The Dream of the City

by Andrés Vidal

  “It seems like every fat cat in Barcelona has chosen tonight to put it on the line.”

  His relationship with Inés had grown closer since she visited his father’s house. They saw each other often: Carmela worked all day in the hotel, and as she herself had explained, Inés hated to eat alone, so from time to time she would surprise him with something delicious she had made herself. Dimas certainly appreciated the company.

  “You shouldn’t complain about the number of people,” he said, already in a better mood. “It’s good for the business.”

  “Yeah, but my rear end has been pinched so many times, it’s killing me,” she responded, sucking in a breath and pulling the overcoat tighter over her uniform; she was freezing. “I swear there are times when I want to turn around and slap them. If I had my way … All those snobs with their elegance and their manners, in their hearts they’re still low-grade hicks. All they know how to talk about is money and their latest conquests, and the two of course go hand in hand. If only I could, I’d show them! But their day’s going to come; one day I’ll have my revenge on all them and they won’t see a hair on my head after that …”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Ah, don’t pay attention to me. Inside there, people flap their lips, and no one’s ashamed to say anything in front of the cigarette girl. They must think I’m one of their mindless whores.”

  Just then, a chubby figure in a tuxedo with a lazy step came out of the casino and approached the car. The two siblings were silent while the man looked from one side to the other, in search of someone. The ember of his cigarette glowed there in the darkness, then fell to the ground and broke into a thousand tiny sparks. Seeing his driver, the man passed the car and was bathed in the glow of one of its headlights. After he’d walked on, Inés continued talking.

  “That one that just came out, Camps, for example: You see how he’s lumbering along? He’s just spent a fortune. And yet”—Inés lowered her voice, as if about to tell him something delicate—“I just heard him tell the editorial director of La Vanguardia to hold off on reporting that his business is bankrupt. He wants to make a discreet sell before the news gets out. I don’t know what he can do with just a few extra days.”

  “Maybe he already has a buyer in mind, or he thinks that there’s still time to find a decent bidder before the real situation comes to light.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s a possibility. When someone buys a business, they take over everything to do with it, the assets and privileges but also the debts, and no one wants to owe anything to anyone. So the longer he can put off the news about the actual state of his accounts …”

  “… the better a chance he has of finding someone willing to pay a good price for the company,” Inés finished his phrase. “You know your business, don’t you?”

  “Or maybe I’ve just spent too long on the dark side of that world.”

  Dimas stayed there a moment absorbed in his own considerations. He had certainly spent his share of time in those murky waters and he knew how to move through them; he had the strength and the intelligence he needed as well as the contacts Ferran had spoken of before. He had shown his skills every time he had managed to extricate his boss from a new predicament, every time he’d solved a problem Ferran couldn’t solve on his own. Dimas raised his head and looked Inés in the eyes, saying, “Do you know what assets Camps talked about with the director of the newspaper?”

  “I heard something about a shipment of five tons of copper that doesn’t show up on his books.”

  Dimas nodded thoughtfully.

  “I have an idea …”

  “What?” Inés asked, full of curiosity.

  “Before I tell you, I have to make sure it’s going to work. But if I make it happen, it won’t be the last enterprise we embark on together.” He smiled at her.

  “That would be nice. … Let’s see what I get out of it. The last time someone gave me a present, it was a garter they wanted to watch me put on afterward.” Seeing Dimas’s expectant eyes, she said, “Don’t ask.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Come on, tell me what else you know about this Camps character,” Dimas said when his laughter had died down.

  As they went on talking, Inés forgot the humiliations of her work and Dimas forgot the arrogance Ferran had shown. Their relationship was quickly becoming like an old friendship based on the life they could have had together if everything had been different, if they had grown up under the same roof, but without the bad parts that often accompany it: there was no resentment, no envy, no judgment; they appreciated each other exactly as they were at that moment.

  They had been talking for some time when Inés, who had kept her eyes on the stairway the whole time, saw a silhouette appear against the gleaming lights of the façade. It was Ferran.

  “I’m leaving. Your boss is on his way. I’ll stop by one of these days,” she said, handing him back his coat and putting on her vest for work.

  When Ferran passed Inés, he stopped in his tracks and turned to watch her walk by. Then he came up to Dimas and whistled in admiration.

  “I see you don’t waste a second, my boy. Who’s that?”

  “One of the employees. She came out to smoke and we’ve been talking.”

  “I see that.” Ferran gave a lascivious smile and carried on talking. “So look, we’re going to kill two birds with one stone here.” He felt in the pockets of his black blazer. “Just so you see that the casino doesn’t always win, here’s a little taste for you. Don’t spend it all on … tobacco! Ha, ha! Sweet blond tobacco …” He laughed at his own joke and slid a big sheaf of bills into the breast pocket of his jacket. He must have made a fortune, judging from the size of the tip. “Blond tobacco. You hear that!” Ferran got into the car, and Dimas did the same.

  The young man drove fluidly. His boss didn’t take long to fall asleep. He rested his neck on the seat back, and with his head turned toward the sky, he opened his mouth. His breathing was sonorous; if not a snore, then at least a resonant buzzing.

  As he approached the mansion of the Jufresa family, Dimas thought of the importance of information, of the usefulness of knowing what others were up to. What Inés had told him floated in his mind like the image of an island where he could take refuge. He was convinced that he’d been called to be something more than just being Ferran’s shadow, and he couldn’t waste the rest of his life doing so. He had worked hard, he had made it far, and now it was time to climb the wall Ferran had put in his path. For his father, for Guillermo, for his mother, for Inés … and for Laura. For Laura, too.

  When he arrived at the Jufresas’ mansion, Dimas had already made his decision. He awakened Ferran from his sleep and helped him into the house.

  “You’re a good friend, Navarro,” he said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Come in and let’s have a nightcap.” Ferran’s words were as clumsy as his steps.

  Dimas didn’t want to deny him this time. When they arrived in the salon on the lower floor, his boss flopped down in an armchair and asked him to pour a gin from the bar. In the time it took Dimas to make the drink, Ferran had already fallen back to sleep. He raised the glass in his direction and toasted, “To your health.”

  CHAPTER 32

  First thing in the morning the next day, Héctor Ribes i Pla entered his office in the depots at Horta and told his secretary he was not to be bothered; he didn’t want to see anyone, he wasn’t taking any messages. He opened one of the drawers of his mahogany desk and took out a box marked Jaquecurine Golobart. He took out a few pills and brought them to his lips. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. For an hour he sat there in his leather chair. Recently he’d been suffering more migraines than usual, and he had the impression he was becoming addicted to analgesics.

  The war had affected every country, albeit in differ
ent ways. In Catalonia, some businesses were making a fortune off exports; but others, who provided basic services and couldn’t raise prices at their whim, had to pay exorbitant prices for their parts and materials. The workers were exploited as it was, and the seething class conflict meant that it was impossible to place any further pressure on them. Ribes i Pla had gotten all he could out of his contacts in construction and metalworking, but the tram business was suffering, the cost of raw materials had exploded, and there was a constant push for improvements apart from the maintenance expenses. And these difficulties couldn’t be compensated by raising the price of tickets; doing so would lead to an outcry that none of the politicians were willing to deal with. So there was nothing left to do but hold his head and try to make do with his other businesses.

  After that period of reflection, Ribes prepared to tackle the tedious piles of paperwork before him when someone knocked at the door.

  “Pardon, Señor Ribes i Pla,” the secretary said, peeking through the door. “There is a young gentleman here to see you, he assures me you know him. I asked him to return in an hour, but …”

  “A young man?” he complained.

  The secretary looked at her paper.

  “His name is … Dimas Navarro.”

  “Navarro …? Of course I know him. Send him in,” he ordered. He was intrigued.

  When the secretary closed the door, Ribes stood up with his hands crossed behind his back. He was surprised to be hearing from Navarro and assumed he must have a good reason for coming. He remembered well the days when he’d worked for him and knew he wasn’t just dropping in to say hello.

  “Good day, Señor Ribes i Pla.”

  “Please, call me Héctor, we know each other well enough, Navarro.” He extended his hand, and Dimas grasped it firmly. Ribes gave him an affectionate smile. “So, boy, I see things are going well for you.”

  Dimas ran his thumbs under the lapels of his suit and then waved a hand, brushing off the compliment.

  “I can’t complain, but I imagine they’re much better for you.”

  “I doubt that. I sincerely doubt it.” Ribes arched his brows. “It’s hard times around here. This is far from an easy business, as you know.”

  “I’m sure,” Dimas said, nodding. After a pause, he continued, “That is precisely what brings me here. I am in possession of something that I think could be of use to you.”

  “Use to me?” Ribes didn’t conceal his surprise. “How so?”

  The industrialist offered him a chair in front of his desk while he returned to his own seat. Dimas unbuttoned his blazer and sat down calmly, holding his hat in one hand.

  “I have not forgotten, Señor Ri— Héctor, who was willing to place his trust in me when I was just one more mechanic in the shop.”

  Dimas gently declined the cigar Ribes offered him before lighting his own. After a few short puffs, the magnate replied, “You made me a good offer and I took it, just like any businessman worth his salt. Do you have something similar up your sleeve?”

  “Maybe something better.” Dimas smiled. “I’ll be direct so you won’t have to waste your valuable time. See, I hear that the price of copper has gone sky-high and I know you need high-grade material for the overhead cables, the relays, the accumulators, the pantographs, and so on.”

  “You’re not wrong about that, no,” Ribes i Pla said from his armchair.

  “Well, I can get my hands on five tons,” Dimas proclaimed, slicing the air with one hand. “Five, and at a good price, quite a bit under market value.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  With a calm but stern voice, Dimas said, “We’re talking about 275 pesetas per hundred kilos.”

  Ribes scratched his ear. The price was good, very good, but he pretended not to be satisfied.

  “Well, young man, it’s a little high. …” He did the calculations in his head. “In total you’re looking at more than thirteen thousand pesetas. That’s a lot of money in these hard times.”

  “Last year copper was priced at 290 pesetas per hundred kilos, and this year it’s hovering around 325. Unless the war ends today, it’ll keep going up. And even so, those countries will need to keep buying; they’re not going to stop using it from one day to the next. … I wouldn’t be surprised if it hit 400 pesetas in 1915, if not more.”

  Ribes sat back in his seat and took a long pull on his cigar. His lips curved upward in an amused and ironic smile.

  “You’ve done your homework, Navarro. … So what’s the catch? Where’s the trick?”

  “It’s a time-sensitive offer. The deal has to be closed today.”

  “Today? Come on, you’re asking me for an amount of money it’s not easy to get ahold of in just one day. What’s the rush?”

  “I got a tip. If we wait ’til tomorrow, there will be more buyers. And the price will go up.”

  Ribes found himself particularly comfortable in this situation. Dimas had begun his ascent and it even inspired a bit of pride in the older man. He could no longer look at him as another of his creations.

  “I see you’re still up to your tricks, no? No one can deny you’re smart. By the way … are you still working for Jufresa?”

  “Yeah. It’s not going bad,” he admitted. And then he looked straight at Ribes i Pla and said, “But let’s say today’s my day off.”

  Héctor Ribes i Pla understood straightaway. After a pause, he grinned complicitly.

  “As I was saying, your old tricks. … It’s no problem. I’ll be discreet; no one will know about our little deal. That would be best for you, right?’

  Dimas swallowed. Ribes knew very well what he was talking about: If Ferran found out his right-hand man was acting on his own, the reaction wouldn’t be pretty. He would probably put him in his place. And his job with Ferran was not only agreeable, it also put him where he needed to be. He needed Ribes i Pla to cover for him.

  “That’s right, Héctor.”

  Ribes i Pla enjoyed a puff of his cigar. He tried to make a smoke ring, but it came out in a muddle.

  “I’ve been in this business a long time, son, and I’ve seen all kinds. In this world, everything has a cost, and discretion doesn’t save you from the laws of the market. How about if we lower the price for a hundred kilos to 250? That should be enough to get you a pretty profit, and I’ll be able to save something on my end. Deal?” he asked, stretching out his hand.

  Dimas brought his own hand close and answered, “If it’s in cash, it’s a deal.”

  “Goddamn!” Ribes laughed aloud. “You’re sharp these days! Give me your hand, Navarro. Let’s go to the bank. I’ll give you half now and the other half on delivery.”

  “Two-thirds now, and the other third in a promissory note, if you like.”

  Ribes didn’t expect Dimas to respond so rapidly, and he looked at him a bit confused.

  “Don’t be surprised. I trust you. …” Dimas smiled, showing his teeth.

  The businessman erupted into a laugh and coughed on his cigar smoke. His face reddened slightly, but he didn’t lose his good mood.

  “You are tremendous! Just tremendous!”

  Dimas had never had so much money in his hands. He asked the bank employee to give him an envelope with its letterhead. When he showed the money, he wanted to make a good impression and show he’d gotten it from a respectable institution: the Bank of Barcelona, right on the Rambla of Santa Mónica.

  Under a cold, radiant sky, Dimas crossed the Ramblas to turn toward Pueblo Nuevo, where Jaume Camps’s factory was located. He only had a few hours before Ferran would awaken from his alcoholic stupor and require Dimas’s presence.

  While he looked for a taxi, he tried to stay calm, but inside, he was burning with impatience. The Ramblas were streets where you could meet the most refined members of the upper classes mixed with the sharpest pickpockets, and that w
orried him. If they robbed him, he would be digging his own grave: Ribes i Pla had given him 8,333 pesetas with the director of the bank as a witness. He put the idea of a robbery out of his mind and concentrated on catching a cab.

  He told the driver the address, and the driver replied with a measure of respect Dimas found excessive and a bit irritating. Still, that was one advantage of his suit: more than a few people confused him with a man of means and flattered him in hopes of a generous tip. He had noticed it since the day after he began to work for Ferran. He remembered when he put on his double-breasted suit for the first time, and he felt happy: everyone began treating him differently, and he seemed to hold the keys to power and proof he was one step above everyone else. Now, just a few months later, he still wasn’t used to the feeling. He was halfway between a preening bourgeois, showing off on the Paseo de Gracia, and a simple worker who aspired to nothing more than putting a bit of bread on the table.

  In no time they had arrived at the foundry of Jaume Camps. Dimas got out and tipped the driver generously. He was nervous, though he tried to hide it. If he wanted his plan to come out right, he needed to play his cards well and not act too rashly. Once again he was face-to-face with destiny, and he couldn’t choke.

  The few workers still there stared at him resentfully. They had no idea of the future that was awaiting them and were making their pieces without any sense of whether they’d ever end up being used. Dimas introduced himself to the secretary as an investor who wanted to speak to Jaume Camps. The word investor worked perfectly, and the man showed up before him straightaway, incapable of concealing his pressing need for good news. He invited Dimas into a chaotic office full of papers, boxes, and metal filings. There was barely any small talk; Camps wanted to get straight to the point. Dimas was encouraged by the businessman’s silent desperation. He appeared very different from the night before at the casino, Dimas thought, now with his badly ironed suit and his thick, untrimmed mustache. Dimas remembered the words Ferran had uttered about the importance of little details.