The Dream of the City

by Andrés Vidal

  As if she felt the weight of his eyes, Laura looked up and pinned him with her cat’s eyes. She observed him intently, almost ferociously, for a second or two, and Dimas, taken off guard, was unsure how to react. Finally she raised a hand and motioned for him to come over; she looked determined and was not smiling.

  Dimas obeyed and approached them.

  “Look, I want you to tell me what you think of this brooch I’m designing,” Laura said. She pointed to the tabletop, where a number of papers were unfolded.

  Dimas was surprised by the invitation. He couldn’t imagine why she was asking his opinion. He remembered perfectly how she had flown into a rage after he’d agreed with her brother Ferran about her previous project. Now, with Laura’s attentive eyes on him, he felt as if he were being put to the test.

  “What would you say it is?” she asked him then.

  Dimas remained silent, contemplating the drawings scattered on the table. This time, he’d decided, he wouldn’t hesitate before giving his opinion. He didn’t want—couldn’t accept—her calling him uncouth, not again, not for anything in the world.

  Laura waited, more expectantly than she would later like to admit, while Dimas examined her recent sketch in stony silence.

  At least she had to concede that he didn’t rush to a conclusion. He always seemed ready to listen to what others said and to reflect on it. And that, no matter how he looked at things or how much they disagreed, implied a certain kind of respect. To see him there, attentive, with his clean-shaven face, the suit that fit him like a glove, his serious, focused face, made her feel flattered, even if she wasn’t sure why.

  “These figures,” Dimas finally said, tracing his index finger across the page, “remind me of the towers of the Sagrada Familia …”

  Laura and Francesc shared a complicit glance.

  “… and also, at the same time, the round shapes of Montserrat,” Dimas continued, speaking more to himself than to them. “But here there are three of them, and on the façade of the Sagrada Familia are four. Why three?”

  Dimas looked up from the drawings and gave Laura an inquisitive stare. She stared back at him with a serious expression as she heard his question, but instead of speaking, she waited for him to find the answer on his own.

  “Three …” Dimas said in a near whisper. “La Sagrada Familia, the holy family … The three are Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  Laura’s lips, pursed until then, opened imperceptibly, letting her expel her held breath, and interspersed with it, a nearly inaudible exclamation that might have expressed irritation or surprise.

  Whatever it was, Dimas felt a shiver of pride travel up his spine. Unlike his daughter, Francesc’s face was lit up by a broad smile, and he waved his hand, inviting Dimas to continue. Dimas swallowed and said, “The tower in the middle has an X at its base. I was told once that the X, for Gaudí, was a symbol of Christ.”

  Now he was speaking to Francesc, and yet when he said this, he couldn’t help but look over at Laura. It was she who had explained to him the significance of that symbol in the course of their evening out with Guillermo, not so long back.

  “See?” Laura erupted like lightning to her father when Dimas was done. “And you said nobody would understand it! There are still a lot of details missing: I want the towers to be porous, but in such a way that they resemble trees; trees with their foliage …”

  “Perhaps a cypress,” Dimas said, daring to interrupt her. “On the Nativity Façade, beneath the towers, it could be a cypress. The tree of life.”

  “Well, it looks like we have an enlightened subject here,” Francesc ventured in a tone at once sarcastic and amicable. Laura furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in an expression of disapproval. “But go on, my dear, I’ve interrupted you. You had said something to me about the materials.”

  “I don’t want the symbolic value to be destroyed by the opulence. I don’t want diamonds or gemstones; I was even thinking of using silver, or aged silver. … But then, white gold could also be a nice solution; it holds up better, and you can contrast brilliant and matte finishes … and also, gold was one of the gifts of the three wise men. And I was thinking the X could be red, because it’s a strong tone, it will stand out from the rest, and it could be a tribute to the blood of Christ. I could do that in enamel, right? We could do it in a mosaic style, since that appeals so much to Gaudí. …” Laura was speaking out loud to her two audience members, Dimas and her father. “If only there was someone … It’s such a shame Pau left us,” she added.

  Dimas’s jaw clenched. He felt another shiver, this time of fear. He didn’t know what Ferran had told Francesc about Pau Serra, but regardless, he wanted his name dissociated from that firing, which still weighed on his conscience no matter how he tried to forget it. He bit his lower lip to keep from saying anything and crossed his fingers.

  “What are you thinking, Papa?” she went on. “Who from the workshop could do it?”

  Francesc arched his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat.

  “Maybe Àngel Vila. He’s very good with white gold.”

  “You think he can do the same work as Pau? I don’t know, I could try with other models and then …”

  “I know you and Pau got along well, but don’t dismiss Àngel’s abilities because of his age. He may only be thirty, but he’s been here since he was a boy. Àngel is your man, no doubt about it,” Francesc concluded.

  Laura stayed quiet a few seconds, weighing her father’s suggestion. There was nothing she could do but try. Dimas took advantage of the silence to begin stepping away. Suddenly he felt shoved aside, as if he was invisible, and he even felt a bit stung, with the feeling he’d been used, that he didn’t matter to Laura and Francesc on his own, except as a kind of faceless symbol of the public the Jufresas could try their new designs out on. He could feel his expression hardening. He took out his pocket watch from his vest and clicked his tongue loudly as he saw the hour.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go, Señor Jufresa,” he said, stretching out his arm and offering his hand. Francesc squeezed it cordially. “Good day to you both.”

  He turned his head slightly in Laura’s direction, but she didn’t seem to notice him. All her attention was on her drawing. It was as if she didn’t care about him anymore. Egoist, Dimas thought. And though he couldn’t fault her for devoting all her passion to her work, since that was what he did as well, he did curse her inside for her inveterate arrogance, her lack of manners. All she cares about are her own needs: getting her work praised and making sure everyone agrees with her, he said to himself. Turning around, he made it to the door in two broad, agile steps. His hand pushed the door forcefully. He was full of regret. For an instant, he had thought that his opinion, his point of view, had actually interested her, but now he understood nothing mattered to her but herself. He was about to cross the threshold when a soft feminine voice, but firm, called to him and made him stop.

  “Oh … Dimas …”

  “Yes, Señorita Jufresa?” he said, turning on his heels.

  The first thing he saw was her eyes, looking directly into his, clear and brilliant. And then her smile.

  “Thank you so much for your opinion.”

  “Of course,” he managed to say, and though he tried to smile as well, he was incapable of showing the same subtle courtesy that she had just demonstrated.

  Instead, he merely nodded his head from the distance with a gesture that must have seemed tense, uptight, even proud, while her smile faded, little by little, seeing the torment in his eyes, the deep, raging sea in his gaze.

  When Dimas left the workshop, he felt a kind of emptiness, a sense of being orphaned. The bright winter sun jabbed at his eyes. He turned up the collar of his greatcoat and walked slowly. At midmorning, the city was stretching its limbs amid the thick scent of dead leaves, and inside, he was calling himself a fool, an idiot, a dullard, and he b
lamed himself for not returning Laura’s smile. He regretted the paralysis that had taken hold of his face and gestures, turning him into an automaton; her smile had blinded him, he had almost forgotten how to breathe.

  Then, little by little, he began to calm down. There was nothing to be done, he said to himself. After all, no matter how much he smiled, he still couldn’t do as Laura had. It would take more than that action on his part to light up an entire morning.

  Dimas headed toward Conde & Co., a department store situated on the Rambla de los Estudios. There he looked for an intentionally modest bag. Discretion would have to be the code of conduct for his upcoming journey. He was on the verge of leaving for another store, because the floors were all mobbed with customers, when a young woman finally came to his aid. She got what he was looking for and wrote it down on a slip of paper he could take to the counter to pay. When she had finished with the first note, she confused Dimas by beginning a second one with her name and the time she got off. Dimas thanked her for the thought but then said good-bye to her. He had things to do, he said. He was about to set off on a long trip.

  When he left, he ate a sandwich at a nearby bar and then went home.

  Before he arrived, he stopped a few moments at the Sagrada Familia. As the days passed, the progress was becoming clearer. Behind the scaffolding that covered the unfinished towers, the grandiosity of the building was already apparent in the grand spaces of the porticoes and the exuberant monumentality of the Nativity Façade.

  There was still some time left before Guillermo would be done with school, so Dimas continued onward toward home. He would have liked to say good-bye, but he would try to make up for it with some gift. He had to pack his bags and head to Pueblo Nuevo. There were still a few last details to take care of before loading the cellulose at nightfall.

  He packed his bag in the silence of his new home. He had recently rented the apartment downstairs from his father’s to have his own space. He hadn’t even hung up curtains, and any noise resounded through the rooms. He already had his clothes there, and he was furnishing the place bit by bit. A table, some chairs, a bed … He didn’t need much. It was still strange to him, living in an apartment identical to the one where he’d lived until a few days before, but now empty. The differences between the two were minimal: the new apartment had some newer tiles in the bathroom, the doors and their frames were painted white, and it was closer to the street below.

  When he heard the door shut in the apartment upstairs, he went up. His father had just arrived, had deposited several packets of food on the kitchen table, and was now putting them away in the cupboard, a small corner with a kind of built-in closet.

  “Hello, son. You’ve come at just the right time. Look at these apples,” Juan said, throwing him one. Dimas caught it in midair and bit into it. “Are you staying for dinner? I’m making a stew tonight.”

  “No, Father, I came to say good-bye. I’ll be away for a week.”

  “So long? Then stay for dinner; that way at least you’ll have a full stomach when you get on the road.”

  Dimas shook his head.

  “I have things to do. I’ll eat something on the way. Tell Guillermo I said good-bye.”

  “I will. …”

  Juan didn’t press it any further. Dimas returned downstairs and finished with his luggage. As he packed, he was surprised to hear the voice of his father, singing, coming from the inner courtyard. He smiled a few moments and thought how long it had been since he’d seen him so happy. A wave of tenderness washed over him and he felt good, at ease with the family fate had given to him. Then he chose the clothing he would wear and went to the bathroom to wash his face and shave. He had already done so in the morning, but he thought he might not have the chance again until he’d returned from Bilbao, and he had gotten used to paying attention to his appearance. When he was dressed, he closed the window of the kitchen and went outside. He could still hear his father belting out some old song.

  Soon it was dark. Dimas had spent the afternoon confirming all the details of his plan; he was meticulous, and he didn’t want to miss anything. The money in question, and the importance of the operation, kept him on his toes. With one of the trucks that would take them to Bilbao, he went around to pick up the workers he had hired: Some would load the trucks and then take turns driving; a few others would unload and would serve as protection during the trip. Although, or maybe because, the trucks were new, Dimas had decided to hire a mechanic, too, just in case.

  He got all the men together at a solitary spot in Pueblo Nuevo. Until recently, it had been a cotton warehouse, and the odd tuft of fabric still clung to the walls or floor. The sheets of cellulose were divided up into large bales piled up against the wall in an orderly fashion. All the drivers found it interesting that it wasn’t a public entity they were dealing with; it seemed like outright contraband, no matter that Spain had declared its neutrality, and trade with both sides was permitted. Still, the war obliged you to pick one side and go against the other, and the secrecy of the operation was key to protect any future trade with the customers’ enemies: Both sides knew the importance of these kinds of supplies. For that reason, a simple load of cellulose in a country at peace had become a nocturnal operation, with unmarked trucks, a little-traveled route, and a camouflaged whaling boat in a port far from the point of origin.

  Dimas ordered several of the men to get together a small snack for them before they headed off: bread, cheese, sausages, tomatoes, salt, oil, and a few jugs of wine to ensure their camaraderie. He needed them well fed since the goods would need to be loaded quickly and the trip would begin after nightfall. He spoke with the drivers, a group that included him, and they quickly established the turns they would take. He directed those who would go first to take a quick nap on the empty bags piled up in the corner of the building.

  Several kerosene and oil lamps were set down—just enough for everyone to see where they were walking. Several men went outside to smoke and feel the night air on their faces. They knew they would be shut up in the cab for hours and even the enormous industrial space felt small to them. When they opened the door, bursts of stray cotton were lifted off the floor by the wind, giving the place the momentary appearance of a snowstorm. When they had finished their meal, Dimas left with a small group to fetch the trucks. The rest stayed there resting and chatting about where they had worked, what they hoped for from the trip, what they would do with the money they’d been promised, or where they’d met their wives.

  The trucks weren’t long in returning. This time it was necessary to open the large doors to the bay, which creaked as if complaining of being awakened. Dimas had gotten hold of the vehicles—Hispano-Suiza 40/50s—thanks to a chain of obligations binding the textile and automotive companies and Deputy Mayor Cambrils i Pou. The trucks were new models, fresh off the assembly line, and the journey would be a test for them. They had come from the Hispano-Suiza factory in La Sagrera, only a few minutes from where the men were now.

  Those resting in the warehouse got up to gawk at the trucks. None of them had ever been driven before. After a few brief comments, the men began to load them up with the bales. The night was cold. Vapor flowed from their mouths as from a cauldron of boiling water. The ramps creaked with a metallic sound each time the carts were rolled up them.

  Suddenly someone called at the door. All activity came to a halt. Suspicious glances shot through the room. Dimas remained calm and pointed for the man closest to the door to open up. The small door cut out of the larger one used to admit the trucks opened with a sharp squeak. From behind it appeared the figure of Chief Bragado. He was wearing a black hat with a narrow brim, a long brown coat, and leather gloves.

  “Good evening,” he said circumspectly. He entered without waiting to be invited. The person who opened the door had to jump out of his way. “How’s everything going?” he asked Dimas.

  “According to plan,” he answere
d, pointing to the trucks and motioning for the men to carry on with their work. “I’m hoping we’ll be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s good. The faster everything finishes up, the fewer problems we’ll have.”

  “Indeed.”

  Bragado squinted his eyes and shot Dimas a penetrating stare. His lips curved upward in a grotesque rictus trying to mimic a smile. Dimas took an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and passed it over; Bragado placed it in his coat without looking and handed back a thick paper folded over into a square.

  “Take it. It might be useful.” Bragado’s voice seemed to have lost some of its customary coldness.

  Dimas unfolded the document and looked at it briefly. It was a safe-conduct pass. He asked himself why he would need it, just as he had asked himself a moment before what Bragado was even doing there. He didn’t care for the man. He was quiet, he always showed up at the wrong time, and there was something unpleasant and slippery about his sly manner. But he was connected with higher-ups and Dimas was careful to feign respect for him.

  “You’ll need it if the Civil Guard asks you too many questions,” the police chief clarified. “The fewer people who know what you’re transporting, the better. Naturally, it will only be of use to you on land. Once the ship leaves Bilbao, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  “You’ve already done a great deal,” Dimas said, smiling and carefully putting away the paper. “I’m sure Señor Jufresa is very grateful.”

  Bragado’s eyes bored into Dimas.

  “I’m convinced of it,” he responded stiffly, and this time, he actually smiled.

  The chief stayed there until they’d left. After Dimas closed the warehouse door, he shook hands with Bragado and then got into the last of the trucks, the one he himself would be driving. The chief of police watched them leave, his feet slightly apart and his hands interlaced behind his back, disappearing into a fog of exhaust. A chink opened in the clouds covering the sky and the majestic moon shone through. Everything was coated in a silvery sheen. Dimas thought then that the moment had come: he took out the cigar Ferran had given him and lit it carefully. The rumble of the motors cut through the air. As they plunged into the country’s interior, the fog thinned and finally disappeared. The moon glowed bright over the spotless metal of the vehicles.