The Dream of the City (16 page)

Dimas was sitting on the edge of Guillermo's bed, and the boy was refusing to fall asleep. That day Laura had invited him into the workshop and shown him the technique she used to make statues of live models.

“They put plaster over your whole body and then it dries and they take it off and it turns into a mold,” he explained, starstruck.

“Your face too?”

“Of course!” Guillermo responded, slightly impatient.

“And you don't suffocate underneath it?”

Dimas liked asking these questions about the details, because he enjoyed hearing how precisely his brother explained everything. Sometimes he became impatient with so many questions, but there was an unspoken pact, an established routine between the two of them: Dimas pretended not to understand and that allowed Guillermo to go further into detail.

“No, because they make holes in the nose and they leave a space in the mouth for you to breathe through. And you just have to be like that for a minute. But you have to be very still, otherwise the plaster loses its shape.”

“Ah … And Laura told you all this?”

Guillermo smiled when he heard his brother asking after her, because Laura had asked about his brother as well.

“Of course, her and another man who was making a mold. And once it's full, they have their model, and then they copy it in stone. You see, it's not so easy to make a statue, right?”

“Right, right,” Dimas agreed, and he stretched the sheet to cover the boy up. “Now you should be asleep, it's very late,” he added in a near whisper.

“But I didn't tell you the best part!” Guillermo protested. Despite Dimas's disapproving expression, he continued: “Laura asked me to be a model for one of the molds. They want to make a statue of me! Can you imagine?” And without giving Dimas time to reply, he asked: “Will you come watch when they do it?”

Dimas didn't want to commit himself. He worked many hours a day, even on Sundays.

“It depends on whether my boss will allow it. You know there are days when I can't get away.”

Guillermo squinted his eyes. He seemed disappointed, and this bothered Dimas, but there was nothing he could do.

“You don't want to see Laura again?”

His older brother shrugged his shoulders before answering, “I see her sometimes at the jewelry studio.” After a pause, and because he still felt guilty, Dimas justified himself further: “I hope you're not mad at me about work. …”

“No, I know. …” the boy replied, downhearted. He turned, finally ready to fall asleep. But it seemed he did it more from disenchantment than from weariness.

Dimas thought Guillermo's disappointment would pass soon enough. He watched the boy a moment in silence and then got up. He turned off the light and closed the door slowly. In the middle of the darkness, Guillermo, his eyes already closed, pursed his lips. It was hard for him to sleep that night.

CHAPTER 16

The sumptuous building of the Gran Casino de la Rabassada rose up amid the pine trees like a castle on its promontory. Those who went up there found themselves in a kind of sanctuary, and they entered solemnly, almost respectfully, as if it were a temple. Then, when they were inside, their vanity blinded them, fueling the fascination of the piles of chips around the roulette wheel, the dice games, the green felt of the game tables.

Dimas tapped the vehicle's brakes and drove slowly over the curb that marked off the parking area. Nearby, two valet stands guarded the area. Neither blocked the car's entry. Ferran looked out the window at the lights shining from the building. Before getting out, he said, “Wait for me here, all right?”

Calm and self-assured, he took one of the two ivory-white staircases that rose in a semicircle up to the entrance. It was so bright, it seemed like midday. The lights from the streetlamps were like small nocturnal suns, and not a single star was distinguishable in the sky. Farther down, at the foot of the mountains, Barcelona was readying itself for a long night of sleep. A few more people walked up the staircase. Most were couples, the men in top hats, the women in gossamer veils, evening hats with tropical flowers, and dresses of fine, billowing fabrics.

Ferran was in an elegant tuxedo with shiny lapels. His pants also had a strip of shiny material down the side. His white shirt terminated in a celluloid collar snug against his cleanly shaven neck. That very evening he had gone to the barber Mayans, and after five minutes under the hot towel, they had shaved him with a straight razor cooled in ice. The effect would last only a few hours—then the first traces of stubble would begin to show on his skin—but still, nothing could beat the brisk feeling of well-being it gave him. He stroked his chin a last time while he inhaled a deep breath of damp air with its intense scent of pine. With a slight nod of the head, he acknowledged the greeting of the porter who waved him in through the revolving door.

As soon as he entered, Ferran took off his top hat and passed it, along with his cane, to another servant, his hair slicked back with pomade. Throughout the immense salon, everyone was dressed the same. The tails of the topcoats brushed one another softly as the men circulated, looking for the right group, the desired conversation, the perfect business.

“A gin fizz, please,” Ferran ordered.

When the waiter brought the drink to him, he stirred it unnecessarily and disappeared among the people. The ice clinked in his cut crystal glass. He identified a group belonging to the Círculo del Liceo, the Opera House Club, and he went over to them. The one who was speaking at that moment had greeted him in that very place on more than one occasion. Joan Prat i Carretó, he seemed to remember he was called.

“Hey, Jufresa, this is just the kind of conversation that would appeal to you. We are absolutely indignant. This situation has to stop.”

“Of course. Always at your service, gentlemen,” Ferran said by way of greeting.

“I'll read you what's been written and see if you agree with it.” Prat i Carretó felt through his pockets, passing his drink from one hand to the other. “It reads thus: Dear Señor Bocaplena, we believe it is unbecoming of a great theater such as ours, that illustrious institution we know as the Gran Teatro del Liceo, that its magnificence be compromised by the dreadful custom of dimming the lights during the performances, as if the work in question were more important than those who have come to see it and the finery with which the salon is adorned for the event in question. We believe that for the sake of the fashion and luxury industries, which are elevated to such a high art in our country, it is essential that the investments made in such by the ladies and gentlemen who attend our institution be visible throughout the performance, and that to this end it must be considered, not simply important for the rules of decorum, but rather absolutely essential that the stands remain completely illuminated throughout the duration of the spectacle. This missive is nothing more than the expression of a discontent rife throughout the high society of our beloved country, irate at being allowed to exhibit their jewels”—he paused, and the two jewelers looked at each other as if automatically—“only in the three or four intermissions of fifteen or twenty minutes each. At this, I shall draw my words to a close, and I remain, at your complete disposition, blah blah blah. Signed, Joan Prat i Carretó, member of the Círculo del Liceo.”

When he had finished reading, he folded the paper into a tiny square, lifted his lapel with the hand holding his drink, and slipped it into his breast pocket. Those present praised him in high words, but their faces betrayed little enthusiasm.

“It has been some time since we've heard rhetoric of that kind,” one said.

“Indeed. There's been nothing like it since the days of the Roman orators,” the oldest among them announced, smoothing down his thick Prussian mustache.

“Agreed,” one of the younger men said.

“I should urgently like to request of you, Señor Prat i Carretó, to take charge of the wedding speech for my first son, which you are now invited to as of this very moment.”

“You are overwhelming me,” the orator said. “I am the mere means by which your complaints are to be heard, the speaker of the words your wives have repeated to me to the point of exhaustion. Please, no more compliments. You'll make me blush.”

“Are you gentlemen conspiring against the government?” sounded a strident voice behind them.

The circle opened to make room for the man who had just arrived. Andreu Cambrils i Pou was the first deputy mayor of the city of Barcelona, and according to gossip, there was not a single issue of importance in the city that did not pass across his desk. Many preferred his approval over that of the mayor himself, Boladeres i Romà. The preceding years gave one the impression that the office of mayor was more volatile than the alcohol in their cocktails while the people in the shadows, those who remained in place over a longer term, accumulated power in their hands.

Such was the case of Cambrils i Pou, who had occupied one public post after another since his long-ago position as organizer of festivities in Banyeres del Penedés, the town of his birth. All showed him a reverence that was perhaps feigned, but nonetheless thrived through the inevitable principle of appearances. The only important thing in that world, the sole fact with a reality of its own, was what others thought of you. And Cambrils i Pou was an old hand at making sure no one undermined his prestige.

That night, as all of them had gathered in that beautiful and luxurious setting, the deputy mayor was acting as master of ceremonies in the absence of Boladeres, who was away on an official visit to Seville. The titular head of City Hall was not much of one for benefit banquets, where the attendees were always men who had contributed to his campaign and were there to ask—or rather, to demand, but with pretty words—that the favor be returned. And so, after three months in power, the mayor hadn't attended a single one of the charity events that filled the calendars of the upper bourgeoisie.

Such was not the case with Cambrils i Pou, who accepted the most unexpected demands and most fleeting requests with complete cordiality and always managed to convince his interlocutors that he was conceding something, despite his kind words. He was therefore an able businessman and a tireless companion who always brought something to the table; a fighter who could square off against his enemies' attacks with an unbreakable spirit and who knew how to grab the opportunity, to strike the lethal blow, when weariness had clouded the others' vision. Everyone was willing to put up with any of his negative traits because there was one other thing that defined Cambrils i Pou: He was the surest path to a moneymaking business.

As the night wore on, people floated among the different groups. One by one, the group around Prat i Carretó and the Liceo scattered into the other room in search of canapés. Those who stayed there with the politician were the dignitaries, those who struggled every day with the real problems in the city and held the strings of power in their hands, regardless of what sort it was. The conversation no longer revolved around the sopranos at the opera, but rather around the major issues of the day, the values that motivated Barcelona's society at the time. Those present interspersed their opinions with what they had heard or read in the press.

“Pay attention, the future is still in coal. Petroleum is a liquid, it's volatile, it can't last!”

“But the motor vehicles use it …”

“Motor vehicles? That's the devil's invention. I'm not saying the streetcars won't be around a long time, because they hardly make any noise. … But the other thing, impossible. Soon we'll go back to horses and carriages, which we shouldn't have ever given up in the first place.”

“In Paris there are more motorcars than carriages in the streets. …”

“That's before the war. Now all the cars have been requisitioned, and there are fuel rations.”

“Bah! That war won't last more than four days. They can't do anything against a power like the kaiser's.”

“We shouldn't make light of France and England together. They've always been enemies and they are modern, advanced countries.”

Suddenly, Cambrils i Pou, who had left off talking some time back, turned to Ferran.

“Ah, Jufresa, Jufresa … Do you hear them?” The politician put his arm over Ferran's shoulder and walked him to the bar. “Like children: They're fighting over the air to get a word in.”

Ferran nodded in silence while scrupulously sipping his third gin fizz.

“Do you think?” he responded courteously, without knowing what the politician was getting at.

“Look at them, talking about the war this and the war that … When the real question for us is: What can we make here that the countries at war can't produce?”

“I don't see where you're heading with this,” the jeweler confessed.

“France has cut off the fuel to its vehicles in case it's necessary to supply it to the airplanes; England has intervened with all its military equipment and they are sending infantry into the conflict zones. I doubt it's going to be a short war if another country jumps into the conflict every time the enemy makes a move.”

“I see.” Ferran nodded. “Do you think we could join in soon as well?”

“I don't think we should worry about that,” the deputy mayor said. “Not even in Madrid do they dare broach the topic, and Europe doesn't care a damn about forcing our hand. All I'm saying is that those countries are practically frozen until the war is over: Their youth are at the front with mud up to their knees, waiting to take a bullet from the enemy. There's no one working in the factories.”

“And here we are talking about tariffs and the difficulty of expanding our markets, right?”

“That's correct, Jufresa. I see we understand each other.”

“But I'm just a jeweler, Señor Cambrils i Pou. I don't see what I can do.”

“Let's leave off with formalities, Ferran: Call me Señor Cambrils. It's time to take the bull by the horns. Do you like the bullfights? No? Me neither. What I mean is, it's time to get clever, it's time for ingenuity. Like Henry Ford—he had the idea of making a mountain of cars at once instead of waiting to sell out of the first one before going on to the next. The time is right for a guy like you, someone with brains, with daring, to make it big, Ferran.”

Ferran gave him a look suggesting that they and those around them were already far from poor. His companion grasped it immediately.

“I mean really rich,” he emphasized. “Rich like you couldn't burn through all your money if you tried to.”

“A business like that wouldn't be bad. Weapons could be a good idea,” Ferran ventured cautiously. “There are already various producers in the country who could …”

“Sure, that's not bad. Weapons are a good business: safe, trusty, risk-free … But old hat, Ferran, old hat. I know a better one. Less offensive, less flashy, less compromising … Another drink, Ferran, my friend?”

Dimas waited sitting on the hood of the Hispano-Suiza. The attendees had left in dribs and drabs, and now the parking lot was nearly empty. During the wait, the employees had gathered together and seemed to be having their own version of the festivities celebrated inside. Almost all of them were chauffeurs, many in uniform. All looked at Dimas strangely; they seemed to confer a certain superiority on him for his elegant evening wear, and they felt a degree of envy for him. In general, the attitudes of complicity between them shone through their conversations, depending on the importance of the boss of whoever was speaking. With the majority of them, it was cordial, though the conversation between the escorts of the various big timers died off as they departed for the evening. Dimas sat up when he saw a swaying figure coming close. It looked like his boss, Ferran.

“Listen, Dimas, it looks like I'm going to spend the night here,” Ferran said when he stopped. “You can go. Take the car and pick me up at a proper time tomorrow. All right? I mean, I'm not getting up early tomorrow. … I don't know if I'm explaining myself. …” As he said this, he pointed behind himself with one thumb.

Dimas looked toward the stairs, but he saw no one. Ferran went back up the steps, stumbling, into the sumptuous locale. Behind the balustrade, the silhouette of a woman emerged momentarily. Ferran grasped her around the waist when he was close to her and they departed, finally vanishing from Dimas's view somewhere behind the parapet.

When they were gone, he turned around and said good-bye to the last of the men waiting for their employers. It was already too late to depart in the cars the casino put at their clients' disposal, cars that would take them to the Portal del Ángel. Some of the men would even spend the night in the casino parking lot, nodding off in the front seat, always careful not to get caught in this impropriety.