The Dream of the City (22 page)

Soon it was dark. Dimas had spent the afternoon confirming all the details of his plan; he was meticulous, and he didn't want to miss anything. The money in question, and the importance of the operation, kept him on his toes. With one of the trucks that would take them to Bilbao, he went around to pick up the workers he had hired: Some would load the trucks and then take turns driving; a few others would unload and would serve as protection during the trip. Although, or maybe because, the trucks were new, Dimas had decided to hire a mechanic, too, just in case.

He got all the men together at a solitary spot in Pueblo Nuevo. Until recently, it had been a cotton warehouse, and the odd tuft of fabric still clung to the walls or floor. The sheets of cellulose were divided up into large bales piled up against the wall in an orderly fashion. All the drivers found it interesting that it wasn't a public entity they were dealing with; it seemed like outright contraband, no matter that Spain had declared its neutrality, and trade with both sides was permitted. Still, the war obliged you to pick one side and go against the other, and the secrecy of the operation was key to protect any future trade with the customers' enemies: Both sides knew the importance of these kinds of supplies. For that reason, a simple load of cellulose in a country at peace had become a nocturnal operation, with unmarked trucks, a little-traveled route, and a camouflaged whaling boat in a port far from the point of origin.

Dimas ordered several of the men to get together a small snack for them before they headed off: bread, cheese, sausages, tomatoes, salt, oil, and a few jugs of wine to ensure their camaraderie. He needed them well fed since the goods would need to be loaded quickly and the trip would begin after nightfall. He spoke with the drivers, a group that included him, and they quickly established the turns they would take. He directed those who would go first to take a quick nap on the empty bags piled up in the corner of the building.

Several kerosene and oil lamps were set down—just enough for everyone to see where they were walking. Several men went outside to smoke and feel the night air on their faces. They knew they would be shut up in the cab for hours and even the enormous industrial space felt small to them. When they opened the door, bursts of stray cotton were lifted off the floor by the wind, giving the place the momentary appearance of a snowstorm. When they had finished their meal, Dimas left with a small group to fetch the trucks. The rest stayed there resting and chatting about where they had worked, what they hoped for from the trip, what they would do with the money they'd been promised, or where they'd met their wives.

The trucks weren't long in returning. This time it was necessary to open the large doors to the bay, which creaked as if complaining of being awakened. Dimas had gotten hold of the vehicles—Hispano-Suiza 40/50s—thanks to a chain of obligations binding the textile and automotive companies and Deputy Mayor Cambrils i Pou. The trucks were new models, fresh off the assembly line, and the journey would be a test for them. They had come from the Hispano-Suiza factory in La Sagrera, only a few minutes from where the men were now.

Those resting in the warehouse got up to gawk at the trucks. None of them had ever been driven before. After a few brief comments, the men began to load them up with the bales. The night was cold. Vapor flowed from their mouths as from a cauldron of boiling water. The ramps creaked with a metallic sound each time the carts were rolled up them.

Suddenly someone called at the door. All activity came to a halt. Suspicious glances shot through the room. Dimas remained calm and pointed for the man closest to the door to open up. The small door cut out of the larger one used to admit the trucks opened with a sharp squeak. From behind it appeared the figure of Chief Bragado. He was wearing a black hat with a narrow brim, a long brown coat, and leather gloves.

“Good evening,” he said circumspectly. He entered without waiting to be invited. The person who opened the door had to jump out of his way. “How's everything going?” he asked Dimas.

“According to plan,” he answered, pointing to the trucks and motioning for the men to carry on with their work. “I'm hoping we'll be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“That's good. The faster everything finishes up, the fewer problems we'll have.”

“Indeed.”

Bragado squinted his eyes and shot Dimas a penetrating stare. His lips curved upward in a grotesque rictus trying to mimic a smile. Dimas took an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and passed it over; Bragado placed it in his coat without looking and handed back a thick paper folded over into a square.

“Take it. It might be useful.” Bragado's voice seemed to have lost some of its customary coldness.

Dimas unfolded the document and looked at it briefly. It was a safe-conduct pass. He asked himself why he would need it, just as he had asked himself a moment before what Bragado was even doing there. He didn't care for the man. He was quiet, he always showed up at the wrong time, and there was something unpleasant and slippery about his sly manner. But he was connected with higher-ups and Dimas was careful to feign respect for him.

“You'll need it if the Civil Guard asks you too many questions,” the police chief clarified. “The fewer people who know what you're transporting, the better. Naturally, it will only be of use to you on land. Once the ship leaves Bilbao, there's nothing more I can do for you.”

“You've already done a great deal,” Dimas said, smiling and carefully putting away the paper. “I'm sure Señor Jufresa is very grateful.”

Bragado's eyes bored into Dimas.

“I'm convinced of it,” he responded stiffly, and this time, he actually smiled.

The chief stayed there until they'd left. After Dimas closed the warehouse door, he shook hands with Bragado and then got into the last of the trucks, the one he himself would be driving. The chief of police watched them leave, his feet slightly apart and his hands interlaced behind his back, disappearing into a fog of exhaust. A chink opened in the clouds covering the sky and the majestic moon shone through. Everything was coated in a silvery sheen. Dimas thought then that the moment had come: he took out the cigar Ferran had given him and lit it carefully. The rumble of the motors cut through the air. As they plunged into the country's interior, the fog thinned and finally disappeared. The moon glowed bright over the spotless metal of the vehicles.

CHAPTER 22

It was hard for him to breathe with that cold, gummy paste covering most of his face. The sheets of fresh plaster that Laura had applied covered all Guillermo's features with the exception of his eyes. The strong scent penetrated the small holes she had poked in the mold so that he could breathe and it made his nose itch, but he tried to ignore it. Laura had told him that he would have to be very still and had explained every step of the process of making the mold so that she would have a model of his face in plaster. Though it seemed like a lot of trouble and he hadn't understood everything perfectly, Guillermo was excited: The future church would have a cherub with his face and no one and nothing would ever be able to erase it.

Apparently those sheets of plaster, once they hardened, would stick together and they would be sealed inside with Vaseline. Then they would be filled with liquid plaster that would be left to harden. What formed inside wouldn't be placed on the façade; it was just a model for a stone statue that would be carved afterward. The skylights in the workshop ceiling made it possible to study how the light would fall on the statue.

“You're doing very well, Guillermo,” Laura said once the application was complete. “Now you just have to wait a little bit for it to harden.

Guillermo struggled not to move, but his nose itched more and more and finally he couldn't stand it. He raised one hand and pointed to his nose without touching it. Laura understood right away.

“Don't worry. This happens a lot.” With a small trowel she smoothed out the porcelain that covered his nose. “Better?”

In fact, he was greatly relieved. Now he could wait as long as necessary. He let his hands go limp over the white smock they'd had him wear, like the one he wore to school but much bigger, a garment sized for an adult.

Laura looked over at him from time to time; he would need to be patient now while it dried. Guillermo followed the movements of the other workers with his eyes. There was always someone passing through his field of vision, modeling the stone, transporting it in or out, or looking for one of the foremen to show him a recently finished piece of work. The temple was full of people aware they were working for posterity. Many, like Laura, were volunteers. Even so, the work advanced haltingly, since it depended on donations. They were usually small, though not always: Guillermo had heard that some time back a lady asked the work council for an altar in the crypt in honor of her patron saint and had given ten thousand pesetas, a fortune, in exchange. After the council consulted with Gaudí, though, he was resistant, saying that the altars in the crypt should be devoted solely to the Holy Family. He preferred to reject the money rather than compromise his original idea. Not long afterward, the executors of the lady's will announced that, despite the architect's refusal, or precisely because of it, she had left nearly a million pesetas for the construction of the temple. Thanks to that donation, a plaza now existed in front of the Nativity Façade with benches and eucalyptus trees and a well with water for the people, where formerly there had been nothing but fields full of lizards and military marching bands with their horns and snare drums.

When Laura finished what she was doing, she turned to Guillermo, who was happy, because when she talked to him the time passed more quickly.

“Your brother will be arriving in Bilbao soon, right?” The boy nodded. “You must be ready to have him back. It's normal for you to miss him. …” Laura spoke to him while she picked up the tools she had been using. “Tomorrow will be a week since he left, and it must be hard, since you're used to seeing him every day. Ferran can't be too long without Dimas either. I get the feeling he's become someone important for him.” She fell quiet. With a damp cloth, she cleaned off each one of the spatulas she had used.

Guillermo had noticed how Laura's interest would grow whenever Dimas's name entered the conversation. His brother reacted as well when Guillermo would mention Laura as he described his day to Dimas and his father over dinner. Though his brother had now been living in the downstairs apartment for a while, he still came to see them whenever he could. Like the night before Dimas went to Bilbao, and Guillermo, filled with excitement, told him he would finally be modeling for one of the sculptures on the church.

“How is our cherub doing?”

The question came from a white-haired man with a white beard and a solemn expression. He approached them and seemed to be analyzing the plaster with his stare. His brilliant blue eyes were clear. Guillermo avoided moving when the man, his brows knitted and his hands crossed behind his back, came close to his face. The gentleman seemed to have forgotten there was a nine-year-old boy behind the mask. Wearing a black suit and a white shirt, the man was not much taller than Laura. It was the architect in charge of the cathedral, Antoni Gaudí i Cornet, and he was said to have an unpleasant disposition. So Guillermo decided to behave as best he could to avoid getting reprimanded and preventing Laura from finishing her work.

“Good,” he said curtly as he was departing. “Good.”

The boy noticed that Gaudí had directed his words to no one in particular, as if he assumed they would reach whoever needed to hear them. Laura smiled, grateful, at the architect. She also seemed tense when he was near.

“Thank you, Master.”

“In art, there are no masters, Laura,” Gaudí said. “The only master is oneself.”

Laura accepted his reproof and admired the eloquence with which he had crafted it. She remained attentive to the architect as he went on, “By the way, you need to find Matamala, he wants to talk to you about something.” And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

Guillermo noticed how, from behind, Gaudí's robust ears poked out from his trimmed hair. The architect walked slowly, giving off a kind of mystical aura, as if he were alone in that immense workshop full of people, and suddenly he walked toward a group of workers frantically carrying a statue on their shoulders. He approached them, neither stepping aside nor interfering, only making sure that the piece in question would arrive at its destination in perfect condition; otherwise, he could not accept it. His face retained its severe expression, as if the architect were waiting to intervene and shout out whatever warnings he deemed necessary.

“Are you all right?” Laura asked Guillermo. He nodded very slightly, in silence. “I'll come right back. If you need something, lift up your hand and someone will come right away.”

The young woman asked a companion to keep watch over him and then she left.

While he waited, Guillermo had time to look at everything scattered around that extraordinary space. He had never been inside before. He had just seen the façade at recess or when they had gone outside, for geometry class, for example, when they would draw figures in the sand with compasses and rulers made of wood.

In the back of the enormous space was stored an infinity of molds of the kind he was helping to make right now. Hanging from the ceiling and the walls there were vegetal figures as well as women and men. They were highly realistic, seeming to still harbor inside them the form of the person who had inspired them, but their expressions were completely frozen. Some had their mouths half open as if complaining that they'd been abandoned there forever; others seemed to be sleeping, waiting for someone to remember them. Guillermo asked himself what they would do with all those used or discarded models.

His eyes strayed to another area of the workshop where four mirrors were arranged on the walls and ceiling. He had seen them as soon as he'd come in. Laura explained that it was the photographic studio, and that the mirrors were used to capture a person from different angles. Gaudí wasn't opposed to new techniques; this was something different that sometimes complemented the molds. Guillermo had been fascinated immediately by that apparatus that could capture an instant and hold on to it. Laura, on the other hand, felt it was a “dead medium.” She said the process of making molds allowed the artist to come in closer contact with the sculpture's inspiration, with the flesh that would be rendered into stone.

“I'm back,” Laura announced. She wasn't alone; there was a man with her. “This is my good friend Jordi Antich. He was spying on us from the entryway.” Laura elbowed him and smiled, amused.

“I couldn't resist peeking in on what you were doing inside. You seem so reluctant to show it to anyone that I couldn't help but be curious,” Jordi responded in the same jocular tone.

Since he couldn't speak, Guillermo raised his hand and shook it by way of greeting.

“Hello, Guillermo. It's a pleasure to meet you. Laura has told me a lot about you,” he said.

Laura began talking with Jordi about her job and explaining the next steps in the sculpting process. She had just received instructions from Lorenzo Matamala. Gaudí had already gone to his house in the Parque Güell, where he had lived alone since his niece had died two years back. It appeared that Lorenzo Matamala was Laura's superior and one of Gaudí's collaborators. He also worked on the sculptures and was working on the body that would go with Guillermo's head. Guillermo noticed that Jordi understood perfectly what Laura was talking about when she explained the techniques, as if he were an artist too; and yet his constant smiling and his excessively good humor began to arouse the child's suspicions.

He noticed that Jordi took Laura's hand and brought it up slowly to his lips. The young boy's distrust then became something more—jealousy, disappointment, disillusion, even fury—when he saw Laura's reaction, how she pulled her hand immediately away, though still thanking him for his kind words, and batted away his compliments, saying she was doing nothing more than executing her work in the best way she knew. Then she turned to him and said, “Guillermo, I think we can take the strips of plaster off you now.”

She grabbed a stool to sit down in front of him, and once she had confirmed that they were hard enough, she took them off. The boy became fidgety when he felt a gust of air on his left cheek. Laura placed the first section carefully on the wooden table nearby. When she had removed them all, Guillermo started making faces to make sure he hadn't been paralyzed like the molds hanging there on the walls.

“Here, clean yourself off with this.” Laura gave him a white cloth she had taken from a bucket of clean water. “The plaster has stained your skin, but it will come off quickly.”

Guillermo obeyed and passed the damp rag over his skin. He liked the coolness of it after being covered so long in that thick mixture. Now he just wanted to see the result.

“When will the sculpture be done?”

“It will be several days. When I have it, I'll tell you.”

“You must be impatient, right, son? We have to put some pressure on Laura so she'll hurry up and get it done,” Jordi commented affably, mussing the boy's hair. It was hard and matted from the plaster.

Guillermo shook his head to free himself from the man's hand.

“I'm impatient, but I know how to wait. Laura is an artist, and you can't rush artists,” he responded.

She knelt down and, with a tender smile, combed her fingers through his hair. She parted it to one side, as his father did on Sundays. Guillermo looked into her eyes, happy for that moment of complicity.

He also gave a fleeting glance to Jordi. He was still there, standing next to them, still with a smile on his face, though it was little by little changing to an expression of confusion. She couldn't be interested in him, despite his blue suit, which looked so expensive, or the hat he held by the crown in one hand, the boy told himself; Guillermo was even more sure Laura didn't care about Jordi when he remembered the interest she had shown in Dimas only minutes before.