The Dream of the City (6 page)

“Ha, ha, ha! You've got some balls, Navarro! I like it. Here, is this enough?”

Dimas took the money, counted it carefully, and only answered in the affirmative once he'd finished. His boss turned around, intending to leave, but when Dimas turned as well, the owner warned him: “I recommend you stay away on Tuesday morning. Your colleagues are going to meet with a nasty surprise.”

That was the date the workers had settled on to sabotage the machinery. Dimas showed not an ounce of feeling when he saw one of the roughnecks grin.

“I'm going to be here, otherwise they'd notice my absence.”

“Whatever you think; I've done my duty by warning you. Good night, Navarro. And welcome to the good guys' side.”

Ribes i Pla left with his bodyguards. When he opened the door to step out, a blinding glow met him, as the headlights of his automobile shone toward the entrance. The light disappeared when he closed the door. When the noise of the car died away, everything was silent. Then Dimas turned and gave the first orders and the noise of the tools, the machines, and the frenzied activity began to fill up immensity of the bays.

CHAPTER 5

Tuesday at dawn, Daniel Montero, ignorant of the secret activities that had drawn to a close in the bays only moments before, was getting ready to execute the first part of his plan. He took a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. When it turned, he pushed open the doors to the storeroom carefully, to keep it from squeaking. Just a few yards away, he saw a number of figures hidden there; one of them gave him a quick greeting. He reminded himself that once they were all inside, he would need to take care to get to the back so that the blows wouldn't reach him. He moved agilely through the courtyard to the building that housed the substation, just beside the depots. There he took out a clanking ring of keys and opened a small door that led to the path outside. He peeked out, and after making sure no one was there, he left. He put his hands in his pockets and set off on a slow walk.

All of a sudden, he thought he heard footsteps at his back. He stopped and began to turn back, but it was too late; something hard struck his head, and in less than a second, everything went black. He fell to the ground like a sack of bricks.

Dimas grabbed Montero's unconscious body beneath his arms and dragged it toward the door. He laid it down there so that it looked as if he'd fallen asleep. He put Montero's cap over his eyes, took a small jar of wine from his own jacket, and spilled it beside the foreman before setting off for the predetermined meeting point.

Many of the workers had gathered and taken shelter in the nearby vegetable plots. Dimas arrived last and met his comrades, who were impatient to begin.

“Where's Montero?” someone asked.

“He must have left the door to the storeroom open. He'll meet up with us there,” Rubio responded.

“I don't know,” Arnau grumbled between clenched teeth, waving to Dimas in greeting.

“Now's not the time to hesitate. Let's go!” Rubio shouted.

The group walked briskly toward the doorway to the depot. They moved silently, like hunters on the trail. Their only rule was silence; according to Rubio, they were engaged in a guerrilla action: They would have to enter the bays, grab the tools, try to sabotage as much of the machinery as they could in a few minutes, and get out as fast as possible. Afterward, they would send a representative to talk with the manager and try to make him understand the urgency of coming to an agreement. The point of the action was to demonstrate that the presence of the employees in their work spaces was absolutely indispensable; no one but them—and even then, it would take effort—could make sure the machines would work again.

Frozen from the cold, enveloped in clouds of vapor that floated from their nervous mouths, the workers bunched together in front of the entrance. Dimas clenched his fists; he knew what was coming next. For a moment he felt the urge to warn his companions, to tell them it was all a trap set up by the manager with Montero's cooperation. But something inside of him held him back: He didn't want to go on being just one more worker, regardless of the cost. And he couldn't look back now.

They pushed the door open easily and entered through the main walkway, which led to the different bays, like a river branching into its tributaries. Suddenly a group of men armed with clubs and iron chains emerged from between the empty buildings, approaching the strikers threateningly and cutting off their escape route.

“They were waiting for us!” Arnau roared.

It was Rubio who ran to open the tool closet. His eyes were red with rage.

“They're not there!” He turned on his heels, saw chains flying above him, and gave off a desperate, guttural cry. “It's an ambush!”

He was one of the first to sense the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The chains and the clubs fell with inhuman precision over the confused workers. Some shrieked impotently; many fell to the floor, where they were punched and kicked. A couple faced off against their aggressors, shouting: “There are more of us than of them! There are more of us!” They tried to rouse their comrades and failed to mention the fatal difference, that these men were armed.

Dimas saw Ramiro slip and fall on his face to the floor. As if he'd landed on a spring, he rolled over immediately, but without standing up. Frightened, he still had the guts to clench his teeth and raise his fists. Dimas leaped over to him: One of the thugs was running over, ready to pound him with a long iron bar.

“Get up!” Dimas grabbed the collar of his shirt and made him stand.

“Let me go, I'll eat him alive!” Ramiro screamed, his chest swollen, as he got to his feet.

“Your children need you alive. Run!”

When he said the word
children
, it was as if he'd soaked Ramiro in boiling oil. The fury that almost dragged him into the fray now made him spit on the ground and take off running, with Dimas at his side. The thug still had time to graze Ramiro's back with the bar. When he saw he couldn't catch him, he threw the bar like a javelin and it struck Dimas in the back of the thigh. He looked back quickly and saw the man shaking his fist in the air.

As soon as they'd escaped the depot, the giant Ramiro asked him where they were going. Dimas pointed to the vegetable plots, then stopped a second and looked back into the bays, where a handful of workers still remained. He saw Rubio on the ground, with two of his colleagues dragging him away. Trembling, Dimas could hardly stand, and he felt he would collapse at any moment. Another worker close to them ran over to help. They were the last ones to make it to the vegetable plots. Rubio's nose was broken and a link from the chain had left its mark on his right cheek. At that moment, Dimas felt the blood draining down his leg: The iron bar had cut him through his pants.

They sat there a few minutes on a square of ground covered in weeds and a few leafless trees. Nothing could be heard but their weary breathing, moans of pain, and the occasional insult. They looked one another over, making bandages from their own clothing for those who were bleeding.

“What happened, Rubio?”

Rubio sucked in a breath and answered, discouraged: “We've been betrayed.”

They were all thinking it, but no one wanted to believe it. When it came from Rubio's lips, the suspicion was suddenly real, and it fell upon them like a spade full of earth on the lid of a coffin. Inside, all of them were looking for a name. After a weighty silence, Dimas spoke: “Where's Montero?”

“I haven't seen him,” one answered.

“Me neither,” another confirmed.

“He's not here, clearly. …”

The workers began to curse and threaten the traitor. Dimas thought that he had touched a match to kindling that was ready to burst into flames.

“Well, if he's not here …” he muttered while he bandaged his leg with the torn sleeves of his shirt.

“Son of a bitch!” someone exclaimed between clenched teeth.

A couple of farmworkers who lived nearby came over with a pot of hot malt. They said they had seen them flee. One of the peasanta continued, saying that he too had worked in a factory for a time; he knew how the bosses worked them to nothing. The farmers' solidarity encouraged the bruised men, who thanked them for the cups of hot liquid as if it were manna from heaven.

“It's even worse that they're using scabs,” the man finished.

“Scabs?” Ramiro, who was blowing on his cup, lifted his head in surprise.

“You didn't know? They bring in a handful of workers at night. They start up around midnight and disappear before daybreak.”

They were shocked by the double betrayal. Words of vengeance sounded repeatedly like echoes from a mountaintop. Dimas said nothing; he just nodded his head and agreed with his comrades.

Daniel Montero stood up, stunned. After getting to his feet, he felt the bump on his head; it hurt so much he thought his head was going to explode. He shook his arms back and forth, trying to warm up, and noticed a strong scent of wine. He didn't understand what had happened.

He walked toward the main entrance of the depot. It was locked. He didn't know if everything had already happened or if the workers hadn't dared to bring their plan to its conclusion, but when he looked at the floor, he saw drops of blood. He stood there a few moments, not knowing what to do, before deciding to walk to the meeting point.

When he was still a few yards away, he saw the strikers. He raised a hand to greet them and approached them with a halting gait, stiff with the cold and the blow he had received, but the looks that met him caused him to pause.

“Wh-what happened?” Montero stuttered.

The silence was thick, and then it was quickly shattered.

“Look at him. To top it off, he stinks of wine. …” one of the men finally said, full of contempt.

“It's his conscience; he's gotten drunk because he feels guilty after what he's done to us,” another seethed.

None of them moved, their eyes burning with hatred. Montero observed them and saw they had uncovered his treason. His eyes met those of Dimas. He was the only one who watched him unmoved.
Son of a bitch
, Montero thought.

He knew there was nothing left to do but run. At the first movement he saw, he took off running like a hare, and a stone hit the ground beside him. He stopped a few yards away from his colleagues and turned around, offended. Another stone flew, this time hitting him in the chest, and he knew he had made a mistake. He turned away quickly, but Ramiro leaped at his feet and managed to get him to the ground. Montero wrangled back and forth like a cat, but the other man's fists fell like hammer blows. More of his companions joined in, kicking him while the farmworkers tried to stop them. Finally Rubio got between the workers and Montero with the help of Arnau.

“Ramiro, for the love of God, don't get your hands dirty with that piece of trash. The last thing we need is to be accused of murder,” he said.

The giant calmed down, though his expression remained unhinged. Montero, terrified, sat up as best he could and spit out a bloody gob of teeth. Two streams of blood trailed from his broken nose. He struggled to his feet and ran off, and no one made a move to stop him. At first he looked back to see if they were following; then, with his eyes closed, he rushed down the hill. He ran frantically, as he'd never run before. And he cursed himself and Dimas Navarro.

CHAPTER 6

The cold winter ceded, little by little, to a dazzling spring; the season was always beautiful in Rome. The city filled with light and time streamed quickly by. Soon June arrived, and with it, the day when Laura was set to return home approached like an arrow, difficult to dodge.

The ten months planned for her apprenticeship had passed quickly. Everything had changed since she arrived, and now the thought of going back saddened her. In Rome, she had everything she needed: She lived surrounded by art, everything she learned in Zunico's workshop excited her, she had good friends, independence … and of course, there was Carlo.

Though they had never planned on her moving to the eternal city permanently, both had made it clear that they didn't want to be apart, and for days, staying there had been on Laura's mind. There was only one consideration, and it was far from a small one: how to present the idea to her family. Francesc, her father, loved her and wanted her happy, but it would be hard for him to have her so far away. She was convinced that her mother also would reject the idea of a young lady from a good family staying to live on her own in a capital city like Rome. Besides that, there was the studio; her father wanted Laura to apply all she had learned with Zunico in her own family's business. If she stayed, she would be going back on her word, in a way.

“Concentrate, Laura,” her master snapped from behind her back. “That brooch didn't do anything to hurt you.”

Laura looked up. Without realizing it, she had pounded the burin too hard with the hammer and had removed more metal than was necessary. The edge of the piece had a nick that cut through the braidwork motif that was supposed to be there. Laura would have to solder it before she could continue.

“I'm sorry, sir. I've been a little distracted.”

“A little? Laura, you're beating the edge of it into dust. I know you're leaving soon and you have a lot to get ready, but please, when you're here, I am asking you to focus on your work. You're talented, but no one wants a jeweler who wastes so much precious material.”

“I'm sorry,” she said and looked down.

Zunico, a man of wide experience, figured out quickly that it wasn't the return that was on Laura's mind. In those months, he had grown very fond of her. Early on, he invited her to dinner at his home so that she could meet his two sons, Arnaldo and Marcelo, and Laura could see that he was trying to play matchmaker. When that came to nothing, he let the matter drop. He continued inviting her over to his charming home, but he didn't bother to request his boys' presence.

“Take a rest for a moment and come with me,” he said to her.

Laura left everything on the workbench and followed her master into his office. There, Zunico had her take a seat. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at her with a furrowed brow, in silence, his hands joined over the desk.

“Are you going to tell me what's happening with you?”

Laura nodded uncertainly before beginning.

“I don't think I want to go back to Barcelona,” she whispered, lowering her gaze to her nervous hands.

Suddenly she felt once more like a mischievous little girl. But what could she do? She was happy there and she wanted to remain happy.

Zunico nodded and went on with his questions.

“Have you told your father?”

“Not yet. I don't imagine he'll care for the idea.”

“You should talk to him before you decide what his response will be.” The jeweler sighed. “I've known him for twenty years and I don't think he would love you any less if you stayed in Rome, especially if what you're looking for is to keep growing as an artist … with a position fitting for your talents,” he concluded.

Laura's face lit up as she looked at him. Zunico's studio was among the most select in Rome and to be taken on there would be a great privilege. Up until now, she had only been an apprentice. If she stayed, he would allow her to work as a designer. She could specialize and focus completely on what she liked most. She couldn't believe he had made such an offer, and for a few seconds, she was speechless. Zunico, a large smile of satisfaction on his face, stood up from his chair and excused himself, saying he had work waiting, though not without encouraging Laura to think it over and tell him her decision in a few days.

The girl passed the rest of the afternoon in a daydream. She decided when she left the workshop she would go and see Carlo and inform him of her plans. She would talk to her father when everything was clearer.

The nearness of summer had brought the heat along with it, but Laura could feel nothing but the exaltation that filled her, growing with every step she took in the direction of the Alessandrina Library. Zunico had given her permission to leave early, which she was grateful for, it would have been impossible to concentrate on her work in any case. She still had a few hours before her date with Carlo in a restaurant close to the Ponte Sisto, in Piazza Farnese, not very far from where she lived. Laura had the better part of the afternoon at her disposal, and while at first that seemed wonderful to her, it soon stretched out too long: There was so much time until dinner and she knew that if she went home, she would get even more nervous. But she didn't dare go to the studio where Carlo lived for fear of interrupting him while he was painting. He was completely absorbed when he worked and could even be hostile to any foreign presence. That was easy for Laura to understand, because when she was concentrating on her tasks, everything around her disappeared into a cloud that separated her and the world around her. For that reason, she decided to take a few moments to herself and wander around the library in search of a new book.

She began walking at a slow pace, but all that was dancing in her mind made her speed up. Finally, at the entrance to the university city, she stopped: The students were looking at her strangely, taking in her harried appearance. She took a deep breath and brought her hands to her cheeks. Then she stroked her hair and smoothed out the invisible wrinkles in her skirt and her blouse.

She crossed over the threshold of the library and strolled beneath the domed ceilings of the passageways in silence. Her breathing and her thoughts calmed as she passed through the various sections of the majestic building: philosophy, history, art, sciences …

Heading into another hall, her heart skipped a beat when she saw Carlo's impeccably combed hair from behind. Her feet treaded over the stone floor one after another, nervous, excited, incapable of slowing their rhythm. She felt an irrepressible urge to laugh; she couldn't believe the coincidence and she saw it as a gift of fate that she should find him precisely here, in the place where they'd met, just when what she most wanted was to give him the news that their happiness could go on, that she would stay there by his side.

She accelerated, impatient as a little girl, and when she was near him, she leaned against the bookshelves that lined the walls, twisted, and seemed to make out another, smaller figure. She stopped short; she listened keenly to his conversation and heard Carlo utter the words: “I can see your hand is soft but also strong, with long fingers. … Would it bother you if I asked whether you do some sort of artistic work?”

Laura felt an invisible blow to her breast that knocked her backward, pressing her against the books lined up behind her. Fazed, unable to recover from the impact, she was still aware enough to move her body a bit to the right to catch a glimpse of the person hidden behind him. She could make out the blond bun of a small girl. Laura stayed there, stunned, unable to tear her eyes away: the girl was beautiful. Her hand was held between those of Carlos and she was smiling and blushing. It wasn't hard for Laura to see herself in the girl's elation, in her fluster, in the surprised incredulity that she felt when a young man as handsome and gracious as Carlo had stopped to look at her and was examining her with a kind of intensity she'd never provoked in another man and that enchanted her like a spell, as if a strong, masculine hand had wrapped her in an embrace and wouldn't let her breathe. He was analyzing her—Laura knew it even though she couldn't see his face—with his deep, dark eyes, as he had done so many times with her, and despite her shattered love, the mute rage of betrayal that had begun to seethe in her, she felt bad for the girl, for her naïveté. She had no way of knowing she would end up feeling so ridiculous, gullible, and destroyed—just the way Laura felt now.

It was then, as if she was reading her thoughts, the girl looked away from Carlo for a second and saw Laura. Her enthused expression, innocent, even preening, became instantly uncomfortable, confused, and embarrassed, and she pulled her hand away and stepped back, as if subconsciously aware that something bad was about to happen. Just then, Carlo turned slowly to see what had dampened the mood of his next victim. When he saw Laura standing still with clenched fists pressing into her sides, he couldn't avoid making a face, not so much of surprise as of distaste. Then he came over to her, without saying anything to the other girl. A conspiratorial smile crossed his face; to Laura it seemed like a cruel grin, pitiless, almost murderous, like a wild animal without sentiments or scruples. When he was in range, Laura gathered all her strength and gave him a slap with her outstretched hand that resounded between the stone walls.

As if awakened from a sinister nightmare, the dreamlike slowness, the blurriness vanished, and she turned to run away. Carlo made not a single move to follow her. Furious, he uttered a phrase in a gravelly voice of which Laura heard only the final words: “…
sei una pazza istèrica
.”

That phrase accompanied her all the way home. She wandered through the city without guiding her steps to anywhere in particular, impelled by a sick compulsion.
You're a crazy lunatic.
She didn't know how long she walked aimlessly, stomping the irregular stones of the street as if with every step she could trample his face, sink him deep into the dirt beneath her feet. Her weariness was gone as her rage exploded once more. She reproached herself for her attitude, for being incapable of controlling her feelings; she felt stupid, credulous, childish … But then she scolded herself for thinking that. She shouldn't blame herself. Carlo was the one responsible for everything and she didn't regret giving him that slap: He more than deserved it.

Now the idea of her staying in Rome seemed intolerable. In her heart, in the deepest part of her being, she had known from the beginning she was deceiving herself; she wanted to be deceived to justify somehow her remaining in the city once her apprenticeship was over. She understood, as she reflected, that this was the reason she'd never tried to acquaint Carlo with her friends: She was afraid someone would open her eyes and tell her what she already knew, that she was dealing with a vulgar imitation of Casanova.

With all that, she couldn't help but bemoan that she hadn't seen it coming, that she had gone on harboring those hopes that had now gone up in smoke under that pitiless sun that lit up everything, that withstood everything.

Her eyes began to grow moist, an effect of her wrath. Before she crossed the doorway of her home, she looked back. For some stupid reason she had the feeling that Carlo might be behind her, that he might have followed after her to ask forgiveness.

There was nobody there.

Alone and defeated, Laura sighed and walked up to her apartment. She lay down in bed and let her tears flow in silence. She didn't want to look out the window, the way she always used to do. Instead she stared at the ceiling, where a damp spot looked like a drawing of the sea on an antique map. On the other side of the dark depths was her home: Barcelona.

When night fell, she was still lying dressed on the bed. The sea was still over her head, but Laura didn't look at it. Her eyes were closed and she was resting after that long day when her innocence had left her forever.