The Dream of the City

by Andrés Vidal

  “Is this the new piece you’re doing? These drawings are lovely, if you don’t mind me expressing my opinion. …” Àngel said.

  At thirty-two years of age, Àngel had a gentle face with a permanent smile that revealed his irregular teeth and made small dimples appear in the corners of his mouth. His eyes were narrow and his cheeks round, in contrast to his diminutive chin. Laura knew very little about him except that he’d been working in the studio since he was a child. After the disappearance of Pau Serra, their most skilled craftsman, the Jufresas had found in Àngel a good substitute. Laura wasn’t so sure when her father had proposed him, but even if Àngel wasn’t quite as good as Pau, he had a steadier hand, and was a consummate professional and a good man.

  “Thank you, Àngel,” she responded. “Not everyone thinks the same.”

  “Laura, artists don’t tend to worry about what everyone else thinks. Their power lies in their convictions, in their confidence in what they do, and they don’t look away; they keep on investigating and drawing. … We have to fight for what we believe and not think about those who try to stop us in our tracks; don’t forget that your name brings you fortune, and you owe it to yourself to take advantage of it.”

  Àngel’s tone had suddenly become serious, and his ever present smile had changed to a somber expression. There was no doubt it was an issue that mattered to him a great deal.

  He had talked about conviction and strength, about being sure of your work and your own ideas. About fighting for change and taking advantage of opportunities. Laura knew very well the unhappiness of the workers in Barcelona; the protests and the strikes had been happening for years. The country was living through an economic crisis that it seemed incapable of overcoming, and those who paid the price for it were the same ones as always: the poorest, the most needy. The workdays stretched out to as long as fourteen hours, the pay was miserable, and the unemployed filled the streets, many incapable of feeding themselves. It wasn’t long ago that a meeting had been called by a committee of unemployed workers in the Casa del Pueblo on the Calle de Aragón to require the upper classes to take responsibility and help the situation. The meeting had concluded with an attempt at a protest that was disbanded by the police, with five people arrested for resisting authority. It was incredible to Laura that those people, whose sole objective was to fight back so they wouldn’t starve to death, had ended up behind bars. She had also heard about the anarcho-syndicalists and the socialists behind the UGT (Unión General de Trabajadores), both with their own strategies but each working for better conditions and equality. It was true she was a girl with good fortune, and she forgot sometimes that she also needed to fight her own battles.

  After a long silence, she replied, “It’s not so simple, Àngel. We can’t just put jewelry on display, we have to sell it. But still, you’re not wrong: I think I will try to change the way things work around here.”

  “That would be very nice indeed,” the man said, and his smile returned.

  She looked at Dimas and asked, “I suppose you two know each other, if only from seeing each other around.”

  “Yes. A pleasure,” Dimas said, nodding to the artisan.

  “The pleasure’s mine, Señor Navarro,” Àngel responded. “I’ve seen you a lot with Señor Jufresa, but not often here inside.”

  “Call me Dimas, please. I hear you’ve got a master’s touch when it comes to metalworking,” he responded kindly.

  And as if that phrase had granted him permission to speak at length, Àngel began to speak openly.

  “Bah, all it takes is practice. But for this … There should be more jewelry like this.” He pointed at Laura’s sketch, where the interlaced letters could be made out despite the smudging.

  “They’re also taken from the Sagrada Familia, no?” Dimas asked.

  “Exactly.” Her feline eyes were riveted on Dimas. She was incapable of looking away from him. She only remembered Àngel’s presence when he took his leave of them. “Àngel,” she called. She gave him everything she had taken to Ferran. “Don’t forget these. Go ahead and get started remaking any of the molds we need urgently.”

  When the artisan left the office, he closed the door behind his back, as if giving carte blanche to the two lovers. Dimas, unwilling to let that opportunity to be close to her pass by, came over to Laura, who stood up as she divined his intentions and walked to the back of the office. He pushed her against the wall and pinned back her arms. First he grazed his lips against hers, and then he kissed her. It wasn’t a long kiss; they had to be cautious, since they could be interrupted at any moment. It was as if neither of them had thought of anything else the whole day. They looked at each other from close up, very close, and stayed there until they could no longer contain the urge to kiss again. They gazed intently at each other, as if trying to memorize every pore in the other’s face.

  “I’d like to be with you tonight,” she said, before lowering her face shyly.

  “I’m sorry,” Dimas said, and kissed her on the neck. “Don’t be angry, but I have to wait for your brother and I don’t know how long he’ll take. I would rather be with you tonight; I don’t find Ferran too attractive, to tell the truth. …”

  Laura tried to silence her laughter while she luxuriated in Dimas’s lips as they moved along her ear.

  “And tomorrow?”

  “It may well be he’ll need me all day tomorrow, too. I can’t promise anything.”

  Laura grunted and pushed Dimas away with both hands. The entire situation was unjust, she thought: that they had to hide, that they couldn’t announce their love in public, for fear Ferran or someone from the workshop or her family would find out. The thought of loving Dimas freely, without having to control herself, surrounded her in a whirlwind of lust that flew in the face of her upbringing.

  “It’s fine, you work for him, there’s nothing we can do. We can’t be together; we can’t see each other every day and act as if nothing was happening. I can’t resist you, and I have to sneak around to find my way into your arms. … It’s too much. What’s the point? What’s the way out? I have to go. … I’m leaving,” she said, blushing and frustrated as she walked toward the door.

  There was no time for her to grab the doorknob; in two steps, Dimas had reached her, clutched her around the waist from behind, and pulled her into him. He spoke in her ears in a hoarse whisper, heavy with passion and longing, but also with anxiousness, hunger, rebelliousness, decision. His voice sent electric shocks through Laura’s mind, her chest, her arms. He spoke to her of staying together, despite everyone else, of struggling against conventions and the fate imposed by those around them and working to forge their own destiny. He said he would fight the entire world if he had to so she could be his forever, in the open, without hiding, without shame, without asking for forgiveness. He would work tirelessly, he would prosper, he would be the best to be deserving of her, so she could be his wife, not just a fling with the boss’s sister or some fleeting adventure. He had never been in love, he had never felt anything like that, and he didn’t want to lose her. And he wouldn’t give in. He would always come back to her arms, he would never tire of repeating it, because that was where he belonged. Laura couldn’t resist him.

  He said to her, “Don’t leave like this. Let’s see each other Sunday, let’s run away, even if it’s only for the day.” Unwilling to let her go without an answer, Dimas held on to her from behind, pressed his cheek against hers, radiating heat. “Say yes. We can do whatever we want.”

  “Fine. Sunday,” Laura conceded, defeated but content, although she knew it would be risky to be seen with him.

  “You won’t regret it,” he whispered, or rather panted, next to her neck.

  “I’m going to open the door,” she said while she rearranged her dress and made sure her hair was still arranged over the nape of her neck. “It’s almost lunchtime and my sister is meeting me here. I promised her.�
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  “Laura.” Dimas turned her to face him.

  “I’m not angry, really.”

  “It’s not that, I wanted to ask you if you’d spoken with Jordi. …”

  “Yes. I’ll explain everything to you Sunday. Right now I’m in a rush.” She gave him a tense smile.

  At that moment, they heard a woman’s voice on the other side of the door, far away, calling Laura’s name. The intensity grew with the approaching steps, coming closer to the office where the lovers were hidden. Laura’s eyes were as wide as saucers: It was her sister, Núria.

  “Laura! Where are you?” she repeated.

  Laura kissed Dimas quickly on the lips and opened the door to the office, making sure the door closed completely behind her back. She took her sister’s arm and hurried toward the exit.

  “Sorry, I was getting some sketches in order,” she said without a pause. “My apologies for the lateness.”

  Everything was fine; Núria hadn’t seen Dimas. For a moment, Laura had lost her breath thinking she would be found out.

  Shortly afterward, Dimas opened the door softly and looked out to see if Laura was gone. Once out of the office, he saw Núria turn her head toward him slightly, with an uncertain expression. Àngel came over. Seeing the distressed look on Dimas’s face, he offered, “If you’re not busy right now, I can show you what I’m working on.”

  “Of course,” he answered.

  Dimas followed the artisan to his workspace like an apprentice on his master’s heels. They passed a number of tables with their partitions until they’d reached the other side of the workshop. As he walked, Dimas reflected on the conversation he’d just had with Laura and their situation at present: He wasn’t worried about Núria, he was sure she suspected nothing, but Jordi Antich bothered him; he was the perfect match for Laura, wealthy, cultured, from the same social class, the inheritor of a prosperous family business, from a bloodline as highly regarded as her own, or perhaps even more so. Dimas had none of that; at least, not yet.

  He continued musing while Àngel showed him a number of the finished pieces that would soon be placed on the store shelves. Some were very small, but all glimmered brightly; and there were some with complex patterns in relief, colored enamels, and contrasting intensities.

  “These are the ones the girl designed. She’s got talent, there’s no denying it. These have been in the Jufresa catalog for years, but they’ve had a special something since she came along. Of course, I have to mark up and chisel the stones so the designs turn out the way she wants, so in a sense, they’re also mine, too.”

  Dimas looked at Àngel’s smile. He was proud of his work. He enjoyed what he did, and when he spoke of each of those tiny treasures, his face seemed to fill up with a kind of light Dimas didn’t know how to describe. He didn’t feel the same about his own job. The lies and the fraud he committed at Ferran’s command were nothing to be especially proud of; he couldn’t make jewelry out of nothing, he had to leave that in other people’s hands.

  The workers soon said their good-byes; it was midday and they all left for the nearby tavern for a bit of lunch. Dimas was surprised by their camaraderie, as they were all very different from one another and yet they respected one another like members of a family. They invited him to come along, to be a part of that union, but he was obliged to say no, lamenting that he had to wait for his boss. Dimas knew he was different now. From the moment he’d entered the office of his boss in the depot in Horta, he’d accepted he would never again share a half liter of wine at lunchtime or get into coarse conversations about women or what he would do one day if he ever managed to get ahold of real money.

  After he declined the workers’ offer, Dimas went to eat alone quickly at another tavern close by; he then returned to his post to see if Ferran had returned.

  Ferran arrived back at the workshop after a dreary afternoon. Dimas looked at his pocket watch: it was past eight, and he had spent the entire afternoon and evening there, waiting, while all the other workers had already gone home.

  His boss lurched forward; he smelled of alcohol and cheap perfume. He stepped into his office and came out after a few seconds. Dimas watched Ferran stumble and clumsily slip what looked like an envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “Take me to the casino,” he ordered.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Sometimes it’s worth it to indulge yourself, Navarro,” Ferran said, leaning back into the seat of the Hispano-Suiza. It had been hours since the sun had vanished behind the Sierra de Collserola and the darkness covered his face completely.

  Dimas listened in silence, his eyes on the road.

  “Believe me.” Ferran’s tone was intimate, his words heavy. His words reached Dimas’s ears on a tide of alcohol and effusiveness. “A good wine, a real tablecloth, fine crystal, silk pajamas … trifles, maybe, but everyone wants them. And only a few of us can have them. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

  “That everyone wants to get rich.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something else, too. When you get rich, you’re a king. You live in a tower up high over everyone else. And when you’ve got it, you have to protect it, no matter what. And what that comes down to, in the end, is a bunch of small details.” Ferran’s eyes followed the sinews of the road as he spoke. “Important details, that’s true. There have always been classes, but the lines between them are thinner than ever before. What distinguishes one group from another? Scrupulous behavior, airtight honesty, or the opposite, a good list of contacts.” He placed particular emphasis on the last phrase. “In Barcelona there’s no lack of fine jewelers. The population’s growing every day, but the poor are growing faster. Soon there won’t even be room to navigate with this car.”

  Then he fell silent. The vehicle roared through the curves under Dimas’s steady hand. In the distance, the outline of the Gran Casino appeared against the heights of the mountain. The yellow light of the streetlamps separated the structure from the dark monotony that spread out from the firmament. Ferran settled down in his seat, and his clouded gaze sought some point far past the windshield, lost in the infinity of the sky. His voice rang out once more.

  “The casino, for example. Everyone wants to go there, but only a few of us can get in. What’s the pleasure in losing money hand over fist?” he asked, looking straight at Dimas now.

  “The possibility of winning, maybe?”

  “I don’t think that’s it. Your hands sweat when you lay your money on the felt and the wheel begins to rattle,” Ferran uttered with great seriousness. “In fact, you could get up and leave before the ball stopped and the feeling would barely change. It’s the mere fact of playing against someone, you know? Of being able to gamble something others don’t even have. The vertigo of risk, of defeat. But I rarely lose, that’s not in my plans.”

  “But it’s always possible … To lose, I mean.”

  “What are you saying?”

  When they had crossed through the imposing metal gate, Dimas cut the motor.

  “I mean that the casino creates a warm atmosphere where the customer feels safe, but the casino never loses. It represents the illusion of sanctuary with its heat, its big luxurious salons.” Dimas got excited as he spoke. “And the customer relaxes; sometimes he wins a little, sometimes he loses more than he wins, until one day he finally lowers his guard; his thinking is blurred by alcohol and he loses more than he means to.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “It’s what I imagine. I have the impression that the casino never loses.”

  “Right. And you think today’s the day it might happen to me,” Ferran said, rebuking him.

  Dimas realized he was on slippery ground and began to take back his words.

  “Well, I’m not …”

  “You think today’s the day my thinking might be diminished.”

  “I wasn’t trying …
”

  “You think you’d do better?” Ferran looked at him with glazed eyes. They were still inside the car, stopped in front of the staircases of the glamorous building, and the people walking by them, ready to bet it all, stared back at the two of them, a little discomfited.

  “Not at all. The same thing would happen to me as to anybody,” Dimas said.

  “You know something, Navarro? You’re right about that: It could happen to anyone. But I’m not anyone, and I hope you think twice before talking to me that way again. Maybe you think you and I are the same? It could happen to anyone, he says!” And Ferran laughed boisterously as he opened the door to the car.

  He stumbled out and Dimas stayed there with a wounded feeling gnawing at his breast. He felt guilty for offering advice to the man, who had responded by insulting him, reminding him that he’d always be an underling, and upbraiding him in the process.

  While Ferran belonged to a bourgeois family and moved among politicians and industrialists, Dimas’s neighborhood was filled with run-down houses, miserable vegetable gardens, factories, and rats. No matter how much time he spent at Ferran’s side, how many fancy suits he bought, how long he drove a top-of-the-line Hispano-Suiza, his coming and going in the mansion in San Gervasio and the respect and love Laura gave him, as long as he took orders from Ferran, he’d continue to be the same Navarro who ran errands for his boss. And he was getting tired of being treated that way.

  Dimas leaned against the hood of the car and admired the scene of utter leisure that surrounded him: He preferred standing outside to being huddled inside the vehicle. For some time now, the cold had been seeping into his bones. Suddenly he heard steps at his back and he turned around and saw Inés. His sister had seen Ferran walking into the casino hours before and took advantage of her break to come talk to Dimas. She lifted her cigarette girl’s vest over her head and laid it on the hood of the car. She ran her hands up and down her arms to stave off the cold. Dimas took off his coat and put it over her shoulders.