapable of distancing herself from ongoing events. Considering her limitations and the fact that she wasn’t yet in the brothel when Rita died, she couldn’t have much more to offer.

  “Will you do me a favor? It’s part of the game, our game, do you understand? Nobody else’s business. I won’t tell Miss Pràxedes and you’ll never talk about this conversation. It’s going to be our secret, a secret between friends. I love secrets, don’t you?” He flashed a complicit wink at her, even though, based on their conversation, he knew her ability to keep a secret to be more than doubtful. “If you behave, I’ll come back and bring you presents. Lots of candy. You’ve been a good girl today. Daddy’s happy.”

  “You don’t wanna play no more?”

  Listening to her pleading, Maurici felt ominous misgivings. Suddenly, the image of Remei Sallent came to his mind and it seemed to him that to accept the offer would be a profanation.

  “No, honey. You’re very pretty, and I’m very tired.”

  He left the money at the foot of the lamp with the revolving fish. As she saw him to the door, the girlish voice rang out again.

  “Will you come see me soon?”

  His smile, elusive of late, spread slowly across his lips.

  “Of course.”

  Outside, the scent of talcum and cologne that had impregnated his clothes and his brain yielded to the stench of urine that ran like sweat over the skin of the street.

  Chapter 7

  Pleased with his son’s progress at the factory, Roderic Aldabò sent him to Paris to meet with a recently acquired client. Maurici hadn’t gone back to Paris since he was eighteen, when his father had delivered on a promised birthday present. A few months earlier he’d have welcomed the trip as a change of scenery and an opportunity to sample new amusements. In his present circumstances, it came as an annoying interruption.

  He only stayed for a week. Even though he found the city gloomier and rainier than he remembered it, the dizzy boulevards, sparkling cafes, and stylized Parisian life temporarily rescued him from his dark thoughts. On his previous visit he hadn’t explored the left bank because, as everybody knew, the right bank or rive droite was the respectable one. No Barcelona bourgeois who regarded himself as a man of taste would go near the poor side of the Seine, scattered with seedy hotels, bars that were home to broken-down artists, and tiny squares that served as stages to street mimes, all of it divided from the neighboring Montparnasse cemetery by a desolate stone wall. On some free evenings, perhaps under the spell of his incursions into the underbelly of Barcelona, he followed the notes of an accordion into Saint-Germain-des-Près and stopped for dinner at an auberge with just a few tables where the owner sat to chat with patrons. He went to the hotel only to sleep at night. The crowds gathered in the sumptuous parlors and in the restaurants overwhelmed him.

  As soon as he set foot in Barcelona, however, Paris became distant not only in space but in time. It faded into a remote memory unrelated to real life. By contrast, the interview with the last Sherezade, Violeta, summoned him with urgency.

  The parrot’s Hail Mary, forgotten for the past few days, assaulted him as soon as he crossed the doorstep. Inside he had to endure Miss Pràxedes’s ongoing monologue punctuated by coughing.

  “I come from a good country family, you know? I’ve never washed a dish or made a bed in my life. We still have property but, even though I was an heiress, country life’s not for me. Oh my word, how boring it was! Since I was a young girl I dreamt of coming to the city. When my family finally let me go—they were really strict, you know—I came to Barcelona to live with my aunt, who was very fond of me. I love going out to the street and seeing people, stores, cafés
, lots of action. Here you step outside and find yourself in The Ramblas. There’s no prettier street than The Ramblas, don’t you think?”

  While Maurici glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, telling himself that any similarity between that story and the truth was mere coincidence, the third flower materialized. She was dressed exactly like two weeks before when he’d seen her for the first time. No curtsy, no hip swishing, no flouncy swirls. Just a delicate hand with pinkish nails rising to his lips. Stunned by such a sobering presence in a cathouse, he mumbled semi-seriously, “Delighted.” She took his arm, keeping a discreet distance, and escorted him to her workroom.

  It was a large one. Aside from that, everything in it was rather conventional, just like the outfit worn by its lodger: a bed with an oak frame, a matching dresser and nightstand; a couch with a woolen shawl thrown over the back; a piece of unfinished knitting waiting on a low chair. In the middle of the room stood a round table covered by the type of cloth found in working-class homes, topped with a vase of flowers. A canary twittered in a cage hanging from a stand in a corner, next to a door. As he wondered what might be behind that door, it dawned on him that the bordello was larger than he’d thought and designed like a set of interlinking boxes. In fact, he suspected that it made inroads into the adjoining apartment.

  Maurici walked to Violeta’s armoire which, unlike those of the other two women, was closed.

  “May I?”

  “You don’t have to ask. Make yourself at home.”

  She hadn’t smiled yet, revolving calmly within her kingdom as if he wasn’t there. Ironically, this figure that recreated the illusion of domesticity seemed the most mysterious, the most enigmatic. Hanging inside the armoire were dresses for the four seasons plus a couple of lounging gowns trimmed only with lapels. The lingerie, neatly folded in the drawers, was equally subdued. Close to the armoire a calendar kept track of time, while on the opposite wall two static country scenes seemed designed to freeze it.

  He removed his coat and, respectful of the prevailing neatness, looked for a place to hang it. She quietly and efficiently took it from his hands to the armoire. As soon as he sat on the sofa, he felt her presence behind him and her fingers deftly loosen his tie. Resting his head back, he looked up and scrutinized the face, with its concentrated expression, that leaned slightly over his.

  “What shall I call you?” she asked.

  “Lluís.”

  “Are you tired, Lluís? Did you have a hard day at work?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I’m pretty tired.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She turned around and bent down to take off his shoes—every movement a tacit caress, a small prodigy.

  “I’d be happy to tell you if it was of any interest, but my job is boring, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee? I can fix you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

  She had a silky voice, unfit for shouting. Maurici wondered what kind of a game she played, offering him coffee and food in a room that lacked the necessary accoutrements.

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked to the door next to the birdcage. The canary’s wings fluttered excitedly at her proximity. Who knew what that door would reveal? What kind of surprise lay in store this time? An idyllic scene, a three-dimensional illusion like the ones he’d witnessed in other brothels, of Venetian gondolas, or concubines of some unlikely harem? A hall of mirrors or—God forbid!—a torture chamber?

  It was a kitchen: small and as neat as the bedroom, with a checkered blue-and-white curtain under the sink. Violeta busied herself, and the aroma of percolating coffee soon wafted through the air.

  “Would you like a shot of cognac?”

  He nodded. He’d have nodded if she’d offered him cyanide. The woman had a strange, intimidating power.

  She brought over a table with the coffee and muffins on it. Suddenly, remembering the revolting port and lady fingers in the waiting room, he felt immersed in the charade and incapable of extricating himself from it. The inner red light that never went off was the surviving reminder of his mission. Like a boy home from school before his afternoon snack, he bit into a muffin. It was soft and fresh: a sugary kiss that melted in his mouth.

  “Did you bake them?”

  She had done. When he finished the muffin, she began to massage his shoulders with an expert circular motion.

  “Do you want to talk or would you rather lie in bed? If Socrates’s twittering bothers you, I’ll cover the cage with a cloth.”

  “Socrates doesn’t bother me. I’m in heaven. Let’s talk for a while, shall we?”

  “If you like.”

  “I can see you’re a girl with many talents.” He raised his chin, pointing at the knitting.

  “I’m prepared for life.”

  “Not only for this kind of life, I’d say.”

  “This is the one I have,” she replied flatly.

  “Because you’ve chosen it or because you’ve fallen into it?”

  “Because it’s my lot.”

  Perhaps his optimism was premature, but this comment, uttered in a tone of resignation rather than enthusiasm, seemed encouraging. He knew by now that, for different reasons, both Margarita and Hortènsia wished to remain in the bottom of that well. If, on the other hand, Violeta entertained the slightest hope to climb out of it, that hope could further his purpose. When he no longer felt his shoulders, anesthetized by the massage, he took her hand and brought her around to his side.

  “What about you?” she asked equivocally. “What talents do you have?”

  “Not too many, I’m afraid. I play the piano a little.”

  “Too bad we don’t have one here. I’d like to hear you play.”

  If she lied, it was impossible to detect. He changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself. Do you have a family?”

  “Yes and no.” She hesitated for a moment. “I have a little boy.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He just turned three.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With a woman who takes care of him . . . well, him and others.”

  “Do you see him often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. They take me there twice a month.”

  “They take you there? Is it far?”

  “No, but we don’t go out by ourselves.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Miss Pràxedes feels . . . responsible for us.”

  Miss Pràxedes’s logic, he reflected, was baffling.

  “Do you have a picture?”

  Once again the shadow of a smile played on her face. “Do you really want to see him?”

  “Really. I’d like to know more about you.”

  His eyes followed her as she went to the nightstand and took the picture from the drawer. It was protected by glass and a brass frame. It had been taken when he was still a toddler, bundled up in a coat and cap that barely exposed the tiny face.

  “You must be very proud.”

  “I am, like any mother.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Pere Anton, like the grandfather he’ll never know.”

  “And . . . the father?”

  “Ah, the father . . .” She breathed in deeply, looking away. “That’s another story.”

  “Go on.” For the first time he placed his fingers, which never pressed, on the back of her neck.

  “In my hometown I used to be a schoolteacher.”

  “A teacher!” He couldn’t repress his surprise. Suddenly, Socrates’s credentials were explained.

  “I came to Barcelona with a recommendation to teach young children in a public school. After a few months I met a man who said he wanted to marry me. When the principal realized I was pregnant, he fired me. My son’s father disappeared like snow in the spring. Later I found out he was already married. The whole thing sounds pretty trite, doesn’t it?”

  Unbeknownst to her, each word cut him to the quick. Too many echoes of his relationship with R
ita; too much cyclical repetition of the pettiness, the desertion, the oblivion under which one tries to bury a woman as if she were an ant, a worm, a nothing; too much guilt, which is nothing but fear of what has already happened rather than of what’s yet to come. He didn’t fear the future—he could face it calmly and calmly accept it. What he feared was the past.

  “Tell me more.”

  He’d rested his head again on the top of the sofa, letting his eyes wander to the ceiling.

  “From then on everything went downhill. I had to take the only jobs available to me, I had no choice. Nobody wanted a pregnant girl, not even as a maid. Finally a bar close to the harbor hired me as a waitress, but neither the owner nor the customers would leave me alone, even though I was getting heavier by the day. His mother, who hit the bottle and was in a wheelchair, told me she knew a place where they’d help me raise the child and treat me better than in the poorhouse . . . a boardinghouse for girls, she said . . .” She lifted her eyes to him. “You can imagine the rest.”

  Another Mrs. Prat, he thought. Indeed, he could imagine the rest.

  “Was it true, what that woman promised?”

  “My boy’s better off this way. With a little bit of luck, he’ll go to school in a couple of years.”

  “Then, your son was born here?”

  “In this room.”

  Something indefinite came over him, and she had noticed.

  “And how about you? Are you happy?” he finally asked.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “I do my job, I don’t complain.”

  He brought his face up to hers, plumbing the depths of her brown eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “What’s happiness? Does anyone know? All I know is when you don’t expect much from life you’re less unhappy.”

  A screeching Hail Mary tore unexpectedly down the hallway and drew a smile from both of them. By association, Maurici asked, “What about Socrates?”

  “He keeps me company. One day I heard a bird twitting at the window. Birds never fly down this wretched skylight. I opened the window and saw him through the bars. He let me pick him up so easily. This is what he wanted”—her glance covered the room—“he wanted to be caged in. Freedom was too much for him.”