The Dream of the City (43 page)

“This is what you get for being curious,” another added in a higher-pitched voice.

“And a son of a bitch to boot,” his old colleague said.

Without waiting for a response, they began kicking him in the stomach and back. If there was a leader, it had to be Montero, but at that moment, they were acting wantonly. The tallest one grabbed his chain and smashed it down on Dimas's arm. He twisted in pain with his face pressed between the stones and the heel of Montero. He tried to suck back in the air that had been kicked from his lungs. The rain of blows seemed endless until, all of a sudden, the sound of steps in the distance distracted the men and they stopped their attack.

“Hey! What's going on here?” shouted Manel, running toward them with a pipe in his hand. Behind him were various people from the bar still wedged into their trapeze clothes.

“I hope you learned your lesson and you'll lay off asking questions. Otherwise we'll be seeing you again,” Daniel Montero hissed in Dimas's ear before running off after the others and losing himself in the darkness of night.

When Manel was close, he recognized the wounded man.

“Dimas!”

He heard Manel's voice as if from afar. Manel carefully helped him to stand up.

“Can you walk?” he asked him. “Fuck, they really got you, kid! Is anything broken? Come with me, we'll see if we can clean those wounds up a little bit …”

Dimas gasped desperately. He could hardly see; blood welled over his eyelids and cheeks, painting his face scarlet. Wherever he looked, the city seemed bathed in blood. The pain from his contusions made him hunch over and press his hands into his stomach. Every wound hurt unspeakably, but the beating had had the opposite of its intended effect on the young man, awakening in him even more of a thirst to know, to find out the truth hidden behind all that spilled blood. Dimas had never gone in for half measures and he wasn't about to start now. Before he passed out, he thought the answers had to be very close now.

CHAPTER 48

That night, Laura's dreams were intense. Though the image was sometimes very faint, she could see Dimas while she slept. She woke up in a bad mood, just as she had gone to bed the night before. She blamed it on the strange way he had shown up to get her attention at a time that was so difficult for her and her family.

On Thursday morning she got up later than usual, and Núria, who had agreed with the rest of the family to keep the shop closed as a sign of mourning, told Laura she needed to attend a social engagement that evening related to all that had happened.

“I'm nor happy about it either,” her sister told her, “but a group of friends are coming, especially people close to Mama, to be with us through this time. To say no would be very rude. And without a doubt, all of them, or at least the majority, have been terribly affected by the news. Our father was a man who was very much loved and respected.”

Tired, sad, Laura ceded without resistance.

The tragic circumstances of her father's death made the mourning even more painful and deepened her feeling of the injustice of fate. Laura couldn't find the strength to refuse to attend or collaborate with what she would have considered an irritation days before. She needed to be there for her mother and help her in any way she could. She had been left alone, and she deserved whatever efforts Laura could make.

At midday, the three women ate a frugal meal. They still lacked appetite, as if their bodies had pledged to live only from what was necessary and to reject all else. Laura noticed that she hardly perceived tastes or odors. And more, it even seemed strange to her if she enjoyed anything; she felt something diffuse inside, like a mute voice telling her she was guilty. The only thing she could lose herself in was her work at the Sagrada Familia, where every gesture made in the name of beauty had a meaning. She would think of her father and say,
This is for you
, and she would imagine that, from wherever he was, he was watching her and smiling proudly at her labors. Remembering that as she ate made her leave her bread on the table; she had scarcely nibbled at it, just like the rest of the food.

Pilar, dressed in all black, remained dignified, serene, though her expression and her downturned mouth showed the torture she was suffering inside. During lunch she gave precise instructions to the service staff as to what the invitees should be given—a light snack, without fanfare, though the trays should never be empty. She also asked her daughters softly to be there with her and to dress as discreetly as possible. Laura took that to mean black or another very dark color.

When lunch was over, the daughters went to their respective rooms. Pilar, walking wearily, went into the library, the room where Francesc always went after lunchtime to enjoy his Cuban and his brandy. The fire was out. She turned on the lights and surveyed the room slowly. She could still smell the intense scent of his cigars. It was still a welcoming, comfortable room … but the silence and the solitude froze her soul. To think that she would never be there with Francesc again devastated her. With her eyes filled with tears, she ran her hand across the lid of the piano. Not wanting to, she still turned her face to look for Francesc. The armchair was empty. At that instant, solitude descended upon her definitively, and there was nothing she could do but curse. Curse and complain impotently of the cruelty of the world, the injustice, the never-ending pain, and Francesc's accursed idea of staying late that evening to work.

The invitees to the mansion showed up with a punctuality appropriate to the tragedy that had taken place. Núria and Laura received them, thanking them again for their condolences and their demonstrations of affection. Berta Bragado was among them. Particularly effusive, she was wrapped in a coat so thick that, besides accentuating her round figure, it was making her sweat.

“Oh, girls! I can't stop crying. What days you must be passing through. This is all so sad. And Pilar …?”

Laura pointed to the back, where her mother was waiting as she took care of the last details. Matilde was taking the ladies' coats, and a waitress accompanied them to the sitting room where Señora Jufresa was expecting them. Remei Antich was also among the invitees and was clearly affected by all that had happened.

The women sat around several tables in front of the long windows that opened onto the garden, covered in soft white curtains. Light was still coming in from outside, but the candles and lamps were already prepared. Pilar was a busy hostess and sat near the center of the room. Núria and Laura went out of their way to wait on everyone.

“Ay! Laurita! I wanted to speak to you; what …” Berta Bragado huffed, sitting down to her left.

Laura was talking with another of the guests to her right, Señora Riera, an older woman, very pious and with an extremely sweet character. The girl had to lean down a bit because Señora Riera spoke very low, and when Berta greeted her, she couldn't restrain a shudder.

“Jesus, Laurita! You've terrified me!” Señora Bragado said with one hand on her breast, covering for a moment the shimmer of the only jewel decorating her somber dress.

Laura knitted her brows. She was going to reprimand her, but she thought it better to stay quiet. The character and manners of the chief of police's wife were already well known. Thus the youngest Jufresa contented herself with a gentle smile.

“I'm sorry, Berta. I was concentrated on what Señora Riera was telling me. We were talking about the war, and …”

Berta looked up gluttonously as one of the waitresses entered bearing a tray of cookies and a steaming teapot.

“Oh, pardon me, darling. I'm going to have a bit of tea; it will do me some good, with the little I've slept these past few days. Would you like something?” she asked, already getting up from her seat. Laura shook her head, looking back to Señora Riera again.

While she listened to the old woman, she saw from the corner of her eye how Señora Bragado, with the excuse of her cup of tea, grabbed hold of a large handful of cookies. But there was another thing that captured Laura's attention as well, making her lose the thread of the conversation with her guest. Her eyes squinted to try to see better the brooch that Señora Bragado was wearing. From the distance she couldn't make it out well, but there was something … something familiar about it.

“… the mobilization of women, especially the French. As I was saying, I'm worried by this grotesque confusion of roles; in my day, it was unthinkable that delicate hands made for handling babies would be taking care of sick people all day long. I also worry all that gunpowder could have a terrible effect on the poor creatures' skin. … Are you listening to me, honey?” Señora Riera accused her gingerly.

Laura, a bit embarrassed, improvised a quick excuse and looked back at the old woman once more. She couldn't stop thinking of what she'd seen, though, and she gave one last glance at Berta, who had moved away to the other corner and was sitting close to Núria. All Laura could see of her was her back and thick neck.
I'll take a good look later
, she said to herself. She didn't want to be rude to the respectable Señora Riera.

The evening passed as languidly as the light of the sun gave way to the ochre and yellow tones of the candles and lamps. When the conversations kept returning to the same repeated lamentations, Núria and Laura gave each other a look that suggested it was time to bring the gathering to an end. They were worried about their mother's health. She looked exhausted, though she would never say a single word to rush her guests out the door. Luckily, the Jufresa sisters didn't need to intervene; Señora Antich said out loud they should all leave Pilar to rest. She stood up and said she would be leaving, and the other women agreed and followed her. Núria instructed the service staff to begin passing out the coats.

Laura accompanied her sister to the entrance of the mansion to say good-bye to the guests one by one. From the hall, she had seen Berta about to put on her coat. She waved to the maid and ran over to help Berta herself: she hadn't forgotten the brooch and she wanted to see it up close. With the coat in her hands, Laura looked at the woman's torso. Her mouth opened in utter surprise. Berta touched it with one hand.

“It's pretty, no?” she said, proud to see the Jufresa daughter staring at her brooch. “I have to confess, my dear, there's a sad story behind it.”

Laura looked her in the eyes and swallowed. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Berta confused her incredulity with admiration. She went on explaining, a bit caustically.

“It's a present my husband got for one of his lovers. I found it hidden away in the desk. But he can't fool me that easily. Ha! I'm going to wear it around 'til he realizes. I know he won't say anything, but at least he'll see I'm not stupid. No sir, not a stupid bone in my body!”

While Berta's grating voice babbled on, Laura focused on the jewel, incapable of speaking. It was the design she had created based on Gaudí's Sagrada Familia, a design almost no one had seen.

“Laurita, are you all right?” the police chief's wife asked.

Laura had gone pale. Bringing a hand to her forehead, she claimed she was tired. Luckily, that was enough for Berta to put on her coat and march out of the house. The girl's head was spinning, her stomach in cramps. As soon as she could, she left the foyer and caught her breath in the garden. What she had just seen had left her in a state of shock: her brooch had ended up in Bragado's hands.

How could Bragado have gotten it? She didn't know what to think, but she couldn't keep that to herself.

Ferran had said he would be in the workshop. She should go see him. And she decided to do it right away.

Laura didn't hesitate to take the Peugeot. She pressed the accelerator to the floor until she made it partway through the Calle Muntaner, where she slammed on the brakes; she had almost run over an old man slowly crossing the street. When she stopped, she broke out in a cold sweat that startled her. She took a deep breath and repeated to herself what she should do: tell Ferran what she had seen, nothing more, nothing less. And then he would decide, or they would figure it out together. She calmed down a bit and drove the vehicle with exaggerated care. Little by little her initial surprise at seeing the brooch turned into indignation. She couldn't believe that this Chief Bragado could have stolen a piece to give to one of his lovers. Nor was it possible that Ferran had given it to him in exchange for anything; it was a design that hadn't been debuted. He could have seen it while he was inspecting the workshop after the robbery, or maybe he had taken it off one of the criminals. But regardless, what could he have been thinking? That he could just take something without any consequences? It was simply intolerable. She only calmed down a bit thinking that her brother would help resolve her doubts.

She parked the car close to the workshop. She was already imagining Bragado's humiliation. She pictured Ferran asking him for explanations, raking him over the coals. He clearly couldn't have known the importance that jewel would have for her, but that was exactly why he would pay this time. Who knew how many times he had done such a thing. She remembered what Dimas had said, those words that now flew back into her memory: he warned her there was something strange about the robbery. Could the brooch be proof of it?

Before she entered the workshop, Laura felt a shiver that made her pull her coat tight around herself. With trembling hands, she felt for the key in her pocket. As she went in, she heard the comforting voice of her brother in his office: it was a good sign, at least that meant he was there. But … who was he talking with?

She knocked at the door and entered resolutely. Ferran interrupted what he was saying to someone seated with his back to the door.

“Laura? What are you doing here? Did something happen?”

Laura was about to speak when she saw the man turn around in his seat with exasperating slowness to look at her. It was Bragado. He looked at her sternly, with no expression.

“I'm sorry. I had no idea you had a visitor. N-n-no … it's nothing,” she stuttered. “We'll talk later.”

Before her brother could answer her, Laura went out and closed the door softly behind her. She took a deep breath and left the workshop. Even in the street she thought she could feel the frozen eyes of Chief Bragado on the back of her neck. She went back to the car quickly. When she put it in gear, she looked behind her once more. She was frantic. She closed her eyes and took several breaths. She turned the key and the motor revved. Once she'd grabbed the wheel, she looked at the door to the workshop. It was still closed. That Bragado had a talent for making her nervous. She needed to keep calm. She wanted to get out of there and think about an alternative. The noise of the motor soon stilled Laura's nerves as she drove.

Perhaps for that reason, she didn't notice another car set off not far behind her with two of Bragado's officers inside.