“Don’t it?” he confirmed. “Then why won’t the city give me a license to set up the show? I’ll tell you why. ‘Cause they don’t appreciate the moral lesson in it. Now that they’ve banned public executions, a puppet theater would be more uplifting than the things they used to do, like bringing kids to a hanging and slap them the moment the rope broke the wretch’s neck. But it’s like talking to the walls. The only thing I can get away with is telling the stories at nearby taverns. This week the program will feature the Silvestre Lluís case.”
“Who was that?”
“You never heard of him? He killed his wife and children.”
“Bring the man another glass of wine! His throat must be awful dry,” shouted one of the workers at the bartender.
Even though he’d finished his beer, Maurici stood in place, no longer thirsty. As the old executioner unraveled his dreams, the body of Isidre Mompart in his motley costume dangled before his eyes. The ghost that had loomed so large over his childhood had shrunk to the size of a puppet. Looking back at the yellow and black harlequin twisting in the air, the puppet show suddenly seemed to acquire an irrefutable logic.
He left the money on the table and came out to the street in time to catch the last daylight. As he walked, night fell like a blanket over the city. When the key slid into the keyhole, Caterina appeared on the other side of the door and hugged him tight, as if she hadn’t seen him in a long time. On such occasions, she never asked where he’d been. While he sat down to wait for dinner, she loosened his tie—old habits die hard. Soon Pere Anton, who remained elusive with strangers, climbed on his knees. Maurici knew that meant he wanted help with his homework. That evening, however, the boy whispered something in his ear.
“I’m too tired today, son. Tomorrow, I promise.”
But Pere Anton, silent, obstinate, and unforgiving, pulled him by the hand toward the piano. Maurici took off his coat and, with a sigh, sat at the stool, rehearsing the opening bars of “For Elise.” Pere Anton had squeezed between his legs onto the edge of the stool. Slowly, the boy brought his hands, light like two butterflies, to rest on his, so that he could feel the keys vibrate. Maurici shut his eyes and leant his chin on the boy’s head, welcoming the prickly caress of his hair that tickled his neck. He breathed deeply, letting Beethoven flood his lungs. The music flew unimpaired. The day surrendered under the static watch of the night. Pere Anton’s fingers fluttered imperceptibly on his. A truce had been declared. He knew that, once again, he had exorcised the demons and that, at least for a while, they would leave him in peace.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roser Caminals-Heath (Barcelona, 1956) is a literary translator and author of six novels and a non-fiction book, La seducció americana (The American seduction), which draws on her experiences in the United States where she has lived since 1981. Caminals-Heath earned her master’s and doctoral degrees at the University of Barcelona. She won a Spanish Embassy award for her English translation of Emilia Pardo Bazan’s The House of Ulloa and her own work has been published in three languages. In 1996 she won an award for Les herbes secretes (The secret herbs). The Street of the Three Beds is the first in her series of three novels that focus on Barcelona at the turn of the last century. Caminals-Heath is a Professor of Spanish at Hood College in Frederick, Maryland, and is married to author William Heath.
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