by Andrés Vidal
Raquel, Raquel the Beautiful, as she had been called at the beginning of her singing career, had just come in. The policemen, who hadn’t quite made it to the door, saluted her with excessive deference and gawked with admiration. It was clear they regretted having to continue their rounds. Raquel was a young woman with black, slightly curly hair, high cheekbones, big brown eyes, fleshy lips, and a wasp waist. All the men close to the entrance stared at her as she walked by. One of her hands was resting on her hip, the other held a long cigarette holder with a minuscule cigarette emerging from its tip. She stopped in front of Dimas and took a deep breath. All was suddenly silent in the bar. Everyone held their breath. At last, Raquel blew smoke in his face and gave him a lascivious look. The laughter exploded and the revelry began again at the tables and the bar. Raquel the Beautiful waved to the man at the piano, not taking her eyes off Dimas until she vanished through the door in the rear.
“Careful, my friend,” Manel warned him from behind. “I’m going to give you another anisette to help you calm down. You’ll need it: Raquel the Beautiful takes no prisoners.”
Dimas downed his drink in one sip. He had seen posters of Raquel the Beautiful in the kiosks; her face and figure were impossible to ignore. Manel refilled his glass and poured one for himself.
“To whatever life is left for us,” he toasted, raising his glass.
“Life is strange,” Dimas responded, his eyes lost in his drink. “You can’t imagine what I would have given a month ago for a look like that. And yet now …”
“Sometimes things don’t come along when you want.”
“And when they come, it seems like they’re not really there,” Dimas said.
“I see how it is. Our new guest doesn’t understand the ways of women. … But hey, either does anyone else!” Manel smiled. Then he shouted to his coworker, without waiting for a response: “Josep, I’m taking five.”
He invited Dimas to follow him to one of the tables that had recently emptied. Once they were settled there, Manel leaned forward on his elbows, focusing on Dimas with his large, honest eyes, and even though they seemed to be the same age, said to him, “Tell me everything, kid.”
Dimas looked at him for a few moments in silence. The waiter held his gaze, generous, smiling, and Dimas thought at last he found himself with someone who wasn’t hiding behind a uniform, a violent pose, or a costly suit. After introducing himself and telling his name, he began to talk, calmly, as if he’d known Manel all his life. He talked to him about his trip to Bilbao, his boss Ferran, his dreams, the businesses he wanted one day to have, his father, Guillermo … and Laura. That girl who still seemed to him like a spoiled child but whom he couldn’t stop looking at, maybe because the kind words her brother spoke about her made him want to know who she really was, what was hidden inside that gorgeous girl with the cat eyes who had become an enigma for him, so intriguing that he couldn’t manage to clear her from his mind.
When he was done talking, Dimas felt much better, like a new man. It was as if he had rid himself of a heavy burden.
“Look,” Manel said, “one time a neighbor, an old guy who used to come by the bar to have his little glass of sweet wine after dinner, told me that he didn’t regret a single thing he had done, despite his age; but he was deeply wounded by the things he didn’t do.” He got up and said solemnly, “Now I have to get back to work. It’s been a pleasure, Dimas.”
“Likewise,” Dimas said, making a thankful gesture.
When he was was alone, he drained his glass. Looking around, he paused at some eyes that were gazing directly at him. He was surprised to see it was himself, reflected in the mirror among the smoke and the crowd. He looked at himself for several minutes, asking himself whether he really was the person he thought he was, if he was living up to his expectations. The truth was, he no longer had problems with money: he dressed well, he was free, his father and brother could live more comfortably … But what had he changed into to accomplish it?
On his way out, he left some change on the bar and said good-bye to his new friend, who continued watching him until he’d gone outside.
When Manel struck up a friendship with certain customers, he always had the sense they would come back. But there wasn’t much time to reflect: through the window, the face of another policeman appeared. He took a deep breath and shouted out, “Café con lecheeeeeee!!”
The next morning, the day was calm. It was the nineteenth of November and Barcelona seemed to be fattening itself up to get ready for winter. Everything was serene, tranquil; even the sun’s warmth was just enough to chase away the cold. Dimas met his father in the stairway.
“Good morning, son; it’s good to see you. I was just coming down to see if you were back from your trip. How did everything go? Are you off to work already?”
“No, it’s a calm day. I was actually coming up to see you. I missed you after all those days on the road.”
Juan, holding up the bread he had just bought, said, “Listen, I’ve got a proposition: How about we wake up Guillermo, we’ll take him to school, and then you and I can have breakfast at that place where you went with that girl … Laura, right?”
Dimas was taken aback for a moment, hearing a reference to that afternoon coming from his father’s mouth. He imagined Guillermo must have told him.
“Sounds good,” he responded brusquely. In fact, he wasn’t feeling sociable. His head ached.
They prepared Guillermo’s breakfast, laughed with him for a while, and then left for the school. The boy, still tired, walked cheerfully. He didn’t remember how long it had been since his father and brother had both walked him to school. When they said good-bye, Juan proposed a change of plans, saying they should head toward the center of the city. He seemed to be in very good humor.
They went to have breakfast at the Zurich on the Plaza Cataluña. Workers from the streetcars used to meet there, since various lines crossed at the plaza. When they saw Juan, more than one of them greeted him. Dimas felt irritated when he saw the pity in some of their eyes. His father understood and leaned in close to him.
“Some of them are afraid what happened to me could happen to them. You have to realize that among those men over there”—he pointed at the group—“there are fathers with families, with three or four kids or even more. It’s not personal, son.”
Dimas felt the blood flowing into his face. It was as if his father had read his thoughts.
“And you’re not angry about how it all happened?” Dimas ventured.
Juan looked at him and smiled serenely.
“Look at what happened to Guillermo’s parents, your aunt and uncle; that’s what misfortune is. That’s something that lasts forever. Of course I was mad, and the right thing to do would have been to give me a pension or a job where I could manage. But the world doesn’t change for just one man. I only have one life and I will not waste it going to the tomb with that bitterness in my soul. I have you, I have Guillermo … You have to keep looking ahead.”
Dimas took a sip of his coffee. His mouth was dry. A soft, cool breeze had just lifted up. His father looked around as excited as a tourist, an immigrant, as if he hadn’t been there thousands of times before. He said that after breakfast they should take the streetcar up the Rabassada.
“The views are spectacular, and the walk up there is really worth it.”
As they rode the streetcar, Dimas found it strange to repeat the path he took so often, driving Ferran to rub elbows with the city’s rich and powerful. And yet, for the same reason, the idea appealed to him.
He was aware that he stood out next to his father, that his suit was much more elegant than the clothing Juan wore. He should take Juan to the same tailor he himself went to. And Guillermo as well. He knew his father was a man of modest tastes, but he wanted him to at least have one nice suit for special occasions.
They were silent throughout the journey: a
comfortable silence, warm, knowing. Down below, Barcelona looked that day like a kind city, a place you would aspire to live. A city filled with souls that were struggling just to stay afloat, watched over by angels who cared for them, or by the ancestors Juan’s aunt had told him about back in Abejuela. Juan let himself be caressed by the sun flooding in through the window.
They got out at the Gran Casino stop. Juan walked toward the hotel without thinking twice. In the gardens stood a figure who waved on seeing them. She looked familiar to Dimas, though he couldn’t identify her until he was close to her: yes, it was the cleaning woman he had met in the elevator and then in Ferran’s room. He gave his father a sidelong glance and saw the old man was smiling.
“Well,” Juan said without hesitation, “I think this is a good time to leave you two alone.”
The woman, clearly nervous, walked over to a nearby bench. Juan walked off on the gravel path without looking back. Dimas followed her, filled with a feeling of disquiet, and the woman pointed to the empty place beside her on the bench.
“So,” she said, and then cleared her throat. “I don’t know how to start. …” She looked at him with watery eyes. Her lips were trembling. After a long silence, she continued, “I’m … I’m your mother.”
Dimas went pale. He felt a pressure in his mouth and stomach and a kind of vertigo, as if everything were spinning all around him.
“I don’t know what to say,” she went on, her voice cracking with emotion. “So many years have passed … Your father and I met up again recently, and we’ve been talking. … Son, I know that—”
“Don’t call me son!” Dimas burst out. He realized his life would never be the same, that this news could endanger him, that his relationship with his father would change, that even his identity, his deepest sense of himself, was already changing. And there was nothing secure to grab hold of.
“I understand you, I understand you’re angry,” she said, crying. “But everything had gone bad. I didn’t have a choice. …”
“Choice?!”
She lowered her head.
“Dimas, please, let me explain. …”
He stood up. His initial disorientation gave way to a general anger against the world. And while his pain looked for a focal point, for a guilty party, it grew more intense, more constricted—he could feel it in his throat and his chest. And then something broke inside him and shattered into a thousand pieces.
“I don’t need your explanations! You’re no one! You’re not my mother! You left us!” he shouted, enraged.
Carmela reached toward him.
“No! My child … I loved you so much, it drove me mad!”
Carmela’s voice became a blend of noises and he could only make out the occasional word. Dimas was overwhelmed. He felt hatred for her, or wanted to, and the word betrayal burned in his thoughts like a hot ember. Now he understood why his father had seemed so happy: he was seeing her again, as if that was the best he deserved, as if the woman who had run away when they most needed her had a right to be forgiven. His hatred extended now to his father, spreading like a disease.
Without speaking, he turned and rapidly walked away. Dimas saw the streetcar that went down to Barcelona and got in without a second thought. He didn’t want to see his father running to that woman who was crying her bitter tears; all he felt was hatred for her. Inside, he felt cheated, like his parents had stolen a part of his life, and an aimless kind of yearning filled him; all he could hear was the sound of crunching leaves. Undoubtedly, with a mother, things would have been different. And the uncertainty about his actions that he’d felt when he looked at himself in the mirror the night before in the London Bar returned to his mind.
But for some reason, as the tram descended toward the city, Dimas began to feel calmer. As if those buildings standing were like pillars where he could hang the thin threads of his own security. Barcelona was there again amid the mountains that pushed it out toward the sea. And then his doubts began to vanish and what he did and what he was became one and the same thing. He was Dimas Navarro and the city was at his feet, waiting to be conquered.
That night Dimas decided he wouldn’t be the one to give in. But he didn’t want little Guillermo to suffer the consequences of his anger, which had been caused by no one other than his father, so he went upstairs for dinner. Though the two adults tried to act normally, Guillermo could tell something had happened. Dimas walked with him to his bedroom and told him good night.
When Dimas left, his father was still sitting at the table. He gave his son a distant, sorrowful look. Dimas, far from being moved, was wounded.
“How many times are you going to let yourself be humiliated?” he asked in a whisper, so Guillermo wouldn’t hear.
Juan shook his head with resignation.
“Son, you should have listened before you judged. I did and I can assure—”
“I’m not you,” Dimas interrupted. “I don’t let people walk all over me.”
He walked brusquely from the apartment. Dimas was tired of his father’s resignation, his acceptance, his refusal to face up to life and everything it involved. He decided to go out and began walking without a clear destination, looking again for shelter in the middle of the urban labyrinth, so hard, so overwhelming. He passed by a building in ruins. Just as with the Sagrada Familia, the sky could be seen through its windows, but unlike it, this place had already experienced its splendor. All that remained now were the memories of whoever had lived there. On one wall that remained standing, he could make out a painting or photo, an image that was both a memory and an absence.
Dimas thought that was a perfect definition of his father, the shadow of something that had once been and would never return again. He saw Juan old, alone. It seemed to Dimas an image worthy of compassion.
He walked away, his steps turning toward the hubbub of the center, the noise and bustle of the other Barcelona, the one that didn’t sleep, that didn’t give in, that fought for its essence. Like him.
CHAPTER 24
Since its birth in 1827, the Paseo de Gracia had been one of the most famous streets in the city. Even before people had begun to talk about the Ensanche, the bourgeoisie liked to stroll along this arterial that had room for carriages as well as pedestrians. More than forty meters wide, it became the meeting place for the best of Barcelonan society, the place where they would greet their friends, show off their newborns, maybe even look for a husband or wife. Little by little, both sides were filled with homes and palaces. Owing to the lack of infrastructure in those early years, the owners in those days became known as the “early martyrs of the Ensanche.”
It wasn’t long until the age-old competition sprang up among the bourgeoisie to see who could build the most ostentatious residence, and the Paseo de Gracia soon boasted numerous architectural treasures built by the most recognized modernists of the time, people like Antoni Gaudí or Puig i Cadafalch. Each building had its own aesthetic, its sole pretension to be the most beautiful of all. This was exemplified in the Manzana de la Discordia, the Block of Discord, where no building was like its neighbor and all vied to be the most beautiful in an eclectic, elegant jumble.
It was in the midst of this environment that the Jufresas’ new store was situated. For some time, Ferran had been looking for somewhere new, and he had pressed Francesc on the matter numerous times. He thought it urgent that they adapt to the enormous changes that were taking place at the beginning of the twentieth century. Now, a multitude of friends and customers, the cream of the crop of Barcelona’s high society, had joined the family inside for the special occasion of its inauguration.
The appetizers were passed around amid formal conversations and pronouncements of admiration of the new locale, situated at number 10 on the avenue. The women’s pungent perfumes mingled with the scent of the cigars. Feathers and tassels weighed down the hats and shawls that rounded off the women’s extraordinar
y dresses. On the walls, a great quantity of shelves displayed watches, rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and all sorts of jewels under glass: the most spectacular ones of the collection, the most luxurious, with the largest stones, provoking the envy of many. Everything in the store served to emphasize that opulence. The décor worked to dazzle the customer as well, making one think that anything purchased there would be like admission into an exclusive club.
Ferran had taken care of the preparations and he was careful not to overlook a single detail. The family’s prestige should shine through in every act, in every public appearance. He had invested a great deal in the new location, the place where now, at midday, an intense light was coming in through the large windows and the frosted glass door. Ferran took care to receive the guests, to make sure each of them was comfortable. To two of his most prized acquaintances he offered a guided visit through every corner of the jewelry shop. Compliments rained down amid glasses of Moët et Chandon. A half-empty tray of canapés of cheese and salmon was laid out on a table; Ferran offered some to his friends and raised a hand to signal the servant woman, Matilde, who had left the house that day to offer her services here. She took the tray, disappeared for a moment, and returned with another full of prawn brochettes.
Soon Ferran Jufresa, Andreu Cambrils i Pou, and Josep Tordera, the textile manufacturer, had picked a quiet corner to talk about business.
“You must be happy with the new place, Ferran. I have to congratulate you,” the deputy mayor said.
“Thank you, Señor Cambrils. I think the effort has been worth it.”
“It’s well laid out and has much more light than the previous shop. You’ll barely have to use the lamps,” Josep Tordera added, looking from one side to the other with his discerning eyes. “In the factory we have to keep the lights going the entire day. The power company is making a fortune off me. Sometimes I think about putting around candles and oil lamps to save a bit of money.”
