The Dream of the City (33 page)

“Today.”

“Can you make it tonight?”

Dimas nodded with satisfaction. “Of course, Señor Camps. Whenever is convenient for you.”

When Dimas emerged from the factory, he took a deep breath. Everything had gone off exactly as planned. Now he would have to organize a transport, similar to the ones to Bilbao, but in the city, and with much less time to lose. Not even Bragado could find out. He had to act quickly if he wanted the shipment in Ribes i Pla's hands that same night. The next morning, he would deposit the promissory note and would think of what to give Inés, apart from her share of the deal, as he'd promised the night before. Because the money was hers, too: Earned with the help of her efforts and her intelligence, it deserved to be shared. It would open doors and bring new hope. But he couldn't forget that he wasn't just fighting for his own future, but also for Laura's. He didn't want to see her condemned to less of a life than she deserved, to force her to make do with less than she was accustomed to.

While he walked through Pueblo Nuevo, Dimas whistled a ditty whose name he couldn't remember, without even meaning to. The notes of the melody resounded against the thick, gray walls of the smoking factories spewing smoke in the air, as if bitterly rejecting that symptom of joy.

CHAPTER 33

After a great deal of planning, clandestine notes, pregnant glances, and suppressed smiles in the workshop, anticipating the secret, shared pleasure that was soon to be theirs, Laura and Dimas finally managed to see through their plan of spending Sunday, December 13, together. They had to lie and cheat to do so, but neither of them felt guilty.

They left the city in the direction of the Llobregat. After only a few kilometers they could see the Garraf Massif rising up along Barcelona's entire southern coast. The roadway began to snake through the lush groupings of pine trees, which seemed poised to overtake it. Soon the hills became more pronounced and the curves tighter. The sea was a silvery sheet reflecting the sun down below them. White, irregular rock cut through the water falling precipitously from above. Laura maneuvered the Peugot 153 with ease, driving slowly over the arduous path.

“You're the first woman I've ever seen drive a car,” Dimas confessed, leaning back in his seat, his elbow resting on the door. He was wearing his overcoat, and his hat was tipped down over his face.

Laura smiled wide.

“I don't like to depend on anyone.”

“I understand. … Will you let me drive on the way back?”

“We'll see.” She winked at him.

Laura had picked up Dimas at the Sagrada Familia. Seeing her there driving her father's car had been a complete surprise for him; as well as her taking him outside of Barcelona. She still hadn't told him their destination. Normally Dimas liked to be in control; with Laura he had the feeling something was escaping him. And yet, he wasn't uncomfortable with this moment of vulnerability.

“You like the landscape?” Laura asked, noting how he hadn't taken an eye off her.

Her hair was blown back by the wind coming through the window, only half rolled up. That day she was more beautiful than normal. She was wearing a green velvet jacket with a red sweater and skirt that accentuated the pink of her lips.

Dimas grinned.

“Yeah, I like it a lot.” He looked away from her for a moment, focusing straight ahead. “Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?”

“Not yet; I told you I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“I'm starting to think you want to kidnap me. …”

“I'm sure Ferran would put up the ransom.”

They both laughed, at ease. That day there would be none of Ferran and his exploits. They were filled with an intoxicated feeling; ahead of them lay hours without fear of discovery, without having to hide anything from anyone.

As she drove, Laura let her happiness wash over her like a warm, soft hand caressing her hair and face. Everything around her added to the intensity of her feelings: the air, the coolness of December streaming in through the window, the wood of the steering wheel, heated by the winter sun that penetrated the windshield, the blue of the sky and sea, with shades of turquoise in the distance, the diluted coastline, ivory in color, the waves with their milky foam breaking on the bulkheads.

On one of the curves they passed by a stone and brick structure that immediately attracted Dimas's attention.

“What a strange building. It reminds me of one of those ancient castles.”

“It was made with that in mind. It's the winery of Count Güell,” she replied. “Thirty years ago it was designed by Gaudí, but because of some misunderstandings he doesn't acknowledge it.”

“It's spectacular.” Dimas looked back as Laura drove on.

“It's one of those works where the parabolic forms give it a compact air. But when you go inside, that feeling vanishes and you understand how large the dimensions of the building actually are. Look at all those sloping stones on the roof and the chimneys …”

“It looks more like a fortress than a winery.”

“In fact, there are various elements of it that derive from medieval architecture,” Laura agreed. “The windows are modeled after embrasures where the bowmen would shoot their arrows, and the walls are high and solid.”

“Have you been inside?”

“Yes, I visited the cellars one time with my family. The wine is not particularly good—Güell only supplies the transatlantic ships and exports to Cuba—but the building has fascinated me since the first time I saw it.”

“It doesn't seem like the same person who made the Sagrada Familia …”

“Gaudí doesn't repeat himself. The place and the setting, the uses … Everything is studied: he can transport you to another epoch and another place with his buildings. That is why his work is so important. I would almost call it therapeutic.”

Laura breathed in, filling her lungs with air. Their escapade was a flight from the reality that enveloped her. The sun was beginning to rise higher and to shine bright, blazing over the immensity of the sea.

Dimas looked at her and listened raptly while she talked of art, of architecture, of Rome. … He liked how she explained the things she knew: how every discovery fascinated her, every facet of a sculpture, of a painting, of a jewel. Or how she delved into the processes that had led her to see something new in them.

Laura went on talking to him for the rest of their journey, about her trip to Italy, her vision of form in art, and soon the conversation drifted back to her family home, what it represented and how she felt there: she didn't want to be like her sister Núria, or her mother or the friends she had grown up with. … She missed not seeing Ramon more. But it wasn't all bad, she noted: her relationship with her father was wonderful; he always understood what she wanted to do, and he treasured her work, particularly now, when she was beginning to find her place. Laura looked from the countryside to Dimas's attentive face, and he listened to her talk the whole time. When the sign for Sitges appeared in front of them, he looked at it perplexed. She explained.

“It's one of the best places in the world. It's no Rome, but I'm sure you'll like it.” She gave him an impish grin.

They slowed down as they entered the narrow streets of the town. While she drove down a hill that led directly to the San Sebastián beach, just beside the parish of San Bartolomé and Santa Tecla, Laura pointed to a white house with large windows covered with iron bars.

“That is Cau Ferrat. It's the home of the painter and writer Santiago Russinyol. There have been parties there attended by all the major artists: poets, musicians, sculptors …”

“Why does it have that name?”

“Because Russinyol wanted it to be a refuge, a retreat for the artists of his time, hence
cau
—lair or hideout. And he had a large collection of cast iron, and the word
ferrat
comes from that.”

Dimas nodded without taking his eyes off that allegorical building. A little later, Laura stopped the car, and when they'd gotten out, the salt air struck them directly in the face. The light was more vivid there, almost blinding; much more so than in Barcelona. Dimas rubbed his eyes and looked from one side to the other.

“I know,” Laura said. “It's the light that attracted so many artists.”

They had admired the sea the entire time from the vehicle: the boats, which looked like small toys from the height of the road, the vibrant blue of the water, the sand and the indestructible rock, lining the coast and defending it … It looked like a painting. Now, outside the car, everything seemed nearer, more real, and while the waves shifted on the surface of the ocean, the boats stayed moored to the beach like giant skeletons chained to their destiny.

At first glance, there seemed to be no one there. Laura and Dimas looked at each other on the roadside. They smiled and slipped off their shoes. It wasn't cold; the sun was warming them. The walked over the dry sand and approached the boats, stretched out in a long line, their hulls covered in algae. The young couple held hands. Then they stopped and kissed. Long, unhurried. They laid Dimas's overcoat close to the last of the rowboats to keep from covering themselves in sand. Eventually he spoke.

“You really did manage to surprise me,” he confessed. He had laid his head down in Laura's lap. She was seated, leaning back on the wooden boat.

“I'm glad,” she said, stroking his hair. Dimas's hat was resting beside them. “I knew you'd like it here.”

“I don't just mean today. I mean in these last few weeks. I thought you were someone very different from who you really are.”

“You thought I was like the rest of my family,” she interrupted him.

“I suppose so,” he admitted. With his eyes closed, he listened to Laura's voice, to the breeze, to the waves that rocked in the somnolence of midday.

She laughed and added, “It's fine. I thought you were different, too.”

“How?”

“I don't know, more like my brother. Greedy, unscrupulous.” When she saw Dimas fall silent, she said: “Sometimes first impressions lead us wrong.”

They stayed there in the tranquil silence, feeling the soft rays of the sun that heated their faces and filled them with a comforting sense of peace. They took refuge in each other.
I could stay here forever
, each one of them thought, happy to have the other. It was as if nothing mattered but that moment, as if nothing else was necessary.

Suddenly, a shadow rose up before them, blocking the light and making them open their eyes. Dimas could see the silhouette of a number of people against the light and stood up quickly. A small group of fishermen was watching them.

“Are you all comfortable?” one of them asked. The ones behind broke into laughter.

“I'm sorry if we bothered you; we thought there was no one here,” Dimas said stiffly. Both of them shook the sand from their clothes.

“Don't worry, man. It's just that this one here happens to be my boat. See? It's called
María
, like my wife,” he said, pointing to the boat they had been leaning against.

Dimas and Laura apologized for bothering them and the conversation quickly turned to other themes. The fisherman introduced themselves and invited them to try what they'd caught. Beside some of the boats farther off, they had already started a bonfire and grills. The young couple felt at home there, or better.

When the fish was cooked, the fishermen took Dimas and Laura to a dwelling not far from the beach with a large, sunlit courtyard. There at the table, the conversation boomed. The children ran all around and the men and women shouted and laughed. They passed around
porrones
of a cloudy white wine, bellowed, whispered, pointed, mocked, then calmed each other down. Laura and Dimas were amused by everything that came out of the mouths of those cheerful, homespun men and women. Sometimes, when they answered their questions, they had to lower their heads and take the jeers directed at the people from the big city; but there was no malice in anything they said. When they finished the meal and the talk wound down in the sleepiness of the afternoon, Laura and Dimas rose and took their leave. Everyone waved with enthusiasm and invited them to return whenever they wanted. Behind them, they could still hear the laughter, the voices, the occasional whining of a child.

The evening began to cool down and the sun hid behind the mountains, the sound of the wind like a litany slowing and fading against the rumor of the water. The sky turned violet while the sea grew darker and darker. Laura and Dimas stayed awhile seated on an outcropping of rock, shoulders touching, sharing the warmth of their bodies. Laura was wearing his overcoat cinched over her coat to protect her from the chill. Dimas wore only his suit.

“It's been a good day,” she ventured.

“It's been more than good,” he replied.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he laid his head atop hers and then kissed it.

“You still haven't told me about what you said to Jordi.”

Laura joked about his jealousy and then calmed him down by telling him everything that had been discussed. There was no need to worry, she explained to him; Jordi had understood. And thus the two of them stayed there, stretching out the time that remained to them. They wished they could prolong the day and remember its every detail over those that would follow. They didn't know when they could have a day like that again. With the sunset, they also lost that drunken sense that their moments together would never end. They walked slowly to the car. Laura wouldn't let Dimas drive: she still wanted to show him one more place, a little corner she had discovered by chance looking for a setting for one of her drawings. Dimas agreed. He could feel the heat of his love burning inside him.

Not long after they'd set off, Laura took a detour that was nearly invisible amid the bushes and led to a green esplanade ending in a precipice that opened onto the coast. They got out of the car and sat on the grass. The sea looked majestic, and the sky protecting. They sat in silence, looking at the vista, until Dimas took one of her hands in his. Laura looked away from the Mediterranean and set her large eyes on her beloved. They didn't need another sign or prompt. Slowly, as if afraid to break the magic spell that surrounded them, they brought their lips together. Laura's hands stroked Dimas's neck while he let himself fall onto his back. Without ceasing to kiss her, he felt her body, and she arched her back to offer him her breasts. His lips trailed down her neck until they reached them. Laura let out a sigh and spread her legs to surround him. Resting her small hands on his manly face, she brought it back up to her lips. As they melted into one in that passionate kiss, she lowered his zipper. Quickly, Dimas slipped down his pants, and she responded by pulling up her skirt. About to enter her, he felt her hand on his member, stroking it back and forth. They looked at each other with swelling desire as she guided him inside her. She closed her eyes when she felt Dimas inside, choking back a moan. Moving her pelvis, she told him to thrust, to not hold back. Burning with passion, Dimas sped up his rhythm, his shouts of pleasure mixing with those of Laura, both of them free of all restraint, without any fear of being seen, protected in that wilderness, liberated from convention.