by Andrés Vidal
“Hey, Jufresa, this is just the kind of conversation that would appeal to you. We are absolutely indignant. This situation has to stop.”
“Of course. Always at your service, gentlemen,” Ferran said by way of greeting.
“I’ll read you what’s been written and see if you agree with it.” Prat i Carretó felt through his pockets, passing his drink from one hand to the other. “It reads thus: Dear Señor Bocaplena, we believe it is unbecoming of a great theater such as ours, that illustrious institution we know as the Gran Teatro del Liceo, that its magnificence be compromised by the dreadful custom of dimming the lights during the performances, as if the work in question were more important than those who have come to see it and the finery with which the salon is adorned for the event in question. We believe that for the sake of the fashion and luxury industries, which are elevated to such a high art in our country, it is essential that the investments made in such by the ladies and gentlemen who attend our institution be visible throughout the performance, and that to this end it must be considered, not simply important for the rules of decorum, but rather absolutely essential that the stands remain completely illuminated throughout the duration of the spectacle. This missive is nothing more than the expression of a discontent rife throughout the high society of our beloved country, irate at being allowed to exhibit their jewels”—he paused, and the two jewelers looked at each other as if automatically—“only in the three or four intermissions of fifteen or twenty minutes each. At this, I shall draw my words to a close, and I remain, at your complete disposition, blah blah blah. Signed, Joan Prat i Carretó, member of the Círculo del Liceo.”
When he had finished reading, he folded the paper into a tiny square, lifted his lapel with the hand holding his drink, and slipped it into his breast pocket. Those present praised him in high words, but their faces betrayed little enthusiasm.
“It has been some time since we’ve heard rhetoric of that kind,” one said.
“Indeed. There’s been nothing like it since the days of the Roman orators,” the oldest among them announced, smoothing down his thick Prussian mustache.
“Agreed,” one of the younger men said.
“I should urgently like to request of you, Señor Prat i Carretó, to take charge of the wedding speech for my first son, which you are now invited to as of this very moment.”
“You are overwhelming me,” the orator said. “I am the mere means by which your complaints are to be heard, the speaker of the words your wives have repeated to me to the point of exhaustion. Please, no more compliments. You’ll make me blush.”
“Are you gentlemen conspiring against the government?” sounded a strident voice behind them.
The circle opened to make room for the man who had just arrived. Andreu Cambrils i Pou was the first deputy mayor of the city of Barcelona, and according to gossip, there was not a single issue of importance in the city that did not pass across his desk. Many preferred his approval over that of the mayor himself, Boladeres i Romà. The preceding years gave one the impression that the office of mayor was more volatile than the alcohol in their cocktails while the people in the shadows, those who remained in place over a longer term, accumulated power in their hands.
Such was the case of Cambrils i Pou, who had occupied one public post after another since his long-ago position as organizer of festivities in Banyeres del Penedés, the town of his birth. All showed him a reverence that was perhaps feigned, but nonetheless thrived through the inevitable principle of appearances. The only important thing in that world, the sole fact with a reality of its own, was what others thought of you. And Cambrils i Pou was an old hand at making sure no one undermined his prestige.
That night, as all of them had gathered in that beautiful and luxurious setting, the deputy mayor was acting as master of ceremonies in the absence of Boladeres, who was away on an official visit to Seville. The titular head of City Hall was not much of one for benefit banquets, where the attendees were always men who had contributed to his campaign and were there to ask—or rather, to demand, but with pretty words—that the favor be returned. And so, after three months in power, the mayor hadn’t attended a single one of the charity events that filled the calendars of the upper bourgeoisie.
Such was not the case with Cambrils i Pou, who accepted the most unexpected demands and most fleeting requests with complete cordiality and always managed to convince his interlocutors that he was conceding something, despite his kind words. He was therefore an able businessman and a tireless companion who always brought something to the table; a fighter who could square off against his enemies’ attacks with an unbreakable spirit and who knew how to grab the opportunity, to strike the lethal blow, when weariness had clouded the others’ vision. Everyone was willing to put up with any of his negative traits because there was one other thing that defined Cambrils i Pou: He was the surest path to a moneymaking business.
As the night wore on, people floated among the different groups. One by one, the group around Prat i Carretó and the Liceo scattered into the other room in search of canapés. Those who stayed there with the politician were the dignitaries, those who struggled every day with the real problems in the city and held the strings of power in their hands, regardless of what sort it was. The conversation no longer revolved around the sopranos at the opera, but rather around the major issues of the day, the values that motivated Barcelona’s society at the time. Those present interspersed their opinions with what they had heard or read in the press.
“Pay attention, the future is still in coal. Petroleum is a liquid, it’s volatile, it can’t last!”
“But the motor vehicles use it …”
“Motor vehicles? That’s the devil’s invention. I’m not saying the streetcars won’t be around a long time, because they hardly make any noise. … But the other thing, impossible. Soon we’ll go back to horses and carriages, which we shouldn’t have ever given up in the first place.”
“In Paris there are more motorcars than carriages in the streets. …”
“That’s before the war. Now all the cars have been requisitioned, and there are fuel rations.”
“Bah! That war won’t last more than four days. They can’t do anything against a power like the kaiser’s.”
“We shouldn’t make light of France and England together. They’ve always been enemies and they are modern, advanced countries.”
Suddenly, Cambrils i Pou, who had left off talking some time back, turned to Ferran.
“Ah, Jufresa, Jufresa … Do you hear them?” The politician put his arm over Ferran’s shoulder and walked him to the bar. “Like children: They’re fighting over the air to get a word in.”
Ferran nodded in silence while scrupulously sipping his third gin fizz.
“Do you think?” he responded courteously, without knowing what the politician was getting at.
“Look at them, talking about the war this and the war that … When the real question for us is: What can we make here that the countries at war can’t produce?”
“I don’t see where you’re heading with this,” the jeweler confessed.
“France has cut off the fuel to its vehicles in case it’s necessary to supply it to the airplanes; England has intervened with all its military equipment and they are sending infantry into the conflict zones. I doubt it’s going to be a short war if another country jumps into the conflict every time the enemy makes a move.”
“I see.” Ferran nodded. “Do you think we could join in soon as well?”
“I don’t think we should worry about that,” the deputy mayor said. “Not even in Madrid do they dare broach the topic, and Europe doesn’t care a damn about forcing our hand. All I’m saying is that those countries are practically frozen until the war is over: Their youth are at the front with mud up to their knees, waiting to take a bullet from the enemy. There’s no one working in the factories.”
“That’s correct, Jufresa. I see we understand each other.”
“But I’m just a jeweler, Señor Cambrils i Pou. I don’t see what I can do.”
“Let’s leave off with formalities, Ferran: Call me Señor Cambrils. It’s time to take the bull by the horns. Do you like the bullfights? No? Me neither. What I mean is, it’s time to get clever, it’s time for ingenuity. Like Henry Ford—he had the idea of making a mountain of cars at once instead of waiting to sell out of the first one before going on to the next. The time is right for a guy like you, someone with brains, with daring, to make it big, Ferran.”
Ferran gave him a look suggesting that they and those around them were already far from poor. His companion grasped it immediately.
“I mean really rich,” he emphasized. “Rich like you couldn’t burn through all your money if you tried to.”
“A business like that wouldn’t be bad. Weapons could be a good idea,” Ferran ventured cautiously. “There are already various producers in the country who could …”
“Sure, that’s not bad. Weapons are a good business: safe, trusty, risk-free … But old hat, Ferran, old hat. I know a better one. Less offensive, less flashy, less compromising … Another drink, Ferran, my friend?”
Dimas waited sitting on the hood of the Hispano-Suiza. The attendees had left in dribs and drabs, and now the parking lot was nearly empty. During the wait, the employees had gathered together and seemed to be having their own version of the festivities celebrated inside. Almost all of them were chauffeurs, many in uniform. All looked at Dimas strangely; they seemed to confer a certain superiority on him for his elegant evening wear, and they felt a degree of envy for him. In general, the attitudes of complicity between them shone through their conversations, depending on the importance of the boss of whoever was speaking. With the majority of them, it was cordial, though the conversation between the escorts of the various big timers died off as they departed for the evening. Dimas sat up when he saw a swaying figure coming close. It looked like his boss, Ferran.
“Listen, Dimas, it looks like I’m going to spend the night here,” Ferran said when he stopped. “You can go. Take the car and pick me up at a proper time tomorrow. All right? I mean, I’m not getting up early tomorrow. … I don’t know if I’m explaining myself. …” As he said this, he pointed behind himself with one thumb.
Dimas looked toward the stairs, but he saw no one. Ferran went back up the steps, stumbling, into the sumptuous locale. Behind the balustrade, the silhouette of a woman emerged momentarily. Ferran grasped her around the waist when he was close to her and they departed, finally vanishing from Dimas’s view somewhere behind the parapet.
When they were gone, he turned around and said good-bye to the last of the men waiting for their employers. It was already too late to depart in the cars the casino put at their clients’ disposal, cars that would take them to the Portal del Ángel. Some of the men would even spend the night in the casino parking lot, nodding off in the front seat, always careful not to get caught in this impropriety.
Dimas put the car in gear and took off through the curves of the Rabassada. A rabbit crossed in front of his headlights like an apparition. Around the next curve, Barcelona appeared in all its splendor, and now he could see the stars. The brightest of the streetlights shone around the Plaza Cataluña, as if they were transmitting their energy from that gleaming center to the rest of the city.
At the foot of the mountain, he veered right and went to park in San Gervasio. From there it was still a good walk until he made it to his bed and brought the day to a close. He left the car in front of the Jufresas’ mansion. It was dark all around.
Then he headed home. His steps resounded amid the solitary streets, without streetcars, without people.
CHAPTER 17
The next morning, Dimas went to retrieve the Hispano-Suiza from the Jufresas’. Once behind the wheel, he ascended the Rabassada once more, much more calmly than he had gone down it the night before. He passed a streetcar as it was ringing its bells and just afterward, he saw the summit of Tibidabo. There, at the beginning of the century, an amusement park had opened, one more sign of the city’s modernization. Admission was priced at two reales, a reasonable price for Barcelona’s middle classes. He passed by the exit and continued along the road until he reached the casino, which was more remote but also more luxurious. Everything, including the landscape, had about it an air of exclusivity.
He slowed down and passed carefully by the tall cast-iron fence. At one of the valet stands was a guard who decided whom to let in, and at the other a man sold tickets granting admission onto the casino’s fairgrounds. At that hour, there were already families waiting to get in, because the casino had newer and more exciting attractions than those at Tibidabo.
From the comfort of his seat, Dimas smiled when he saw the excited people. Though he didn’t care for that sort of diversion, he understood their anticipation. He remembered the first time he went into the water chute, a kind of ramp you slid down at top speed in a little boat until you landed in a small pool. The boat would descend loaded with five or six people. The effect of the fall, the feeling of risk, of the impact against the water, made the people shriek and giggle with delight.
A hotel rose up to one side of the casino. It was part of the same building, but it had a different entrance. In its rooms, more than one customer had taken his own life after losing everything at the gaming tables the night before. Ferran had a standing reservation for a room. He paid even if he wasn’t using it, to avoid the inconvenience of dialing 6204 and finding himself with nowhere to stay. Dimas greeted the porter, touching his hand to the brim of his hat.
He looked at his pocket watch and calculated that it was still too early to go in. He chose instead to take a walk around the grounds and headed toward the area where the attractions were. Though it was October and the mornings were cool, a group had already gone in to try the water chute. Over his head he heard the metallic noise of the roller coaster. He passed in front of the Palais du Rire, a funhouse with concave and convex mirrors that seemed to provoke great amusement, judging by the faces of the people who emerged from inside it. Those who tried their luck with the bow and arrow or the rifle changed from deep concentration, a rarity in that place, to jubilation or ridicule depending on their accuracy.
After a while, he retraced his steps and returned to the hotel. Again the porter greeted him, standing in a military posture. Dimas walked past one of the elevators, full of foreigners, and waited to go up in another. Its sole occupant was one of the serving women, recognizable by her black uniform and bonnet and her white apron. She was cleaning its interior.
“Good morning,” said the middle-aged woman with large dark eyes.
Dimas responded by removing his hat. She hardly dared to look at him, although she smiled gratefully. On more than one occasion, she had been responded to with utter indifference.
“Looks like a cold morning out there, no?” the woman said, trying to fill the heavy emptiness so common in elevators.
“It’s not bad; I like it that way,” Dimas said, serious but kind.
“That’s true, you know? This summer stretched out too long; it’s time for autumn to get to work. But what I don’t understand is the people who go up in that guat … in that, you know … that thing with the water. …”
“Yeah, I saw they were already lining up.”
The woman smiled, relieved he had understood her.
“What kind of fun is that, paying to fall down in the water?!”
The woman’s smile made her look younger. Dimas wasn’t normally inclined to chitchat, but he felt comfortable with her.
“Those diamonds on these rich people won’t get wrinkled or shrink, don’t worry,” he responded.
He left the wo
man laughing in the elevator and walked toward Ferran’s room, turning his hat over repeatedly in his hands. There was no note on the door: Ferran must be alone, he thought. He knocked, and the door opened. Dimas entered cautiously and was relieved to see his boss was ready, clear-eyed, knotting his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. He looked at Dimas in the mirror.
“Good morning. You’ve come at just the right time. I’m going to the restaurant for breakfast. Have you eaten? Yes? Good. Take my things down if you don’t mind and wait for me in the car, all right?” He left the room with a resolute step.
The atmosphere was rather stuffy in the room. Dimas opened a window and let in a bit of fresh air. He looked outside, contemplating the verdant landscape of the Sierra de Collserola. It seemed impossible that a little farther down, the big city with its smoke, its noise, and its bustle was stretching out its claws. He left his hat on a chair and sat down a moment on the edge of the bed. He thought about the woman in the elevator; humility was not something that left him indifferent. For all his life, he had breathed it in his house, through his father. And like him, despite her circumstances, that woman possessed strength, hidden dignity. But Dimas Navarro wasn’t trying to be a better person. He didn’t want to be like his father, even if he admired him. He refused to spend his life waiting for his rewards to come to him, the way the devout did, praying and praying and keeping faith that one day, their efforts would be reimbursed.
He was glad Ferran had left his change of clothes in his suitcase; he wouldn’t have to bother folding and packing them; he could just carry the suitcase down and wait in the Hispano-Suiza. When he went to open the door to the room to leave, he heard a noise on the other side.
It was the servant he had met in the elevator, who jumped in fright and asked for forgiveness when she ran into Dimas.
