The Street of the Three Beds

by Roser Caminals-Heath

  “What are you referring to when you say ‘this?’” The pinpricks in Maurici’s brain interfered with his speech.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about: your tempestuous visit to La Perla d’Orient and the assault on Mrs. Prat and her poor brother.”

  “Her poor brother? If I’m not mistaken it’s my head that’s about to burst.”

  “You asked for it. She tells me you acted like a madman. Against a woman and a retarded man. Of course they defended themselves. Tell me, what was your business at La Perla d’Orient?”

  Holding the towel to the back of his neck, he fastened his eyes on his father.

  “I think it’s you who owes me an explanation.”

  “Maurici, don’t abuse my patience.”

  Forgetting the pain for a moment Maurici jumped to his feet and slammed a fist on the table, taking the patriarch by surprise.

  “Let’s not talk about abuse! You’re the last person to lecture anyone on that subject. You want to know what I was doing at La Perla d’Orient? I was trying to find out what happened to Rita Morera. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “Of course, it rings a bell. She used to be a seamstress in this house.”

  “Right! And, suddenly, she vanished, didn’t she?”

  “She left, if that’s what you mean.”

  As usual, Roderic Aldabò measured his words carefully. It would take several rounds to corner him.

  “No, that’s not what I mean, and you know it, Father.”

  “No, I don’t; you’ll have to explain it to me.”

  “We agreed it’s you who’s due for an explanation. I don’t owe you a thing, understand? Nothing! Let’s be clear on that.”

  Lowering his voice, Maurici resumed his seat and continued, “One April day, Rita and I were strolling in the old city. She said she had to stop by La Perla d’Orient and buy petticoats and I don’t know what else Mother had ordered. I waited for her outside, but she never came out. I’m sure Mrs. Prat has informed you that later I went in to ask, and she denied even having seen her. Several weeks later Rita turned up dead on the Street of the Three Beds.”

  “First of all, what were you doing with the girl?”

  “The issue’s not what I was doing with her but what you did with her.”

  Roderic Aldabò blinked, pondering the answer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The papers said Rita Morera had committed suicide. Her suicide has nothing to do with you or me. As far as your mother and I are concerned, she was a seamstress who worked in this house for a while. Her death is regrettable, of course, but it didn’t affect us personally since we weren’t close to her. If, as it seems, you had a liaison with her, that’s your business; you know what I think of your relationships with the domestic staff. Apparently, this has clouded your judgment and you’re confused.”

  “On the contrary. My judgment is clearer than ever and the only confusion there was has just been dispelled. You say you don’t know what I’m talking about? That Rita’s death has nothing to do with you and me? What do you think I’ve been doing for the past few months? I followed Mrs. Prat and Jaumet everywhere. I know where they live, I’ve found the little nest on the Street of the Three Beds, and one day Mrs. Prat’s steps took me—guess where, Father—right to this house!”

  Roderic took the blow without showing any signs of panic.

  “It’s childish to waste your time following Mrs. Prat in the streets. Aside from that, there’s nothing strange in her visit here. La Perla d’Orient is one of the stores we supply.”

  “You do more than supply it. La Perla d’Orient belongs to you, am I wrong?”

  “I have investments in it, but that doesn’t concern you.”

  “Where did you find Mrs. Prat? I assume she retired from a brothel herself.”

  “Mrs. Prat supports a disabled brother! What do you think of that?” He lowered his voice. “Listen, you’re old enough to live your own life, I’m not going to argue about that, but don’t stew on it anymore. After all, what’s happened is no more than a series of unfortunate events.”

  “Unfortunate events? The kidnap and murder of a twenty-two-year-old girl you call ‘unfortunate events?’” Maurici and his voice rose at once. “How lucky for you, Father, that nothing disturbs your sleep! What about Dr. Serramiralpeix: the abortionist, the butcher, is he also our customer? Is that why he was here, sleeping it off, keeping you company that night? Is that why he vanished from his place and the Boxing Club?”

  This time Roderic Aldabò was knocked off the fence of aloofness and shouted, “I have many contacts in Barcelona, I conduct many operations that are none of your business!”

  “Like Fidelity, the moving company?” Maurici took the card out of his pocket. “That’s one of your operations, right? A non-existing operation—just one more cover, a password for respectable bastards like you and me who enjoy the services of the Ritas of this world without asking where they came from and how they got there.”

  “Watch it or I’ll . . .”

  He leaned close to his father across the desk. The lock of hair flapped on his forehead like a declaration of war. His eyes glittered like embers and his voice was a poisonous whisper. “Go ahead. Try it. Come on, try it. Don’t deny yourself the pleasure.”

  Roderic hesitated and asked at last, “You had the nerve to ransack my drawers?”

  “You bet I did! I’d ransack your mind, if I could, to find the man who killed her.”

  “I couldn’t tell you. The last time I saw Dr. Miralpeix was that night when, so you tell me, you spied on us. Since then, I haven’t heard from him. What makes you think Rita Morera was murdered?”

  “The police photo hides the lower body, so that no one can see that the cause of death was hemorrhage. But the person who found her remembers the blood-stained petticoat. I wonder if it was the same petticoat she’d bought that afternoon at La Perla d’Orient.”

  Maurici felt calmer, noticing the ill-repressed anguish that distorted his father’s face as the details unfolded.

  “Have you gone to the police?”

  Maurici nodded.

  “And to the cathouse on the Street of the Three Beds. In case you didn’t know, the Fidelity card works like magic.”

  His father shrugged. “All right. So you’ve found out I have stakes in a house of ill repute. It’s time for you to open your eyes, son. Most Barcelona industrialists have shares in the prostitution business. It’s no secret and there’s no reason to be shocked. Sooner or later you had to find out—at the very least, you’d have inherited it at my death. It doesn’t matter. But you’ll never convince me or anybody else that Rita Morera didn’t commit suicide by jumping from the balcony.”

  “She was pushed when she was already dead. Let’s not play cat and mouse anymore, Father. You weren’t counting on this disaster, but it happened. You own La Perla d’Orient and Mrs. Prat recruits girls for the Street of the Three Beds bordello, which you also own.”

  His father opened his mouth to speak.

  “Don’t interrupt me! Once they’re there, the wretch who calls himself Dr. Serra makes sure they can’t have children. Except in Rita’s case he ran into a complication that exceeded his abilities: Rita was pregnant. Dr. Serra, who can’t practice medicine probably because of his drinking and other shortcomings, couldn’t handle it. When she bled to death he panicked and, maybe acting on the brilliant advice of Miss Pràxedes—may she roast in hell—threw the body over the balcony.”

  “The police ruled the death a suicide.”

  “Sergeant Vila, as I recently found out, has a brother who sold smuggled jewels to the madam and is involved with one of the girls. I have no great respect for his professional opinion.”

  “I see you’re informed of every detail. How do you know Rita Morera was pregnant? Don’t tell me . . .”

  “I know because she told me.”

  “Was it yours?”

  “According to her, yes. Maybe it was, I can’t be sure. I didn’t
love her, I had no right to expect her to be faithful. I don’t care if the child was mine or not; the thing is that Rita and the life project she carried inside her were lost.”

  “How do you know she didn’t go to Mrs. Pràxedes’s house of her own free will or that the abortion wasn’t her idea?”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Maurici shouted. “Have you forgotten I found the passage behind the mirror? No doubt, it runs to the back alley. That’s how they found me, right? When I was unconscious they put me in a carriage and sent me back here. In case of trouble, they know where to go.”

  “They went through your wallet and found your name and address in your identification papers.”

  “Really? And why didn’t they call the police? Isn’t that what any citizen does when attacked by a madman? Please, Father, enough of this farce.”

  Roderic Aldabò paced across the room behind the desk, which stood like a wall between him and his son. Finally, he repressed a sigh of defeat. He seemed to be beaten. The phase of denial, when he’d sought to reduce facts to appearances, had concluded. It was time to move to the next phase and play his last card: persuasion.

  “I’m sorry this girl has died, no matter the circumstances. What I don’t understand is where this . . . sudden bout of altruism comes from. You, who never gave a damn about anything except having a good time, should be the first to realize that brothels are a necessary evil. Public women have always existed and always will exist; you, for one, have known your share of them. Let me tell you man to man—and I’ll swear to this on a stack of bibles—I haven’t once been unfaithful to your mother. At your age, I already had a family and lots of responsibilities. I despise anyone vile enough to buy these sort of favors. You, on the other hand, with your gallivanting, are in no position to point fingers. You know better than anybody that these women exist for a purpose. Prostitution may be a social problem, but it’s not a crime.”

  “Crime is a social problem, Father, and it is a crime that we’re discussing here. What you say is all very fine, but what about Rita and the others? How many has the corridor of La Perla d’Orient swallowed? How many? I accepted my guilt a long time ago. All I ask is that you accept yours.”

  His father wasn’t assuaged by his appeal to reason; on the contrary, it was counterproductive. Roderic’s stare fell on him like a death sentence.

  “What guilt? If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been somebody else. And it’s philanderers like you who take advantage of it. I’m not responsible for the sins of others. Without demand, there’d be no supply.”

  The business terminology acted as a detonator. Maurici reached across the desk to grab his father’s lapels and shook him with more pity than violence, his voice pitched between a plea and a cry.

  “Demand and supply? Supply and demand? Do you think we’re talking about a few pairs of stockings? Rita walked into La Perla d’Orient to buy frills, was knocked unconscious, and one day woke up in a bordello bed with a knife in her insides! I’ve learnt a few lessons these past few months, and they’ve left a bitter taste. I’ve seen the world through a different lens, and what I’ve seen hurts. Doesn’t it hurt, Father? Not a bit? Is it still a matter of demand and supply for you? I’m willing to live with it, but you . . . Did Grandpa forget to slap your cheek at the moment the noose tightened? Which robe would be right for us, Father? Tell me! The same yellow robe as for parricides? Aren’t you and I parricides too, don’t we also kill women and children? What was the name of the convict in the clown outfit? What was his name?”

  Roderic Aldabò’s features had gradually become humane. The last words out of his son’s mouth were incomprehensible. His gaze lingered on the sweat-beaded face as if it belonged to a madman, until he whispered softly, “Who are you talking about . . . ?”

  “Isidre Mompart.”

  Lídia’s voice came from the threshold. Her expression revealed that she had overheard most of the conversation. Her husband’s eyes, bewildered and interrogating, strayed in her direction, but she only acknowledged her son’s presence.

  “The name of the parricide was Isidre Mompart.”

  Slowly, Maurici let go of his father’s lapels and turned around to face Lídia. The movement increased the pain in the back of his neck.

  “Did you know, Mother?”

  “No.” It was Roderic who answered. “Your mother didn’t know. You two have been happily unaware of it while you’ve enjoyed the benefits all along. Did you really think a small factory can be so profitable? God knows it was enough for me, but not for her. We had to hire a cook and a carriage, build a villa in the country, throw big parties, travel, send you to Switzerland for a whole year, join the Equestrian Club, keep a balcony at the Liceu . . . She had to live like a Palau. She’d forgotten that by then she was an Aldabò. I’d grown up believing I had a duty to provide for my family, to make sure they lacked for nothing and had everything they wanted. As long as I fulfilled that duty, I didn’t have to explain myself to anybody, . . . least of all to you, Maurici. It wasn’t me who craved the high life. I didn’t need to have lobster or vintage wine every day. You are the socialites, not me. To indulge your tastes I did what many heads of respectable families do: I went to the most inexhaustible source of revenue. Barcelona’s rich in vice. Silk stockings will sooner or later be obsolete, but the white slave trade will thrive. Ask your son why, Lídia. He can tell you better than I can.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears that couldn’t find their way down. Her voice also trembled. “Maybe it is my fault. I won’t deny it. It’s true I wanted those things, but not at such a high price. Your silence through all these years is very hard to take, Roderic. You’ve pushed me into a corner of your life as if you had sent me into exile. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you.”

  For a few seconds no more words were spoken. They had told each other everything there was to tell, and the office seemed too small to hold the three of them. For the first time in the conversation, Maurici referred to the future.

  “I won’t judge you, Father. But from now on I don’t want any part in your business or to depend on you in any way.”

  “Is that so?” his father quipped. “And what will you do? How do you plan to make a living? You’re not fit for any kind of work!”

  “I’m a lawyer. I’ll open a practice.”

  “A lawyer! Ha! A lawyer! Don’t make me laugh! You passed the examinations thanks to my connections, otherwise you’d never have graduated. Some lawyer! You better forget it.”

  Maurici gave him a serious, distant look—too distant for him to be touched by the scorn or by the truth he recognized in those words. When Roderic’s hilarity subsided, he simply said, “Farewell, Father.”

  * * *

  Maurici intended to finish up the tasks still pending at the factory and to leave in a week. With Caterina, he’d rented an apartment with a long balcony in the old city, where she planned to run a preschool. One afternoon, when his days at the family home in Passeig de Sant Joan were nearing the end, his mother went to the weekly card game at her friend Adela’s. On her return, she was taken ill with nausea and a fever and had to go to bed. Doro, the maid, helped her undress and tried to reassure her with brandy, hot towels, and a running monologue.

  When Maurici came back from the factory, he found her as pale as a ghost. Her forehead was burning. Influenza or a summer cold, he assumed. Doro had sent for the family doctor, who would arrive any minute.

  As he was leaving the bedroom, Lídia called him. “Don’t go! Stay with me for a while.”

  He took off his coat and tie and sat by the bed, which smelled of cologne. Then he realized it had been years since he’d set foot in his parents’ bedroom. Casting a circular glance, he thought that if Lídia’s taste had prevailed in the rest of the apartment, that room—imposing and bleak—was Roderic’s haven and bore his mark. The wallpaper was a plain, dark blue; the rugs, minimal, leaving most of the cold tiles exposed; the oak bed, brought from his parents’ home, heavy
. Above the headboard hung a cross made to the measurements of the Aldabòs’s faith, a timid reminder of a possible afterlife. He couldn’t help but wonder if his mother had been happy in that room, in that bed inherited from the father-in-law to whom she’d never warmed. The dressing room, on the other hand, with its Louis XV furniture; the armoire with the full-length mirror and gold tassels hanging from the door keys; the carefully selected, graceful crystal and porcelain knickknacks; all the sensuous comforts civilization could conceive of, was clearly Lídia’s territory.

  Roderic Aldabò returned from work at the usual time: well past nine. As Maurici heard the key turn in the lock, he went to meet him.

  “Mother’s not feeling well.”

  They exchanged no more words than those that were necessary. Roderic, with a scowl engraved on his face, avoided his son’s eyes. Without taking off his hat, he walked straight to the bedroom.

  From the hall, Maurici watched him bend over the pillow, place his hand on his wife’s forehead, and ask in a tone reserved just for her, “Lídia, what’s wrong?”

  Five minutes later the doorbell rang. It was Dr. García, a small, plump, bespectacled man in his fifties. The birth of Maurici in that very room had been one of the earliest challenges of his career. Needless to say he’d been the doctor of the Palau family, who deemed him not presentable but highly competent.

  With the preoccupied expression characteristic of the medical class, whether the case was serious or not, he listened to the patient’s heart and lungs before examining her tongue, eyeballs, and the skin of her face, neck, hands, arms, and legs. Lídia’s eyes, fixed on him, glowed like torches.

  “Mrs. Aldabò, have you drunk from a public fountain lately?”

  She looked up at the ceiling, pondering her answer, which came out in a weak voice, “A few days ago I went shopping downtown with Doro. Instead of getting a cab, we walked to see the construction around the old bridge. It was very hot and in one of those narrow streets there was a fountain.”

  “Did Doro drink too?”