The Dream of the City (13 page)

CHAPTER 13

As he balanced with the bucking of the streetcar, Dimas saw the Jufresas' mansion in the distance, with the Sierra de Collserola behind it under an ochre sky just before nightfall. On that early autumn evening the house was enveloped in a white aura emerging from the lights in the interior. Dimas normally arrived there by streetcar, on the line that stopped in San Gervasio, a former town that had been annexed to Barcelona seventeen years back, close to Sarrià, although the latter still didn't form part of the nucleus of the big city, which was expanding without any limits save those imposed by nature.

The need for expansion in that part of the city had led to different proposed plans for growth. Among them had been one devised by Ildefons Cerdà with the backing of Madrid. It had its detractors in Barcelona, especially among the moneyed bourgeoisie, who thought the four-story buildings it called for too small and who said it made poor use of the available space, leaving too much open, with too many wide streets. Many who had returned from the Americas with their fortunes wanted to invest, and Cerdà's plan didn't exploit all the possibilities for construction.

The local government of Barcelona held a contest to choose a new plan, but it came to nothing. Cerdà's plan was imposed from the capital, since the central government had already approved it. But the protests from Barcelona had some effect, and the original design was modified: the streets were narrowed, larger buildings were permitted, and blocks were closed off.

From the beginning, the local government had intended to incorporate the towns in the municipality, but that development hadn't taken place until April 20, 1897, when Les Corts moved to allow Barcelona to annex Gràcia, San Martín de Provensals, Sant Andreu del Palomar, and Santa Maria de Sants, all previously independent villages. Sant Joan d'Horta was not added until 1904, and its annexation was approved despite its lying outside the distance established in the law concerning the division of municipalities.

Dimas arrived at the residence and ascended the three steps. He beat the burnished copper door knocker and waited there a bit formally, at some distance from the door. Ferran had told him he needed his company that night at a meeting, and that Dimas should show up at the house at eight on the dot. He checked the hour against his nickel-plated pocket watch, a gift from his boss; he knew it was expected that he should not arrive late for their reunions. He heard the steps of Matilde behind the door; when she opened it, she greeted him cordially and had him pass into the sitting room.

“I'll let the master know right now,” she told him, and then she exited with lowered eyes. Matilde, who was more than fifty and had worked for the Jufresa family her entire life, showed Dimas the same respect she showed to Ferran, as if this were justified by the mere fact of their working together. And she wasn't the only one in the house to do so.

“Navarro!” Francesc Jufresa exclaimed, descending the final steps of the marble staircase. “Are you here for my boy?” He slapped him on the shoulder.

The father had taken a liking to Dimas since the first day Ferran had introduced him. He hadn't asked him about his career or his background, but only warned him of his son's temperament and congratulated him on his new job. “Welcome to the family!” he had proclaimed with his perennial smile, framed by his perfectly white and trimmed beard. Every time he went to pick up Ferran, Francesc would invite Dimas in for a drink before he left.

“Yes, indeed. We have business to attend to tonight,” Dimas responded, trying to keep his composure.

He could not help but be impressed by how the family dressed, even when they weren't going out, and tonight Francesc was as far as possible from proving an exception. Under the white light of the chandelier that hung from the ceiling, he wore a frock coat, and a knotted cravat around his collar adorned his shirt. His white cuffs always poked out just enough to give him a touch of elegance.

“You young people need to have fun; life goes by fast and before you know it, you're an old man complaining about a thousand aches and pains.”

“You're here already,” Ferran said, appearing in the doorway to the room. “Perfect, let's go.”

“You're not going to invite Navarro for a drink? Don't be ill-mannered,” Francesc interrupted, walking into living room without waiting for a response. From there, the sound of conversations could be heard.

Giving Dimas a sidelong glance to invite him to come along, Ferran followed the head of the family into the living room. Francesc seemed to be the only man for whom Ferran felt genuine respect, Dimas thought, and as he crossed the threshold, he smelled the strong scent of cigar smoke. Besides Pilar, her daughter Núria, and her husband, he soon made out among those present Laura, who was seated with Jordi Antich on an Isabeline sofa of blond mahogany. When Dimas saw her, he felt immediately tense. He still remembered her words, full of wrath and disdain, that she had directed at him and Ferran days back, during the argument about the drawing of the nymph that her older brother had wanted to throw out; but what most stuck in his recollections was her stubborn, offended stare, the stare of someone who thought herself better than him and that he had no right to offer an opinion or even have an opinion about art or any other higher sentiment.

Francesc turned to the corner where the bar stood and prepared the drinks.

“So you young men are out on the prowl tonight?” Ramon asked jovially from his chair, finally back home from his travels.

“You coming along?” Ferran invited. Both he and Dimas were still standing, knowing they would have to go soon. They would only have one drink, to placate his father.

“No, but not because I don't want to,” Ramon said, shaking his head, his chestnut hair falling over his Adonis-like face. “But I just got in a couple of hours ago from Amsterdam and I'm destroyed. I'm afraid I'd put a damper on your night, and I'm sure it's shaping up to be a good one. …” He winked at Dimas, who smiled softly, cordial but always correct, never overly effusive.

“You could show a little respect to the women here,” Laura chastened them sarcastically. “It's unbecoming, this kind of talk; it's the kind of thing boys would carry on about, not fully grown gentlemen.”

Ramon, knowing his sister's sense of humor and their shared irreverence, laughed out loud. Ferran didn't seem to find her comment so funny.

Jordi, who was beside her, let out a laugh of complicity, with an attitude that struck Dimas as slightly condescending toward his boss. The men had met on only a few occasions, but Jordi provoked contradictory reactions in Dimas. On the one hand, his impeccable appearance, his assurance of his success, his gallant demeanor were things he envied, in a certain way. On the other, his angelic face and his air of a spoiled child irritated Dimas. Unlike Ferran, who was always active, even restless, Jordi had a melancholic temperament, as if not quite at home in that life of luxury. Something very similar, it occurred to Dimas, to Laura: Neither of them had ever had to work hard to get to where they found themselves and they didn't seem to hold the comforts that surrounded them in high esteem; they even seemed uncomfortable, averse to all that. Dimas soon came to the conclusion that they were cut from the same cloth, and without understanding very well the motive, that incensed him. He became anxious to leave the house.

“You see how it is, Jordi,” Laura said with a smile that struck Dimas as impertinent, petulant, more vain than capricious or provocative. “I'm used to being around these men who can't talk about anything but money or women. I think you're one of the few who strays from that, my dear.” She smiled at him.

Ferran turned to Laura, pushing out his chin a bit as he raised one eyebrow. His tone was relaxed, but Dimas, who knew him well, detected a note of defiance.

“Little sister, out of respect for you, I'm not inviting Jordi to come with us. I'm sure he wouldn't want to leave your bubbly and amusing conversation for our tedious company. So we'll finish our drinks now and leave you in peace.”

“Don't worry,” Jordi interrupted in a conciliatory voice. “I wouldn't have been able to come along. Tomorrow I have to get up early and I prefer to get into bed at a decent hour.”

Laura looked at Jordi and spoke to him somewhat irately.

“No one's keeping you here, my friend. If you're bored, you can go. I don't doubt my brother can offer you something less
decent
than being here talking to me.”

While Jordi stuttered an apology to Laura, trying to explain she had misunderstood him, Ferran let out a cackle that echoed against the four walls of the room, which were covered in paintings. Dimas felt satisfied, almost smug, though he didn't know why, when he saw Laura's cheeks flush and Jordi smile uncomfortably. Her brother had managed once more to get under her skin, and it wasn't long before she showed her willingness to fight back, turning toward him but twisting her head away to avoid having to look at him. She began to formulate her reproach while Jordi, under the watchful eye of Dimas, who didn't let a single one of his gestures escape him, brought his hand over to Laura's arm, clothed in a thin gray jacket.

“What did I miss?” Francesc asked unexpectedly, joining in from the other end of the room.

“Nothing, Father, I was just telling them we were in a rush,” Ferran answered. Then he finished the rest of his drink in one sip and told Dimas to do the same.

“I guess the party's over then. … Enjoy yourselves!” Francesc exclaimed, lifting his glass.

Ferran said his good-byes and Dimas, before following after him, turned to the father to thank him before leaving his glass on one of the tables. With a sidelong glance, he saw Laura begin joking with Jordi again, and he thought with a dash of bitterness that for the attractive young woman, the party had still not ended.

Hours later, the night was still dark, though it wouldn't be long before the first rays of day broke through the shadows on the horizon. Dimas was walking alone, zigzagging through the darkness of the old city. The streets twisted between the factories and the humble dwellings surrounding them. The smoke from the chimneys formed a vault over this part of the city, separating it from the new Barcelona, with which it had nothing in common. The air was poisoned with oil and rust, and the noise of the machines erased any possibility of quiet. The few men still on the street were all drunks or beggars, looking at Dimas askance, unsure what an individual like him could be up to, walking alone in that neighborhood. A vagrant, stinking of urine and alcohol, approached him to ask for change. Dimas reached into his pocket, and when he withdrew his hand, all the coins he had there fell to the ground. On his knees, the man gathered them up feverishly, thanking him over and over.

Dimas stopped in front of a doorway in the Calle Cadena and called the night watchman, who was a few steps away. The watchmen kept the keys to the building entrances, guarded the buildings, shouted out the time, and helped out the neighbors with any emergencies they might have. Dimas already knew this one and greeted him wearily with a slight tip of the cap.

“Not too much more 'til you get to sleep, Matías,” Dimas said. The watchman felt around on his thick ring of keys and opened the door.

“Yep,” the other man replied with a yawn. “Same as you.”

Dimas crossed the hall and walked up the narrow stairway with tired steps until he reached the third floor. The alcohol he'd had made the climb difficult, and he tripped a few times. It had been a good night with Ferran. He had gone with him to La Maison Dorée, a bar that had opened some twenty years back on the corner of Rivadeneyra and Plaza Cataluña. It was owned by the Pompidor brothers, who had hired the architect August Font i Carreras to design the luxurious space that would blend the soft forms of the baroque with the style of Louis XV. Displayed all around were paintings by Alexandre de Riquer and other artists from the epoch. Ferran had told him the king often went there on his visits to the city. When he heard Ferran say that, Dimas realized the monarch was a role model for the young Jufresa; that was another thing they had in common.

In the Maison Dorée, Ferran had sat down at a table with his friends. When Dimas lost interest in the décor and the people who were there, he took a seat at the bar. The bartender, seeing whom he had come with, added Dimas's order to his boss's tab. “Paying with your cap,” it was called, because the lackeys who came there with their bourgeois employers were generally distinguished by their humble head coverings, which contrasted with the sumptuous wool derbies and fedoras the gentlemen wore.

After a few hours and many drinks “paid with his cap,” Dimas's head was clouded, though Ferran didn't notice, as he himself had drunk significantly more. Dimas drove his boss home and decided to return to the bar on foot. By the time he arrived to the old city, the night was nearly over, but he had still not escaped the effects of the magnificent brandy they had served him.

Now he was rapping with his knuckles on the closed door in front of him and crossing his fingers in the hope that Amalia was home. He wasn't ready to go to sleep.

Since no one answered, he tried again, knocking harder. After a moment, a voluptuous young woman with messy blond hair and a robe held closed with a knotted belt appeared in front of him.

“Dimas?”

The young man was leaning on the door frame in a seductive pose, a bit unsuccessfully, as his shirt was untucked, his jacket open, and his vest hanging out. She didn't seem to care. Amalia stroked his cheek and then ran her hand through his hair.

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

“Who cares?”

After a moment of indecision, she smiled slightly and took his hand to lead him in. The small apartment with its bare walls was a contrast to the house where Dimas had begun his night.

“Come in, you've left me stranded here.”