by Andrés Vidal
All those present were prepared to demonstrate their commitment to the noble cause by offering or buying some object of value for the auction. Mayor Boladeres i Romà had donated a prized crystal decanter in the art nouveau style and the industrialist Count Eusebi Güell had donated a painting by Pablo Picasso dedicated to his deceased friend, Carlos Casagemas. The Jufresas, who needed to show their good qualities now more than ever, had also offered a necklace with large gemstones set in glimmering gold.
As was common in such gatherings, each family’s contribution had unleashed complex rivalries to determine who was the most generous of all. In this way, good deeds became a corollary of ambition and appearances, the two main forces driving that social circle. Apart from that, there were caterers with exquisite food and drink that each attendee had paid richly to partake in. Trays with the finest cheeses and pâtés, canapés of a thousand different colors, white wine, red wine, and rosé, as well as all kinds of liqueurs from the sweet to the fiery attracted the attention of all the attendees. Of the two thousand available seats, those at the charity ball represented a mere five hundred. But the majority of them preferred to stand.
The mayor, accompanied by his wife and a small retinue from City Hall, among them Deputy Mayor Andreu Cambrils i Pou, occupied the first row. When the propellers began to spin, they were the first to shut their eyes and lift their hands up to protect their faces from the powerful gusts of air, and Señora Boladeres i Romà even made a quick movement to keep her long dress and veil from flying up. Francesc Jufresa, who was farther off conversing with the jeweler Enric Clarà, couldn’t help but grin.
“It’s admirable that you’re in such fine humor, Francesc.”
The Clarà business had been founded shortly after Jufresa’s grandfather’s, on the Calle Fernando VII. He had always been one step behind, as had his small shop, which went under-recognized there in the dark streets of the old city. His product line had been slower to respond to new trends than the Jufresas had. And yet now, out of the blue, he had struck gold. And Enric Clarà was hardly the man to let the opportunity pass to show off his newfound fortune to his eternal rival.
“Why wouldn’t I be happy? We’re all here together in support of a good cause, all of us know and respect each other, there’s good food, good drink …” Francesc responded cheerfully.
“True, true, but … after all that’s happened with the Antich family, I assumed you’d look more crestfallen. I understand they’re not the only ones who have broken their ties with you.” Clarà didn’t take his eyes off Jufresa. “That’s not the kind of blow you get over in one day, Francesc. None of us would find it easy to let go of worries about the future of our business and our families.”
While Enric Clarà sipped his white wine, Francesc thought he saw a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Life is full of obstacles, Enric,” Jufresa responded. “But our family is strong. So there’s no need for alarm. We don’t only do business in Barcelona; we have foreign contacts as well, and our exports are growing by the day.”
Francesc began excusing himself, saying he needed to look for his wife, when Clarà’s voice echoed from the bottom of his glass.
“That’s for the best, Francesc. For the best. I would not care to have to feel guilty for taking advantage of such circumstances. After what’s happened, Josep Lluís Antich has signed an exclusive contract with us. I imagine you knew that, though.”
“I did indeed. And allow me to express my sincerest congratulations, Enric. I believe we’ve all come out winners from this little dustup that at first seemed so unfortunate.” Francesc shook his hand firmly and his acquaintance did the same, not bothering to wipe the smug smile from his face.
Francesc politely took his leave and walked away calmly. No one could have imagined he was boiling with rage inside. With time, he had learned to steel himself in the art of dissimulation, a resource highly valued among the Barcelonan elite. The less others knew of what one was thinking, the less they could interfere in the course of those thoughts. Francesc realized that everyone there was clad in a mask, just like himself, and that in reality, no one knew anyone.
In the meantime, after an agile takeoff, the pilot was flying his machine with grace. He had a steady nerve as he pirouetted through the low clouds, enthralling the attendees, who broke out in applause every time the machine turned. The strident roaring of the motor caused those present to raise their voices as they took advantage of the large gathering to fill themselves in on the latest news and gossip. Their attire consisted of tuxedos, English-style frock coats, furs, tulle dresses with skirts and matching jackets, ankle boots, flats and high heels, and hats of all shapes and sizes. In a gathering of that sort, appearance was everything, and the icy cold provoked more than a few shivers in those who were slaves to fashion. The point of the thing was to show they had the costliest clothes, the flashiest car.
In a group composed solely of men, Ferran was listening to one of the captains of the air force, in his blue uniform displaying all his medals and insignia, while he discussed the progress of the war, his hat in his hands. The industrialist Eusebi Güell, dressed in all black, was also among the listeners, and he stroked his long white beard and asked questions of Captain Àlvarez, who responded to him respectfully.
The captain mentioned the Frenchman Roland Garros, who had mounted a machine on the front of his plane and covered the propellers in protective metal plating so he could fire on the enemy without fear of destroying the blades. Before then, the pilot had needed to use his weapon at the same time as he held the controls, and many airmen had died, not from being shot down, but from losing control of the craft.
“The Germans must have their hands full with that invention,” one of the listeners announced with a weary voice. It was no secret that the better part of the people there, the most conservative parties in the city, had lent their support to the Germans.
“I’m sure they’ll come up with something soon. They’re resourceful …”
“Or else they can steal it. If they capture one of those French planes …”
At this, some laughed, and others responded, offended, “That kind of dirty trick is a specialty of the French!”
“Gentlemen …” Deputy Mayor Cambrils i Pou interrupted as he approached the group.
The men all stepped away from the soldier and greeted the politician with deference. Count Güell was the first to return his attention to the captain and carry on with his questions. He wanted to know how far along the conflict was that was tearing Europe to pieces.
The officer updated him. “The English trounced the Germans at the Battle of Dogger Bank in the North Sea. Admiral Von Ingenhoghl tried to take advantage of the departure of the British cruisers to the west to attack and destroy a couple of stray units. He ordered Admiral Franz Von Hipper to set off for the Dogger Bank on the twenty-fourth of January. But the British were waiting for them. …”
Ferran, who had remained silent the whole time, raised his glass to the politician, smiling and turning a deaf ear to the information about the war.
“Excellent party, Señor Cambrils.”
“Thank you. But it hasn’t been solely me. All of your families have participated,” he responded, turning courteously to the other guests. Wearing a tuxedo and tie, with his hair slicked back behind his ears, Andreu Cambrils i Pou showed himself to be a skilled and amicable conversationalist. A moment later, he turned back to Ferran, his expression now stony: “I’d like to talk with you, if you would be so kind.”
He pulled the jeweler to the side while the other men engrossed themselves in the anecdotes of the soldier Álvarez.
“I’ve already spoke to Bragado about what I’m going to tell you now. You know he’s there in the back, he and his wife. She took part in the organization of the auction and has been of great assistance.”
Was this the politician’s way of reproaching him for
not playing a bigger role in the events? The other families had not been in touch with the Jufresas about anything, and the blame all fell on his sister Laura. Ferran was going to beg the politician’s pardon when the latter continued.
“But it’s not the auction I want to speak with you about, Ferran.”
“What is it then?” The young man leaned in, already nervous.
The deputy mayor cleared his throat before continuing. It must have been a delicate issue, because if there was one thing the politician had, it was the gift of gab.
“It’s about the construction in Campo del Arpa. It seems things are going slower than we’d wished.”
“Slower? What does that mean?”
“This year, it’s not going to be possible to build in that area. The neighbors are organizing and are on the verge of submitting official complaints. It hasn’t even been a year since the Mancomunidad was founded and they’re trying to avoid any kind of scandal that might endanger it. We’ve already got our hands full with the workers’ protests. For now, City Hall doesn’t want to push thing, so they’ve decided to take things slower …”
“But we’ve invested a lot … a lot of effort into this project.”
Ferran began to feel warm despite the cool wind. He had lost too much with the shipment of cellulose that sank in the North Sea. After that, it had been impossible to resume negotiations with the Germans to recoup his expenses, because the British had imposed an embargo and would intercept any ship that crossed the Mediterranean or the English Channel.
“I know, Ferran, I’m the first person interested in everything coming out right. Don’t worry, nothing has changed. It’s just going to take longer than we’d hoped.”
“All right,” the jeweler responded, smoothing down his lapels and breathing deep. “Then I can assume that in the course of next year the city will be looking to expand into that area,” he resolved, hoping to force the situation to his favor.
“Probably,” Cambrils i Pou nodded.
Mayor Boladeres i Romà came up to them and waved over Cambrils without worrying about interrupting their conversation. Though Ferran hadn’t even noticed, the pilot’s exhibition was now at its end and the auction was about to begin. The young man clenched his jaw in frustration and said good-bye, while they ignored him. His eyes swept over the large space before him. He should go to the tent they had set up, to be present for the sale of the necklace, a new model they were presenting in the attempt to quell rumors about the family’s losses. Ferran was doing everything he could to make the Jufresas’ crisis pass quickly and quietly, so he could get on with the next chapter of his life as a businessman. Others weren’t making it easy for him. He put a great deal into making the family’s losses seem minor, but it seemed that the harder he worked, the more the stain on them spread. This new setback with Campo del Arpa was unacceptable. He decided to speak with Navarro Monday morning to find a solution that would swing the balance back in his favor as soon as possible.
Laura jogged past him, holding up the folds of her dress and panting.
“You don’t have to run, sister. The auction will start whether or not you’re there.”
“Forget me,” she said to him, and hurried on.
Laura didn’t care to waste time talking to her brother. In the past month, her family had stopped blaming her; even her mother had spoken with her again after the long weeks of reproaches. Everyone but Ferran, who remained glum and resentful. Laura had accepted the consequences of her decisions, listening to the criticisms but also defending herself against the most vicious accusations. And throughout, she went on seeing Dimas in secret, to avoid aggravating tensions. For now, the most reasonable thing was for no one to know how close they were. Only her father knew that there was someone in her life, and he still wasn’t aware of who it was. She hoped that one day she would be able to stroll out in public with her love as she’d done that Sunday on the beach in Sitges, but for now, it was impossible. Nor did she wish to cause more harm to the person who had been, until recently, her closest friend. She hadn’t spoken to Jordi since that now distant dinner in El Suizo two months back.
Laura was stepping clumsily through the mud when she saw Jordi in the distance. She decided to approach him before he took his seat under the tent, now that his parents were elsewhere, and she walked faster, unconcerned with dirtying her white batiste dress, a pattern designed by Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. All she wanted was to speak with Jordi after those months without contact. Her friend was walking along gracefully.
“Jordi!” she called to him when she was near.
The silk umbrellas must have made it difficult to see or hear her, Laura thought when she saw that he didn’t stop after she’d called him. She came a little closer. She was very near, only a few meters away, when a new umbrella flashed in front of her face. She tried to sidestep it, but the owner didn’t budge. When she saw who it was, she stopped, surprised. Laura had never seen Remei Antich look at her so hatefully, with her lips tense and her eyes burning like hot coals. She had always thought the woman liked her.
“Leave him in peace,” she said. Her voice was stern, but hushed. “Have you not done enough?”
“I …”
“I will not let you trick me again with more of your lies. You have wounded the person I love most in the world and have brought enmity between our families. Do not come near him again.”
When she had spoken, Señora Antich turned and continued toward the place where Jordi had taken his seat. Her high heels drilled down into the soil and her dress of gold gauze was a sharp contrast to the cold and mud. She was a tall and attractive woman, not accustomed to speaking out. If she was doing it now, it was to show she was still wounded despite the time that had passed.
Laura watched how Remei sat down next to her son. She hoped that he would look over at her, that he would give a sign that later, they might be able to see each other. But instead, Jordi gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and looked indifferently across the distance toward Laura, as if he didn’t see her. Then he turned his eyes to the platform where the mayor was making way for Count Güell. The nobleman would direct the auction, making use of his honorable rhetoric.
Laura heard a loud sound at her back and when she turned around suddenly, she slipped on the mud: her feet came out from under her and she fell onto her back. She felt a hard, painful blow to her rear end and stayed there sitting, with her legs outstretched, on the damp soil. She clenched her fists on the damp grass and closed her eyes to avoid the laughter of the children who came over to mock her.
CHAPTER 37
The next Monday morning, Dimas was pensive as he exited the Jufresa workshop, his head swimming with ideas. He was looking for a way to resolve the conflict that had suddenly arisen for his boss over Campo del Arpa. Ferran was exasperated, as the only means he could think of to put an end to the protests were drastic, to say the least. Dimas assured Ferran that his suggestions could only make matters worse, putting the entire project in danger, and promised he would find a way to put pressure on the neighbors that would be more effective and wouldn’t resort to violence. He kept waiting for new opportunities like the deal he’d done with Ribes i Pla so that he could finally distance himself from Ferran Jufresa’s activities. He needed to prosper on his own and show the world that he could aspire to a woman like Laura. But at that moment, there was little room to act: Ferran was upset about the vague time frame he was getting from City Hall, and he needed to take it out on someone.
The lack of regulation in the Ensanche was a boon to private investors looking to benefit from legal loopholes. Since the Cerdà plan had been approved in 1860 various proposals had been considered for new legislation that would take account of the newly incorporated areas. Taking advantage of the unity of the liberal government of the time, lawmakers attempted to reform the law of eminent domain established on July 17, 1836. Initially, policymakers thought to arr
ange a fund that would pay for the ambitious undertaking as well as the indemnities to the parties affected. In the same way, laws were modeled on a decree passed down in 1852 for the remodeling of the streets in Paris, which justified not only the expropriation of lands necessary for the city’s expansion but also the buildings bordering them for an appropriate payment and in consideration of public health. Then in 1861 came the Ley del Ensanche of Posada Herrera, intended to replace the law of 1836, which justified eminent domain appropriations if they were in the public interest. But this project, like similar attempts, was rejected by the Spanish government in 1862. Their decision was taken in Barcelona to mean a definitive rejection of any parliamentary legislation regulating the urbanization of the Ensanche, and shortly afterward, a frenzy of investors and speculators tried to profit from the economic progress sweeping over the city. They were well aware that their century would shape the lives of generations, but this knowledge did not inspire an excess of scruples.
For that reason, the situation was one of great disorder: whoever knew the lay of the land would buy up properties that shot up in value in no time; but in that climate of distrust and of surging prices, others were sold on the basis of mere rumors that would then vanish into thin air. The first thing that came into Dimas’s head was that he would need to find out who was in charge of the protests that were denouncing the expropriations so loudly. If he could find the leaders of the movement—and there wouldn’t be many of them—he could offer them, in his boss’s name, a good sum of money to keep quiet, or something worse if they wanted to carry on. If he had learned anything in those past few months, it was that money could buy almost anything. Without the strongest of their leaders willing to fight for them, the neighbors would stop rebelling and would cope with the changing circumstances.
