The Dream of the City

by Andrés Vidal

  “And why did you argue this time, Berta?” Pilar asked out of curiosity.

  “Well,” she cleared her throat. “Just about the dress I would buy for the party. Esteban doesn’t want me spending money and he’s trying to make me wear something I already have in the closet. Half of what’s in there is older than I am. And then I find out about little gifts that cost more than everything I own and I have no idea who they’ve gone to.”

  Núria grunted: she had problems with her husband too, but she didn’t expose them to the four winds. The other two women with them, pretending to read their magazines, looked at each other slyly, equally stunned. Núria took the moment to vent a little of her anger.

  “Then today you should buy the most expensive dress of all of them,” she exclaimed.

  “And that’s just what I’m going to do.” The two women clinked their glasses and smiled conspiratorially.

  The older daughter of the Jufresas supposed the only reason her mother would invite Berta would be to laugh at her behind her back. But now Pilar seemed sincere in her behavior and sympathy with the wife of the chief of police. Núria didn’t know if it was a charitable streak or if, carried away by the circumstances and Ramona’s heavy hand, her mother had surpassed her limit with the champagne.

  “By the way, where are you holding the party this year?” one of the other women asked.

  “In the gardens at Parque Güell,” Pilar responded, squinting her eyes. “I’ve spoken with Eusebi and he hasn’t shown any objection. Have you seen the Larrand house lately? It’s marvelous.”

  Parque Güell was related esthetically to the park of La Fontaine in Nimes. Eusebi Güell had studied there as a young man and seemed to have been deeply struck by it. Though they were public gardens, the intention, when Gaudí designed them, was that they would be a residential area away from the neighborhood of Gracia and laid out like a private park: sixty parcels with important common services. But the idea had fallen apart, and apart from the porter’s lodge, only three houses had been built on the fifteen hectares; and the count and industrialist occasionally allowed events to be held in the park.

  “I hear that Gaudí lives there as well,” Núria interrupted. “I’m sure Laura would be pleased if you invited him to the party.”

  “Honestly, my dear, right now I couldn’t care a damn about her happiness. What is happening with that girl? Her father always defends her, but this. … There’s no way to get her out of this one. As soon as she returns home, she’ll be receiving a stern reprimand, at least from me.”

  “Maybe she’s in love with someone else,” Berta blurted out.

  “What foolishness, Berta. Who is she going to meet if she works all day in the studio or at that church they’re building? She hasn’t got a spare moment,” Pilar responded. And she settled the question by dropping the subject, pointing at the latest dress a girl of no more than twenty, her blond hair pulled back in a bun, exhibited with a timid walk. “I love it. Save that for me, Ramona.”

  While the designer and Pilar began discussing when they would take her measurements so she could have her hands on that remarkable pairing of a sky-blue blouse and skirt, Núria sat there wordless. For once, Berta’s words hadn’t been so ridiculous. She tried to remember her recent conversations with Laura, giving free rein to her feminine intuition. Yes, Laura had shown interest for another man, though she hadn’t acknowledged it openly, and Núria knew very well who it was; and likewise, she would bet that at that very moment, her sister was not off with a friend, as she’d said that morning. She looked at her glass, and when the bubbles seemed to have settled down, she drained it in a single gulp.

  Close to the Sagrada Familia, where they had met that very morning, Laura and Dimas were having trouble separating at the end of the day. The good-bye had already stretched out several minutes and neither of the two was willing to make it definitive. Dimas was sitting in the driver’s seat; Laura had finally relented and allowed him to drive back to Barcelona. He was caressing one of her hands propped on her knee, never taking his eyes from her.

  Laura moved close to him and kissed him. She ruffled his hair with one hand.

  “For once, it’s not all slicked down.”

  He smiled, ran his hand over his head, and responded, “Today’s my day off.” After a silence, he added, “Why don’t you stay with me?”

  He knew it was a stupid question. She was a lady—she would never spend the night away from home—but he hadn’t been able to resist asking. He’d never invited a woman into his home; he usually went to theirs, and then left the way he came the next morning.

  Laura smiled.

  “I can’t. … They think I’m off on an outing with a friend. I can’t stay out any later.”

  Dimas nodded, understanding, and sighed.

  “Then I should go now,” he added, looking at the watch in the pocket of his vest.

  “Will I see you tomorrow at the workshop?”

  “Yeah, I’ll come by early, even if it’s just to see you for a moment.”

  “Perfect,” she responded. She kissed him again, slowly, and then bit his lower lip.

  “Stop, stop or your father will have to spend the next few days looking for you.”

  Laura laughed and then lowered her head. Dimas opened the door of the car and got out, looking at her the whole time. She jumped into the driver’s seat and said good-bye, waving her hand. She stepped on the accelerator and the vehicle roared amid the dark streets that at that hour were almost completely empty. Behind her, she left the echo of the marvelous day they’d shared.

  Dimas was euphoric and didn’t feel like going to sleep. Though he was already at the entrance to his building, he decided to walk toward the city center. He would visit Manel and have a drink at the London Bar. With the glimmering moon at his back, he felt, at that place and at that time, he could do whatever he set his mind to, that the entire world was at his feet.

  It took a little less than half an hour for him to cross half the city and make it to El Raval. From as far away as Conde de Asalto, he could already hear the music blaring from his friend’s bar, and he suddenly thought he sat Àngel Vila, the worker from the Jufresas’ studio, rounding the corner. Dimas was happy, life was smiling on him, and he thought he would greet him. He sped up, but as he turned down the same street, he saw him enter the bottom floor of a building guarded by a man three times his size. Dimas knew well what was hidden inside. He had seen others of the kind, though they changed location frequently: he himself had even gone to meetings of that kind at one time; Àngel Vila was on his way to a clandestine gathering. But it wasn’t his problem, Dimas thought. He turned around and headed toward the bar.

  As he entered the door, he saw that the sharp melody he’d heard was coming from the piano played by the owner, Josep Roca, now hunched over the keys. The shouts and laughter of the enthusiastic public at times drowned it out completely. Catching his reflection in a mirror, Dimas noticed how unkempt he looked: he had removed his tie and his collar was unbuttoned. He remembered the wonderful day he’d spent with Laura and forgot the anarcho-syndicalists completely.

  Manel was at the bar pouring out a shot of Anís del Mono for a customer still dressed in his trapeze uniform. At the same time, a clown with a red nose and his eyes and mouth outlined in white makeup performed pratfalls on the small stage in time to Josep Roca’s music. The public laughed and screamed at the top of their lungs, and Manel did the same; he seemed to never tire of the raucousness.

  “It’s wild in here tonight,” Dimas said by way of greeting.

  The bartender glanced away from the spectacle a moment and looked at Dimas attentively.

  “And you? What’s going on with you today?”

  “Me? Nothing. Why?” Dimas could feel the tension in his cheeks as he responded.

  “You’ve got a girl and now you’re on cloud nine. Am I right? Look at y
ou.”

  “Pipe down …” Dimas responded cheerfully while taking hold of the beer Manel had just placed in front of him.

  When he reached into the pocket of his coat to take out a bill to pay, he felt the soft sand inside. While he shook it off into the air, Manel chuckled.

  “I see. The beach. Good place to …”

  “Hey! Take your money,” Dimas said, laying the bill on the bar.

  When Manel laughed, two dimples appeared in his cheeks, dimples that made the women’s hearts melt. He had a boyish, cheery face, with long eyelashes and a manly nose and lips. His tousled hair and his ruffled appearance made him look like he’d just stepped out from a brawl, though that slight touch of violence was a marked contrast to his true personality, which could not have been more generous or sincere. Dimas sat down on a stool and let himself be carried away by the laughter, and the loud, heady atmosphere of the Barrio Chino. Manel continued watching the pianist and the clown, and periodically egged them on like one more member of the public. Dimas realized he himself was the only one not paying attention. He smiled, seeing himself in the mirror, and began to shout along with the rest. He let the torrent of festivity sweep him off, and his own happiness mixed with that of the clientele.

  When she arrived, Laura found her father in the library. They talked a long while in the same room where Josep Lluís Antich had uttered his threat hours before. Francesc began by asking about the excursion, and she told him how beautiful Sitges was, what a beautiful day it had been … trying not to let the smile on her face give a hint as to her deception, or her not-quite-truth, for she was incapable of lying to him. But her joy was not enough to blind her to reality, and little by little, she came to see that something was troubling her father.

  She’d known that sooner or later she’d have to face her family after what had happened with Jordi, and when the time came, she was ready to face the consequences. But she had imagined the repercussions would be personal and would mean difficulties for her own relationship with Jordi, that he’d grow jealous or curt, or there would be uncomfortable silences at the round table discussions or other events where they would see each other. She never imaged that her refusal would bring any backlash to her family. For that reason, when her father recounted his meeting with Josep Lluís Antich to her, the sky fell down over her head.

  Laura’s feelings of guilt were mixed with an irrepressible fury. There was neither charity nor understanding in her thoughts. She felt powerless because she was a woman, compelled to conform to conditions imposed by others or be condemned to the judgment of the public. Her thoughts were frantic, diminishing her happiness and all the joy she’d felt that day. It was as if all the good fortune in her life had become a disgrace, a tribulation. And that feeling of sinfulness grew and made her guilt grow stronger. She remembered the commercial arrangements between the Antichs and the Jufresas. The thought that her own decision could affect her family’s business seemed to her an unjustifiable burden.

  “Don’t worry, dear. All this will be worked out,” her father said to calm her, as if he was reading her mind.

  “I don’t understand what that man could be thinking,” she responded, exasperated. “As if I should know what’s passing through the mind of the Antichs before they do, and somehow intercept it. I’m going to talk to Jordi.”

  “Don’t say anything to him, Laura, it will only make it worse. I’ve known Jordi’s father for a long time, and he’s not going to change him.”

  The room glowed from the orange light of the fire. Mobile shadows roiled over the books in the back. Her father’s eyes looked tired. Laura took his hand.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t see what was happening earlier. When I spoke with Jordi, he admitted he’d been wrong as well. I don’t understand …”

  “You have to realize that Josep Lluís is used to things turning out the way he wants.”

  “But that doesn’t mean it will always be that way. Things aren’t as easy as you want. And anyway, our relationship is none of Señor Antich’s concern.”

  “Exactly,” her father agreed.

  Laura sat silent. Her gaze turned to the fireplace, as if attracted by a magnet. The flames flickered in her eyes like inextinguishable sparks.

  “I’m sorry, Papa, I’m so sorry.” She asked for his forgiveness again as she lowered her eyes to the floor, embarrassed, lost.

  “Don’t apologize for not conforming, Laura. I’m proud of you for not just being what everyone else expects, for looking for the best way to live the short life you’re offered. We’re not all as strong as you, so stay how you are, no matter how much criticism you encounter on your path. The world isn’t ready yet for people like you.” Francesc smiled tenderly and lifted her chin up with his hand.

  Laura hugged him with all her strength, inhaling the aroma of his clothing, that scent that had been familiar to her since she was a little girl. It was true, she had never wanted to marry Jordi, she had never seen him as her future husband, and she had made that decision long before she fell in love with Dimas. She pulled away a bit and looked into her father’s eyes. Her expression was calm.

  “I have to tell you something else,” she said. Francesc bowed his head expectantly and closed his eyes. “There’s someone else,” she finally confessed.

  Her father opened his eyes and grinned knowingly, with a slightly roguish air. He placed his hands on her cheeks to contemplate her face in all its splendor. At that moment, he seemed to understand that his little girl was now a woman.

  “I won’t ask who it is; I would rather you tell me when you’re ready. I only ask you one thing.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “Make sure that he’s worth it.”

  Francesc looked at his daughter, his gaze clear, unmistakable, and she understood his request. She had never felt anything like what she was now experiencing with Dimas. Nor had she stopped to reflect on the consequences their love might have, maybe because she was afraid of ruining it, maybe because she didn’t think that keeping their love hidden mattered, or because, up to that moment, she preferred living in the secret world the two of them shared. Whatever it was, she knew that what now happened wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I promise,” she said.

  In fact, it hadn’t been long since she’d known Dimas, but she was ready to give him all the time he needed. She believed he was well deserving of the risk. She felt closer to him than to any of the people who had formed part of her life for years. And she certainly wasn’t going to abandon him because a family that wasn’t even hers imposed it. As her father said, she had to follow her own road, even if it was tortuous and full of obstacles. She knew she could always count on her father’s support and for that reason, she wouldn’t let him down. She would do whatever she could to help him, and that included designing a collection so dazzling it would render the Antichs’ vengeance toothless.

  Both Laura and Dimas had been living until then on the splendor of early love, when the two people involved are blind and don’t think about tomorrow. But little by little, this would begin to settle, like the colors of a painting exposed to the sun. Then reality would assert itself, and love, if it was worth as much as Laura thought, would become less perfect, but stronger, more real. In these contending realities, Laura and Dimas had crossed paths on two roads that a closed-minded, hostile world had decided should never meet; while Laura was fleeing from traditionalism, diving down into the essential, for humility, Dimas was trying to ascend and reach a prestige like that of the Jufresas. Laura didn’t believe it all came down to money, to the craving for enough money to pay for what would come tomorrow; nonetheless, their common path was not yet marked out, and it was uncertain. They had met in the middle of that road to walk the rest of it together. But first they had to choose a way that would be right for both of them. Would it lead upward or down?

  VI

  TEMPERANCE (GLUTTONY)
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  One must eat to live and not live to eat.

  —Antoni Gaudí

  CHAPTER 36

  February was almost over. Unlike the tensions of the recent months, the Jufresa family hoped that this unsettled period would finally come to a close with the winter. They would have to face many social occasions that would put them to the test—including the one taking place, an aerial exhibition and charitable auction, this very day. Judgment of the family had happened during the Christmas party of Pilar Jufresa and it would happen today as well. The number of attendees at Parque Güell the past twenty-fifth of December had been much smaller than in previous years; the shadow of the Antichs stretched very far. Naturally, the majority of people were motivated by personal interests to take one or the other side, worried about losing the loyalty of a family that had a voice in the most important business sectors. The Jufresas had to make great efforts to remain dignified, with stoicism but above all with elegance, despite the scorn they were being subjected to.

  The former hippodrome of the Casa Antúnez was used sporadically for aeronautical shows; the first flights took off from those fields situated between Montjuic and the sea. Under the wheels of those flying contraptions, the oval track where the thoroughbreds had run was gone. The grounds could accommodate twenty-five hundred people who faithfully paid a price unattainable for most people’s wallets. They sat in the stands and watched the pilots’ maneuvers. Outside, a multitude of onlookers ran from one side to the other, their boots and shoes splattered with mud, trying to catch a glimpse of the excitement.

  It hadn’t been so long since 1910, when Julien Mamet took off from the same site in his Bleirot monoplane made of tin and paper, powered by a single engine. That had been the first flight in Catalonia and the second in Spain; the first had take place on September 5, 1909, in Valencia, and the pilot had been Julián Olivert. Since then the exhibitions had continued to take place with regularity.

  On that unpleasant Saturday morning, Pérez y Garay, squeezed into his leather jacket, took off in a model H.F. 20, created the year before by the brothers Farman for reconnoitering enemy positions in the European war, used by the armies of the French, the Italians, and the Spanish. Spain had lent the pilot and the plane for this exhibition to raise funds for the Red Cross and the soldiers wounded in the conflict.