The Dream of the City (40 page)

VII

PATIENCE (IRE)

Patience consists of waiting, not passively, but rather working with persistence, even when the solution does not appear near to hand.

—Antoni Gaudí

CHAPTER 43

The panorama from the cemetery of Montjuic was open to the sea and its inhabitants. Circled by the steep cliff crowned by the castle meters above, it looked like a natural amphitheater. Overhead, the peaceful sky pressed down on the sumptuous, stifling landscape. The tapestry of the sea lay behind, and although it was a Sunday, the port of Barcelona was humming with activity. The city made way for an uninterrupted flow of ships of all sizes, entering and departing from the harbor. On the passenger ships known as
steamers
and on the ever-growing merchant ships, the smokestacks belched out dense puffs of vapor that seemed to nourish the clouds. The wind-drawn vessels, their sails folded, dragged along by tireless tugboats, were giving up in the face of the new technologies, playing their part as faded glories in a world that now belonged to the young. And on the lowest rung of the seafaring crafts, the skiffs, gliding along to the patient rhythm of their rowers, transported the humble stock of fish of those who had not managed to join up with the crews of the larger boats, or took a small daily supply to be sold to those tenants of the sea who couldn't or didn't care to set foot on dry land.

In the stands of that monumental amphitheater, a sad event was under way: the burial of Francesc Jufresa. The ties, the veils, the black dresses, the caps clenched in the weary hands, the faces downcast and sorrowful, the red and weeping eyes offered a spectacle of relentless anguish. The family mausoleum had been opened hours before in anticipation of its newest resident. Its darkness was like an abyss whose gravity threatened to swallow any reckless person who came too close into its gullet. The coffin lay on the ground next to the opening of the tomb, with the ropes already laced underneath, waiting for the workers to take their positions and lower that ridiculous wooden box into its place. The coffin glimmered with varnish, and the handles and hinges with gold. There was a purity about it that fit with the antiseptic nature of the ceremony. Facing the family on the other side of the grave that would soon enclose the deceased Francesc Jufresa, a priest in his chasuble and a stole of luminous white over his black soutane brought his hands together in an attitude of reverence. Several times he looked up at the sky, as if asking for help or some reply that would make the tragedy comprehensible for everyone there. His words, in contrast, were a vague litany that accompanied the ritual like background music, sad and languid.

At the head of the family, Pilar, the matriarch, maintained her composure. From time to time she would lift her black veil and hesitantly bring her black lace kerchief to her eyes. She was surrounded by her children. To one side was Núria, to the other Ramon. Laura and Ferran were next to them; everyone's face was devastated. Ramon was the worst affected; not even for a moment could he stanch his tears. Núria, severe and inexpressive, bore the tragedy soberly.

A few thick tears fell down Laura's pale face in silence. She wore neither a veil nor any kind of headdress. She pursed her lips, trying to call up some happy memory of her father, as she had been doing for the past few hours and all the time that had passed since she found out about the terrible event.

She remembered that one time, when she was very young, she told her father how, in one of the courtyards of the Teresian school, teachers had taught her how to recognize shapes in the clouds. Francesc was as enthusiastic as she was and said to her, “Close your eyes.”

“Now?”

“Now, here, wherever and whenever. … Think of a shape. Anything. What do you see?” he asked with a deliberate voice.

“I see a circle.”

“What color?”

The question surprised her. She had been influenced by the white of the clouds, but she decided she should be free to choose.

“It's bright red.”

“Right. Now let it fall apart and vanish.”

That was one of the most intense memories she had of the games Francesc used to play with her sometimes to befuddle her. She remembered opening her eyes to show she didn't understand.

“With your eyes closed, Laura. And without fear. Now, put the pieces back together …”

In her mind, thousands of little red shapes floated suspended, waiting for a sign from her to come back together. She no longer needed her father with her to continue the game. In any place, at any time, she could close her eyes and arrange the shapes and colors against the blackness. But now, when she closed her eyes, the gray blur would not go away. She couldn't break it into little pieces and change it into something more pleasant. But she would, thanks to the unforgettable lesson Francesc had taught her then. Those thoughts finally relaxed her lips and made her raise the corners of her mouth slightly in honor of her father's memory.

Just behind her, Ferran looked like an automaton. He flinched at every greeting of the attendees, every time the priest's voice became louder or softer. His pallor was even starker than his sister's, almost mineral. He stood there without support, alone and ungainly, his red eyes staring in silence. He looked down and saw the clouds reflected in the puddles formed by the rain the night before. He had a long black coat of thick corduroy, but it seemed not to be enough to warm him. The events had left him shaken, with a steely cold that permeated his bones. When his father's body was lowered into the pit, Ferran's strength gave out. He knelt slowly and let out a mute, restrained moan in front of everyone. The first person to reach him was Laura, who knelt down beside him. They held each other for a while, until their siblings helped them up and they filed together toward the exit, holding hands and comforting one another.

After their departure, the front row was still composed of the authorities, the bourgeoisie, the friends, the enemies, the attentive and respectful upper crust of Barcelona society.

A few meters off, the family had recovered its calm, and Laura took the arm that Jordi Antich offered her. Núria waited for her family, her husband and children, who had stayed farther behind. Ramon was walking alone, his face stricken, and Ferran was attending to his mother. The two of them walked in step, shoulder to shoulder.

As they moved off, the workers from the jewelry workshop opened a path for them and watched the family as they left in silence. Then, one by one, the employees passed by the coffin that was already installed in the mausoleum; each said good-bye in his own way, but all showed deepest respect.

When the cemetery was empty of mourners, the hushed labor of the workers replacing the granite slab broke the whistling of the marine wind. A flock of seagulls squawked beside the yellowish wall of the cliff. Above, the silhouette of a high-caliber cannon was outlined against the sky. By midday, the remains of Francesc Jufresa were reposing in the family's tomb and his life's work was now in the possession of the recalls.

Dimas was present throughout the funeral and interment, but he didn't dare to break through the invisible wall of social propriety. He stayed a few meters behind the final group in the retinue, alongside a cypress that resisted the buffeting of the wind, bowing at its mercy. He was moved by the expressions of sorrow on the part of the employees, and the serene and unmitigated respect they showed Francesc were proof that he'd been a great man, something that Dimas himself had known from experience. Understanding, attentive, wise in his observations, the patriarch had always treated him as a well-liked acquaintance or a guest, almost as a friend, and had never made him feel inferior. As he watched, Dimas had steeled himself against those moments of weakness when it was easy to get dragged into sadness and the bitter maze of grief.

That hard-won armor had cracked, however, when he saw Laura walk with her family through the group of workers who stepped aside to let them pass.

Laura, holding the arm of Jordi Antich, walked without shame for the tears that left two glimmering lines down her cheeks. When Dimas saw her, he felt a shiver that he couldn't or didn't know how to define. It could have come from fear, from loss, from disconsolateness, from defenselessness in the face of death, from injustice. … Or maybe it was a stab of selfishness when he understood that Laura wasn't with him, that he couldn't offer her his consolations in those hours that would, regretfully, forever bind her sentiments to the person who was closest to her: right now, that was the son of the Antichs.

Dimas waited by the cypress until the very last moment. He hoped Laura would see him and approach him. But she didn't look at him even when she passed him. It was impossible that she hadn't seen him, he thought, and he started walking over to her. Then she gave him a look that changed from pain to something much colder, almost contemptuous. Dimas was startled and stopped abruptly. Jordi, who saw everything from his vantage point, resolved whatever doubts he had about Dimas's identity and pulled Laura a little closer to himself. It was a gesture of possessiveness and admonition at the same time, marking a border and warning Dimas not to cross it.

Crestfallen, Dimas blended in with the employees and left the graveyard with them. After so much effort, he thought, after so many failed ambitions, after so many nights at Ferran's side, unwanted trips, undesired visits, here he was again among the workers, the proletariat, the
mans d'obra
. It was where he belonged, he said to himself. Just like his father had always told him, just like he had repeated to himself during those faraway days in the confines of the depot, where his work was not compensated and he was just another nobody. He had tried to escape into the ranks of the powerful, who had now turned against him, even accusing him of a murder he hadn't committed. He couldn't stop torturing himself over it.

Seeing himself alone once more, straddling what he had been and what he wanted to be, Dimas Navarro slowed down until finally he was standing still. Past the loading docks, he saw the horizon of the sea, far out beyond the inner harbor, its blue crisp against the gray of the sky. He sat down on the side of the path, now devoid of people. He sensed that Francesc Jufresa's death was pulling him toward something, but he couldn't tell what. Laura's attitude conveyed she didn't want anything else to do with him, that he would remain a passing shadow in her life, an error based on a stupid lie.

Embittered, he was tempted for a moment to blame Ferran Jufresa; he had ignored the excuses and had commanded Pau Jufresa be fired, no matter what. How easy it had been for Ferran, in the comfort of his office, using Dimas as his intermediary. The truth was, as Dimas thought about his actions over recent months, the majority of his work assignments had been morally questionable. Why did that matter to him now, and why hadn't it at the time when he was performing them? Why was it only a few days before that he'd resisted his boss's command to cut short the protests by the fastest route possible, driving the people indiscriminately from their homes? Laura had modeled a path of goodness, generosity, and trust that he wanted to follow, but he had lost the way. Once he'd had an ambition, a dream, and now everything that was in his hands was hateful to him.

He felt his ill mood growing with impotent bitterness. Sitting there, he could feel the humidity envelop him. Still he remained, as what he had been through in the past few months gripped his thoughts. The image of Francesc prevailed, due to the recent tragedy and the sorrowful event he had just attended, surrounded by the Jufresa family: a group of people who had struck him as the very emblem of all that was best in Barcelona's society and who were now being torn apart by this misfortune.

It was a long time before Dimas began his sad walk home. When the sounds of the port began to die down, he began to think of how at home, with his father and Guillermo, he would be surrounded by his real family, the one that had been there for him all along.

He climbed the stairs to his father's apartment, where he found Juan sitting at the table facing the door. He seemed to have been waiting for him.

“Guillermo's not here?” Dimas asked.

“He went out a little while ago to play. He won't be long.”

“The burial was moving. …”

“They always are,” Juan said. “Were there a lot of people?”

“Yeah, lots,” he said, trying to make his voice sound warmer. “Important people from Barcelona: the civil governor, industrialists, business rivals …”

“And the workers?” Juan Navarro asked.

“All of them were there.”

“That says a lot for him. As for the other people, except the family, you don't know who's there because they're looking for some favor the next day, or because they owe them something, or to see famous people, the way it is at a fancy ball. But the workers …”

Dimas remained silent. He thought about how important loyalty and respect were for his father, two values that Dimas had failed to understand and that he was now paying for, in part, by his separation from Laura. The emotion of the day, the silent workers filing past, her face avoiding the sight of him—all of it was like a knot inside him that he couldn't untie; it was grabbing him around the throat like a powerful fist and preventing his words from coming out. It was his father who untied it.

“Something happened here, too.” Dimas shifted in his seat. He thought it would be something terrible, something to do with Guillermo, perhaps. His father soon resolved his doubts. “The police were here. They were asking about you.”

“What did they want?”

“To talk to you. They asked me a lot of questions. …”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Nothing. The truth.” Dimas waited in silence. His father continued. “They wanted to know where you were the night they killed Jufresa. I told them you were downstairs in your apartment. That I knew it because you were here with Guillermo and me after dinner and then I heard you shut your door.”

“And you think they suspect something?”

“What do you want me to say? … Son, I don't know what you've gotten into, but …”