The Street of the Three Beds (17 page)

In her room she unwrapped the package and received the shawl with disarming simplicity. “I'm not used to such finery.”

It wasn't clear whether she referred to the shawl or to his gesture. In any case, he respected the ambiguity.

“Have you been to see Pere Anton?” she added anxiously.

“Of course. Didn't I promise?”

“What do you think?”

“He's a fine boy, on the serious side. He takes after his mother.”

“I don't mean that . . . I mean the place and Maruja.”

“I think she treats him well. There's no question he's fond of her although, for the time being, he's not too fond of me.”

“It's hard for him to get used to strangers.”

“He'll get over it. What do you know about Maruja?”

“Poor Maruja . . . She's from Cádiz. She was just a kid when she came here to be a maid . . . Same old story. She did the streets till she saved enough money to rent that apartment. To pay the rent she takes care of children, which is what she likes to do anyway. She says she's always loved kids but couldn't have them. All the ones you've seen there are the children of hookers.”

While she stashed the shawl away in the armoire, he took off his shoes and lay down on the bed.

“I have to tell you something personal.”

As she snuggled next to him, he threw his arm around her and gave her a long kiss.

“The last time I saw her, Rita told me she was pregnant. Did you know?”

The old hesitation crept in again, delaying the answer a few seconds.

“Yes. She used to tell us her child would be pampered like a prince because his father would provide for him.”

He pressed his eyelids tight, as if he wanted to block the light.

“It was true, then,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“When she told me, I didn't believe her . . . I didn't want to believe her . . . Now everything's clear.”

“What's clear?”

“Why she took her own life.”

She looked at him up close, her hair brushing on his cheek. The din in Hortènsia's room hadn't let up, and Socrates's twittering drowned out his feathered rival's soliloquies at the other end of the hall.

“I don't think she took her own life.”

“What did you say?” Maurici sat up with a jolt.

“Rita didn't commit suicide.”

She paused and looked away.

“I didn't lie when I told you I was with a customer that night. What I didn't say is that sometime between one and two I heard hushed voices and Miss Pràxedes rushing up and down the hall . . . and then a scream from Rita's room next door . . . I'll never forget it: a blood-chilling scream at first and then this non-stop moaning, getting weaker and weaker.” Sobs interrupted her words. “My customer got dressed and left in a hurry, as if he'd seen the devil. Margarita and I came out of our rooms but Miss Pràxedes, all flushed and panting as if she was going to have a fit, pushed us back in and locked the doors.”

She made a futile effort to control her emotion. Her features contracted and a stream of tears began to run from her eyes. She remained silent for a minute, covering her mouth with a handkerchief to smother her cries.

“At least forty-five minutes went by and then, suddenly, all was quiet. Deep inside I knew something terrible had happened. For a while it was quiet like a grave. I sensed the presence of a stranger at the other end but, since the French doors in the hallway are always closed, I couldn't make out the voice. Finally I heard footsteps, and then the front door closing slowly so that it wouldn't make any noise. There were more steps and stirring in Rita's room. It was Miss Pràxedes. A few minutes later she came out and locked the door. I lay in bed, afraid to breathe, for over an hour.”

She wiped her tears, only to make way for fresh ones.

“I waited for what seemed like an eternity. At last Miss Pràxedes unlocked our doors. Margarita, gutsy as she is, was white as a sheet. She took us to the parlor and gave us each a glass of brandy to prepare us for the bad news. There had been an accident, she said. We all knew Rita was upset because a rich boy had ditched her; well, in a moment of despair she'd jumped off the balcony. I remember looking at the balcony as she said that and noticing that the shutters were closed. She'd closed them, she said, to spare us the sight of the body. It was still dark, but I heard voices in the street. Margarita asked her if she was sure she was dead. Yes, she said, a bum had found her in the middle of the street, had called the night watchman, and the night watchman had gone to the police. Downstairs there were two policemen that would come up any minute to take our statements.”

When she stopped, he comforted her and went for a glass of water.

“‘What about the screaming and moaning a while ago?' Margarita asked. ‘I heard them too,' I said, but Miss Pràxedes wouldn't listen. ‘Nobody screamed. You two dreamt it up. Everything happened as I say, and that's what you're going to tell the police. The three of us were asleep. You didn't hear a thing because your rooms are in the back and the French doors in the hallway were closed. Since my room's at the front, it did seem
to me I heard a heavy thud in the street. But who could imagine! I wasn't fully awake and I thought there was a fight or something had fallen off a cart, or God knows what. Later, the bum shouting for the watchman woke me up. I wasn't the only one. Other people came out on the balconies.'”

Violeta coughed and took a sip of water.

“‘Why did you lock us in?' asked Margarita, who doesn't give up easily. But Miss Pràxedes had an answer to every question. ‘Who locked you in? Don't talk nonsense! Anyone would think you're held prisoners. Need I remind you this is a boardinghouse for young ladies? Then, behave as ladies. You were asleep and didn't hear anything. The rest, leave it to me. Understood?' No one who listened to her would doubt she was telling the truth. I've never seen anyone lie with such self-assurance. You end up wondering if you've lost your mind, if everything you've seen and heard has been an illusion. We knew what we had to do. No need to threaten us with the strap or with keeping me away from my son. She always wins. Always. That's why I hate her, you don't know how much I hate her!”

As she spat the words, her eyes, usually placid like the surface of a lake, burned wildly. He held her tight and asked in an unsettled voice, “You didn't hear the man calling the watchman?”

“No. It's true that back here, with the doors closed, I can't hear what's going on in the street.”

“Who was the third person in Rita's room? Who left in the middle of the night, when Miss Pràxedes closed the door so carefully?”

“I didn't see him, but I have a pretty good idea. An old friend of mine.” She drew a cryptic smile.

“You mean . . . a customer?”

“Just the opposite. You could say I'd once been a customer of his. We all have been.”

Unfinished questions crossed his mind.

She explained, “I bet the first day Miss Pràxedes told you that here we're well cared for, right? That's what she tells every man who comes. Well, our caretaker is a butcher who calls himself a doctor. He took care of me when Pere Anton was born, and, for good measure, he also made sure I'd never have any more children. It's in the house contract. You didn't know, did you?”—and her eyes cruelly stayed on his. “Well, now you know. He also fixed Margarita and Hortènsia. We've been lucky to come out of his hands alive. Rita's case was more complicated. She needed an abortion. That was beyond his talents.”

The old feeling stirred by the girl's disappearing act at the Czech theatre and the subsequent news of Rita's death at the barber shop revisited him: the vertigo in the midst of a fast spinning world, the loss of footing, the emptiness in his head, the buzz in his ears. Beaten, incapable of looking at this woman who stood every day at the edge of hell, he mumbled, “He's not the only one, don't you believe it . . . others are guilty too. That butcher, as you call him, is my brother. Just as if we were children of the same father, . . . just the same. To think it was me who suggested an abortion . . . if he gave her the blow, I gave her the push, and it was such a hard push that she landed right here, not knowing where she was, right in the slaughterhouse . . . where all girls end up who are lost and unclaimed . . . and it doesn't end here, no . . . there's more to it . . . there's more blame to go around. There's a chain of blame that goes beyond the thugs and is so tightly woven that a poor fool like Rita has no chance in a thousand to break loose . . .”

He spoke in a trance, in a quiet and at the same time terrifying spell. She shook him by the shoulders to wake him up.

“That's enough, Lluís, enough! That's enough!”

His eyes turned to her and gradually the buzz decreased and petered out. He stared at her a few seconds, as if he were coming to.

“Maurici. My name's Maurici.”

“Maurici,” she repeated dreamily, discovering the man as she discovered the name.

Once again they lay down in bed frightened, exhausted, holding each other and listening to the clock tick an indefinite time.

“Would this . . . doctor be a man in his mid forties, pale and not very tall, with a moustache?” he finally asked.

Surprised and alarmed at the accuracy of the description, she sat up.

“How do you know? Do you know him?”

“I've seen him. Does he come often?”

“No. After Rita died and Hortènsia arrived, he hardly ever comes.”

“Tell me his name.”

“He calls himself Doctor Serra, but it's a phony name. Within these walls we all become somebody else. You, yourself, were called Lluís a minute ago. Dr. Serra has his reasons to hide his identity. What are yours? “

“It won't be long before you know everything about me. In fact, you already know me better than the people I've grown up with.”

“Even your parents?”

“Particularly my parents. What I told you about Rita I haven't told anyone else.”

“Not even a friend?”

“No.”

“Why not?'

“Too much pain and too much shame. I'm a coward, and nobody knows that either.”

Her voice descended to a warm note, “In any case, and even if it's only for a few hours a week, you're my coward.”

He smiled, stroking her cheek.

“Are you sure the child was yours?”

“I can't say I am. But what's the difference? It is as if it was mine.” After a heavy pause, he added. “Did you get to talk to the police?”

“Yes. Miss Pràxedes identified the body and we gave statements. Hers is the official version, of course: Rita lived here, in the boardinghouse, like the rest of us, and committed suicide. You know the reason.”

“Did you ever see the body?”

“No. As I said before, Miss Pràxedes closed the balcony so that we wouldn't see it. I imagine the outside marks of an abortion aren't like those of a fall from a third floor, and that's why she wouldn't let us see her.”

“That makes sense. But then, how come the police swallowed the story?”

“Ah, the police! They swallow whatever's convenient. I'm sure Miss Pràxedes has them in her pocket. Look, there's a man who comes now and then to sell jewels. I imagine they're smuggled, because he carries them in a hidden compartment of his briefcase. He's involved with Margarita and the boss treats him like royalty. Well, this man's the brother of the sergeant who was in charge of Rita's case. At least, so he tells us, maybe to earn our confidence. I wouldn't be surprised if he too is a cop, even though he never wears a uniform. All I can say is the police know full well this is not a boardinghouse for young ladies and look the other way. Remember I told you Margarita had run off and Miss Pràxedes reported her for theft? According to her, she hadn't paid the rent.
The rent is the excuse, the cover. The jewels are what it's really about. Miss Pràxedes buys them; we borrow from her and then pay her back with interest. Why do you think the police got hold of Margarita so fast and put her in the hands of this witch again? Because they're at her service. I refuse jewels when I can, but I'm forced to accept them. It's a perfect circle. She buys stolen merchandise to sell it at a high profit, and if one of us slips between her fingers she goes to the police. They take care of each other because they're all up to their ears in it. You said it yourself: it's a tight chain.”

“I don't suppose you know the sergeant's name.”

“No, but I can describe him. Maybe you'll find him in the local police station. I know he's there.”

“You mentioned two policemen. Can you tell me something about the other one?”

“He was younger, still wet behind the ears, I'd say.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“About twenty-five, not very tall, thinning hair, . . . with a country accent. Let me think, what did the other one call him?”

She concentrated for a few moments, chewing the tip of her finger.

“Segura! That's it. He called him ‘Segura.'”

“At last a name! Tomorrow I'll go to the police station.”

“Please be careful.”

“Don't worry, nothing will happen to me.”

And, button by button and garment by garment, he took away her fear.

* * *

The air hung heavy under storm clouds and he wasn't carrying an umbrella. Walking down the street of the police station brought back the days of the Eden Club, days as fleeting as dreams that seemed strangely remote, days of burlesque theaters where Sebastià had found his latest flame, Aurora.

The station was a two-story building accessible through a porticoed patio: a little oasis that remained cool in the summer heat. He climbed the marble staircase up to a chaotic office furnished with two desks, a variety of ill-assorted files, and a door that opened onto a smaller office. A back porch overlooked the patio.