“They say that meditation and yoga are excellent ways to fight stress,” I added.
“Indeed, a lot of executives come here to meditate and learn relaxation techniques. Here you have a brochure with information about our services,” she said, putting the brochure on the table in front of us. “As well as meditation and yoga, we have a homeopathic consultant and a specialist in Bach flower remedies. And, naturally, the centre offers reiki and shiatsu massages, and we also run short feng shui courses and introductions to Buddhism and Hinduism. You’ll find all the information you need here,” she said, pointing to the brochure.
Borja picked it up and, on the sly, we took a peek at the prices. Mariona was right: they were executive class.
“Yes, we would be interested in starting meditation,” said Borja. “Mind over body and all that…”
“I’m afraid our meditation sessions are full for the moment,” she said with a smile. “You’ll have to wait several months given the length of our waiting list. I do apologize.”
“But we can’t wait all that time!” exclaimed Borja, clicking his tongue. “Isn’t that right, Eduard?”
I nodded.
“If you give us your details, we’ll let you know as soon as—”
“I’d like to say,” interjected Borja forcefully, “Mariona Castany, a friend of the centre’s director, recommended it. We were hoping to speak to Dr Bou in person.”
“Oh, so you know the doctor?” she asked, raising her eyebrows and changing her tone.
“Well, not exactly. But our friend, Mrs Castany, assured us that if we said we came on her recommendation, he would be so kind as to see us.”
“If you could wait just a moment,” she replied in a voice indicating it was all change.
Cecília shut the door behind her as she left, and we were alone again, accompanied by that tune that was starting to grate on the nerves of a man who preferred the Beatles and the Stones. A few minutes later, she came back to say that Dr Bou was busy leading a meditation group, but if we could wait, he would be pleased to see us. She offered us another pot of tea, but Borja and I said we’d rather stretch our legs and would be back in a short while.
We went for a stroll and smoke around the vicinity, and Borja swore to God that one day he’d be wealthy enough to live in one of those fantastic mansions that are still the hallmark of streets that enjoy the privilege of living with their backs turned on the hustle and bustle of the city’s cars and crowds. We returned to the meditation centre twenty minutes later and the same pink-uniformed, dark-haired girl showed us back into the same sitting room. On this occasion, we passed a group coming downstairs, their faces radiating bliss. Most were our age and some even older.
“The meditation class has finished and the doctor will be with you right away,” the receptionist informed us.
He didn’t keep us waiting. At half past six on the dot, the girl was back and asked us to follow her.
“Dr Bou will see you in his office. Please come this way,” she said as she pointed us down the corridor.
Borja and I jumped obediently to our feet and followed her. Dr Bou’s office was at the end of the corridor and the girl knocked on his door.
“Come in!” boomed a male voice.
I was slightly shocked by the appearance of the man who was getting up to welcome us. After soaking up Zen Moments’ state-of-the-art filthy-rich designer atmosphere, I had imagined he would be one of those globetrotting doctors who hawk their wares in bespoke suits, silk ties and a glowing tan. The man before us certainly had the tan but he looked fresh out of an ethnic clothes store. A closer glance revealed it must be the expensive, exclusive kind, because his garb was nothing like the ragged outfits worn by the greying radicals in my neighbourhood who love cheap exotic garments. Dr Bou wore a traditional, cream-coloured Indian kurta, with matching silk embroidery, over straight jeans that could only have been Levi’s. His comfortable, brown Clarks made me green with envy because they are shoes I really go for, but I can never find my size when shopping in the sales.
“I hear that Mrs Castany sent you here,” he said, vigorously shaking our hands, with a smile as warm as it was fawning.
His teeth were far too white and perfect for someone in his late forties, and he was smooth-shaven. His skin had a slight sheen as if he used one of those moisturizing creams that are now so fashionable with men, and not a hair on his head was out of place, as if he’d just visited the hairdresser’s. Neither too short nor too long, and dark brown except for the shock of white hair over his temples. The elegance and symmetry of those silvery temples reminded me of Stewart Granger in King Solomon’s Mines, his African tan, aristocratic air and equally perfect white teeth.
“I am Borja Masdéu,” my brother introduced himself with the swagger that comes with a recommendation from Mariona Castany. “And this is my business partner, Mr Eduard Martínez.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I responded.
“Mariona said this was just the place we were looking for,” continued Borja.
“Oh, really, Mariona… And how is the good lady? We’ve not seen her for some time.”
“You know her. She is busy with her artists, as ever,” responded Borja with a shrug of his shoulders, as if to say that Mariona was a hopeless case. One of her recent hobbies was acting as patron to a group of plastic artists, either as an investment or for tax-relief purposes, I imagine. She found it passed the time.
“Do please sit down,” said the doctor, pointing to a sofa at the back of the room, no doubt purchased from Vinçon. He sat down in a Fifties-style chair opposite us.
I glanced round as discreetly as I could. Dr Bou’s office wasn’t as austere and monochromatic as the lobby and waiting room, but it didn’t much resemble a doctor’s consultancy either. There were no shelves of medical books, although a huge framed poster on one wall displayed a nude man criss-crossed by lines that grew into circles buried under words, letters and figures I couldn’t decipher. A couple of Persian rugs, a trio of bonsais and another small Buddha on the desk completed the decor.
“My partner and I are extremely interested in some of the treatments on offer at your centre,” began Borja. “We run a think-tank for entrepreneurs that fortunately has yet to be affected by the crisis. Moreover,” he added with a smile, “our problem is that we have more work than we can handle and are run off our feet.”
“I do understand,” responded the doctor laconically.
“It’s high time we stepped back and did something for our stress levels before we have a heart attack. And Mariona, who is a peach of a lady, told us that meditation and yoga are the best alternative to conventional medication.”
“Mariona is absolutely right. Indeed we only use treatment based on homeopathy and Bach flower remedies, that is, completely natural therapies. Meditation and yoga are pivotal, but sometimes we have patients who need reinforcing, particularly at the beginning. In your case,” he swung round slightly and addressed me, “I am sure you have problems with the fifth chakra.”
“Oh, really?”
“Have you been putting on weight recently?”
“True enough,” I was forced to admit.
In fact, ever since I’d hit forty, to the tune of four pounds a year.
“Weight increase is usually related to stress,” the doctor opined. “Your friend, on the other hand, should be worried by the second chakra. My impression is that it is underperforming.”
“You can detect that simply by looking?” I asked in good faith.
Dr Bou smiled, rather dismayed. Borja looked at me as if my comment was bad form.
“The problem,” Borja continued undeterred, “is that we have just been told we will have to wait several months because the meditation classes are full and there is a waiting list.”
“Yes, that’s right. We only accept twelve students per session in our yoga and meditation classes. But I imagine,” he added with yet another smile, “we might make an exception in the case of friends
of Mrs Castany.”
“This is fantastic news, because my partner and I must really do something to de-stress now.” Borja emphasized that “now” with his best north-of-the-Diagonal accent. “So when do you think we might begin?”
“One requisite,” said Dr Bou, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and clasping his hands together, “is participation in one of the weekend ‘initiation into meditation’ courses we run at the centre. They start on Friday night and finish on Sunday evening. It is a kind of voluntary, what we might call, spiritual confinement.”
“You mean we have to sleep here?” I asked. I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of spending a couple of nights in these surroundings.
“Yes, we have bedrooms for residents on the third floor. It is the best possible start, an immediate cleansing of body and mind. In fact, many of our clients come back and repeat the experience. You’ll see how gratifying it is.”
“We’ll do whatever you advise us, doctor,” rejoined Borja. “We’re placing ourselves in your hands.”
“Please, don’t stand on ceremony. Call me Horaci,” he asked, beaming a huge smile at us. He immediately went to his desk and picked up the phone. “Just let me have a word with Maribel to see how we stand.”
A couple of minutes later, the girl from reception walked in without knocking and carrying a black A4 diary.
“We’ve got two rooms free this weekend,” she said, pointing at one of the pages. “Then we’re full up until the end of June.”
“This weekend would be perfect, wouldn’t it, Eduard?”
“Yes, I suppose it would…”
“So you’re all set,” concluded the doctor, inviting us to leave. “You’ll be our guests over this weekend. And I must say goodbye for now because I’m late for a yoga session. If you would be so kind as to accompany Maribel, she will tell you all you need to know.”
“Thank you, Horaci,” replied Borja, shaking his hand. “My partner and I are most grateful to you.”
“See you Friday then.”
The word “guests” that Dr Bou had used to refer to our weekend stay at Zen Moments was what you would call a euphemism, because enrolment cost a handsome two thousand euros per head. That sum, Maribel informed us, must be paid in full upon arrival. On the other hand, the instructions were simplicity itself: we only had to bring pyjamas (optional) and a couple of changes of underwear, because the centre, the girl explained, would supply comfortable clothing. During our stay we couldn’t use mobiles or any electronic gadget, but we could give the centre’s telephone number to family in case any emergency arose.
“You do realize we can’t go, don’t you?” I told Borja the moment we were in the street.
“Why?”
“Because this little escapade costs four thousand euros that we don’t happen to have!”
“Teresa Solana will pay, don’t you worry,” answered Borja, shrugging his shoulders.
“Yes, but she’s not around. And she might find it on the expensive side. Four thousand euros, I ask you!”
“Nah, it could be worse. Besides, I like the look of this place.”
“What exactly do you like the look of?”
“Didn’t you notice the aroma of wealth given off by the people we passed in the corridor? We are bound to make good contacts for the future here.”
“I repeat that we do not have four thousand euros.”
“I know. I’ll have to ask Merche for another handout,” he sighed. And he put his hand into his pocket and added, “That means I can’t dine with Lola tonight.”
Borja hurriedly took out his mobile and rang my sister-in-law.
“Please, do at least try to make your excuse sound plausible,” I hissed.
9
On Thursday morning, Borja rang to say he was going to his hairstylist’s (his blond highlights needed retouching) and would be attending the launch of some exhibition or other in the evening. That meant I had the day free and, as I was curious to learn more about the treatments and therapies on offer at Dr Bou’s centre, I decided to use my time to do research on the twins’ computer and give the flat a bit of a pre-weekend clean. Given that tomorrow I’d be off for the weekend and that at breakfast Montse seemed to think my stay at the meditation centre was tantamount to dereliction of family duties, I thought it would be a good idea to go to the Llibertat market, buy an anglerfish and cook her a tasty supper. However, anglerfish was priced sky high and in the end I bought sardines. Fried with garlic and parsley, and accompanied by a good salad, that would also do the job.
Montse appreciated the gesture and was even more understanding at supper time: clearly the sight of me at the sink, gutting sardines, cutting heads off and removing bones warmed the cockles of her heart. For my part, I had no desire to spend three days practising spiritual exercises surrounded by strangers and attending talks on the mysteries of chakras or the therapeutic virtues of Bach flower remedies, especially as Barça was playing València on Saturday and I imagined the centre didn’t have a TV. At half past twelve, with the twins, Arnau and Joana in bed, I suggested to Montse that we should open a bottle of cava.
“We drank wine at lunch. We’ll have hangovers in the morning,” she remarked, heading to the kitchen to collect the bottle and a couple of glasses.
“No worries. I’m going to spend the weekend drinking tasteless tea and eating tofu hamburgers.”
“A spot of diet will do you good. Apart from getting dinner, what have you got up to today?” she asked, handing me the bottle of cava to open.
“I’ve been researching homeopathy and Bach flower remedies.”
“And did you reach any conclusions?”
“I think your mother was right. They are taking the piss, whatever Lola might say.”
“To be candid, a couple of months ago I’d have agreed with my sister, but after what happened to the Rosselló boy I’m not so sure. Luckily, in the end, his mother backed down and took the kid to hospital…”
“You know they sell homeopathy and Bach flower remedies as alternative medicines to the conventional sort without any kind of scientific proof they really work,” I said, pouring out the cava and getting into my stride. “They’re based on a whole set of beliefs and premises that are centuries old and have been overtaken by scientific discoveries.”
“But homeopathy is taught in our faculties of medicine,” replied Montse, filling her glass. “In the United Kingdom, homeopathic hospitals are part of the public health system. And none other than Prince Charles is a big fan…”
“Come on, love, the fact you are a prince doesn’t automatically make you an expert on the subject. And he doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being a brainbox… Really,” I added on a more serious note, “most scientists are adamant there is no basis in science to justify the claims of homeopathy and, if you think about it for a second, you’ll see it’s a simple matter of common sense.”
“What do you mean?” asked Montse, sipping her cava.
“Homeopaths believe that the more often you dissolve an active principle in water and shake it, the more powerful the resulting medicine is. However, the fact is that when you dissolve a substance in water several times, let alone the exaggerated number of times they do it in homeopathic preparations, the substance that is theoretically supposed to cure you has in fact disappeared.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“We know that any substance has a finite number of molecules. It’s known as Avogadro’s law,” I replied, sipping more of the cava that always lubricated our late-night debates.
“Sounds familiar.”
“Consequently, if you dissolve a substance a lot, the moment comes when it ceases to exist as a substance. It’s simply not there any more.”
“So how do the homeopathic people justify themselves?”
“Now, we come to the best bit of all. They believe that water has a memory that preserves the properties of the substances that are dissolved in it.”
“And is th
at possible?”
“Scientific experiments carried out in laboratory conditions say it isn’t. The theory that water has powers of memory is bullshit.”
“It’s incredible.”
“It’s the same with Bach flower remedies,” I continued. “No rational criteria exist to prove the effectiveness of preparations based on steeping wild flowers from a region in Wales in watered-down brandy.”
“So what is it all about then? A money-making exercise?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I imagine a little bit of everything. People who believe in the stuff in good faith, like Lola, and people who earn thousands from it.”
“You know what?” asked Montse, refilling her glass with a smile that suggested we’d not just be going to bed simply to sleep that night, “I think we’d better drink the cava before its molecules dissolve and no longer have any impact on us.”
Montse was right: we got up with a headache. After I’d taken Arnau to school, I came home, took an ibuprofen and stretched out in bed again. When I woke up, it was almost midday, and even though the headache had gone, I still felt groggy. In a spirit of dutiful resignation, I showered, then packed pyjamas and underwear in a bag and went out. Borja had insisted on inviting me to lunch to compensate for all the times he invited himself to our place, and I didn’t want to ring him and make an excuse. We had to be at Dr Bou’s centre by five, and the plan was to have lunch, grab our bags and head there.
“There’s a restaurant near here with an excellent set lunch,” he said, hardly hiding the fact that he was euphoric. “We can leave our bags in the flat and collect them afterwards.”
“So Merche handed over the four thousand euros, no questions asked?”
“Well, I’d hardly say she didn’t ask any questions… But this time I did promise to return them.”
I left my bag at Borja’s and we went off. As soon as we stepped out, we saw it was drizzling, but, as the restaurant was only a couple of streets down from where my brother lives, we didn’t bother to go back to the flat for our umbrellas. We hadn’t gone twenty metres when a complete stranger wearing huge sunglasses stood in front of us and blocked our path.
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