The Dream of the City (14 page)

He approached her and swallowed her in his arms. He gave a couple of flimsy excuses, his new obligations, a tougher boss than the previous one, lots of work. While he spoke, he began to untie the knot that secured her robe. The thin fabric fell to the floor and Amalia was standing before him naked. He kissed her mouth in a rush and bit her lips.

He started for the bedroom; she followed behind him. She stretched out on the bed and Dimas fell atop her. With one hand she grasped his smoothly shaven face; with the other she felt the wool mattress until her hand arrived at the headboard. Dimas sat up on the edge of the bed and she began to undress him. Once she'd removed his jacket and vest, she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off with a rapid movement; she unbuttoned his pants as well, and he stood up to remove them along with his underwear. She knelt on the floor and came close to Dimas's already erect member. His muscular chest, glimmering with sweat, moved up and down with his breath. The warmth of Amalia's lips made him cry out. He felt himself exploding with desire; he wanted to possess her. He picked her up delicately from the floor and laid her out on the bed. He crawled atop her, and when she opened her legs, he began to penetrate her. He pressed one of his hands against the headboard, which beat rhythmically against the wall, quietly at first. With the other hand he grasped her behind the back, pulling her into him, while her pert breasts bounced up and down. That movement excited him more and more; his rhythm sped up, and soon Amalia's shouts were deafening against the banging of the bed against the wall. A knocking from the apartment on the other side made them pause a moment; they listened closely and could hear the boisterous complaining and then the snoring of the neighbor. Dimas and Amalia looked at each other and burst out laughing. He picked her up and set her down at the foot of the bed in one movement; his desire hadn't diminished in the least. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to continue plunging inside of her. He pushed inside her firmly, with a certain harshness she seemed to enjoy. He moved faster and faster and his strong, muscular body seemed made less of flesh than of stone. He felt an uncontrollable trembling in her hips and her movements quickly made him reach a climax of his own and shout out without a thought of who might be in earshot.

After a while, with Amalia already asleep, Dimas turned his eyes to the window. He could see that another day was beginning. He watched how the sun rose, thinking that soon he would be the one sitting down at the tables of the finest restaurants while someone else waited for him at the bar. The next set of sheets would be luxurious silk, he said to himself.

For him, the high life had a luster like the honeyed rays of the sun that morning: gilded, thick, penetrating, and at the same time, almost transparent. He thought of how many longed for that amber liquid and how few managed to attain it: Some let the self-indulgence go to their heads, others lacked the nerve to go after it, because they didn't want to stain their hands. Only a select few had Dimas's secret and knew how to go after it without getting dirty.

Success, he reflected, lay beyond the reach of the sanctimonious, the lazy, the greedy; tenacity and insistence, those were the keys, and Dimas was certain of it. When you place your bets, there's no looking back. To do so would be out of the question.

Careful not to awaken the girl, he got up from the bed. He would need to go soon. He felt a rumbling in his stomach; his body was hungry, as was his soul.

CHAPTER 14

“They say a day's coming when this will be covered in streets and buildings. Can you imagine?”

Tomàs pointed with his staff at the expanse before their eyes. He and Guillermo had walked up to the
montanya pelada
in the heights of the district of Guinardó. In 1910, the municipal government had acquired that steep stretch of land and was planning to build a park at the feet of the mountain that rose over the city. But so far, it was just a rumor; for the moment, the future park was no more than a forest of pine trees and holly oaks, the odd run-down shack and endless swaths of thistly broom and briers in the shaded areas and weeds everywhere else. Tomàs liked to take his flock up to that land every two weeks or so; he said the contact with nature cleaned out the animals' stomachs from their regular diet of hay cut from the plains and whatever waste they might pick up around the open sewers.

The sea cut straight across the horizon before their eyes. It was a cloudless October afternoon and the days were beginning to turn shorter, and with autumn, the light had taken on a bronze cast. Tomàs carried on with his soliloquy.

“They say a day will come when we won't need the streetcars: We'll all have one of those motorcars. And the streets will be wider so they can pass by at full speed.”

Guillermo was enjoying the countryside and thought Tomàs was treating him like a child, repeating things his father had told him in those few moments when they had been together and he had learned how to herd sheep. Because what was in front of them already was a city, with gaps in it, like those that appear in a child's mouth while his teeth are coming in, but still, a city nonetheless.

The skeleton of the scaffolds surrounded many of the buildings under construction. From that height, it seemed like a ghost town, suspended in time, every sign of life imperceptible. Only by squeezing his eyes shut a bit could Guillermo make out groups of children playing soccer below. But he wasn't envious; he would play the next day, and it was only every two weeks he had the chance to come up here with Tomàs.

The sheepherder opened a little bundle he kept tied around his neck and took out a jar closed with a cork. He opened it and took out a wedge of bread, completely soaked.

“You want some?”

Guillermo rejected the offer ruefully, because his stomach was already starting to growl. The last time he had bread with wine, he arrived home with a headache and his mouth as dry as a desert.

Tomàs began his afternoon meal. Every time he took a bite, he bent his head over the jar so the liquid from the bread would drip down inside it.

“You didn't get a drawing today?” the sheepherder asked while he took another bite.

“Why? You jealous?”

“Jealous? Why?” Tomàs countered. “She's going to draw me too. She told me so.”

“You wish,” Guillermo responded incredulously. “You just don't like me being friends with a woman that pretty.”

“Don't be so vain! It's not like there aren't a thousand better-looking ones out there,” Tomàs exclaimed.

“Who? Bea? Helena? No comparison, man!”

“I'm not comparing: They're girls, they're not as old as Laura. … Besides, I already kissed both of them. What about you, what have you done?”

Guillermo turned as red as a tomato.

“I don't want to kiss Laura. … She's my friend.”

Tomàs looked at him mockingly.

“Right. … Look, she's way older than you. She'd make a good girlfriend for your brother; she wouldn't even consider you.”

Guillermo was suddenly serious, circumspect. He picked up his leather satchel with his school things and began to descend the path that wound its way down into the city.

“Sure, leave.” Tomàs raised his voice behind him. “We don't need you. We'll stay here looking at the landscape, right, Nit?”

The
gos d'atura
stayed there watching him as if he understood the boy's words. He had just come up to his master, his matte hair disarrayed and covered in grass and straw. His tongue hung from one side of his open mouth and he was panting loudly. He gave a soft bark as Guillermo left, but then he lay down at Tomàs's side.

Guillermo was thinking of what his friend had said to him. Without realizing it, he had been talking to his brother about Laura all the time. And he had also told her about his brother. And Dimas hadn't had a girlfriend since … well, he couldn't remember him ever having one. And Laura seemed so smart and so nice, and so pretty.

When he finally arrived at the soccer field, he threw his bag aside and chased after the bundle of rags that loosely resembled a ball. Soon he was absorbed in the shouting and the dust, running back and forth with his companions.

Dimas looked at his pocket watch and saw that it wasn't as late as he'd thought. He decided to walk by the Sagrada Familia school and see if Guillermo was still around. He strolled without worry, feeling the caress of the cool air. Life was smiling on him: he was so well dressed, the seamstresses turned to look at him as he passed through the avenues and some even gave him a suggestive look. He paid them no mind as he walked by, but inside, he was content.

When he reached the makeshift soccer field where the boys were chasing their ball, he stayed awhile watching Guillermo's movements. He left his hat on a rock and sat down on a slightly larger one. The sky was beginning to show patches of scarlet, and shadows were spreading all around. In the thin scrub on the edges of the field, the rats scurried with their little feet. They seemed like industrious, impassive observers of a decaying world. Guillermo ran in his direction when he saw him.

“Hey! You came!”

“I wanted to see you. Come on, I'll get you something to eat.”

But Guillermo didn't hear him. He stood there expectantly, as if seeing through him, looking at someone or something behind his back. Before Dimas had time to turn around, a woman's voice, at once sharp and warm, said, “So this is the brother you're always telling me about. …”

It occurred to Dimas that the voice sounded familiar, though the tone was kinder than he recalled. Yes, he had heard it before, but full of rancor and contempt.

He stood up, and when he saw her, all the preconceived ideas he might have had about Guillermo's friend collapsed like a house of cards. She and he looked at each other, unable to suppress their surprise, recognizing each other immediately under the faint light of early evening. The boy, his face turned up to look at them, gazed at one and then the other, apparently amused at the surprise on their faces.

“Navarro?” Laura ventured unsurely. “So you're Guillermo's brother …”

It was difficult for Dimas to recover from the shock he felt on seeing her. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to speak, but for the first time in a long time, he didn't know what to say. Laura smiled at him. Her face was smudged with what appeared to be mud, and her baggy clothes were also stained. Not even from afar did she appear to be the same girl he was accustomed to seeing in the workshop or at the mansion of the Jufresas, that illustrious family of jewelers. And yet, despite her dirty, unkempt clothing, he was the one who felt out of his depth, and she was the one smiling with an expression that struck him, he didn't know why, as condescending.

Dimas became angry and felt the rage growing in his breast. Only a few minutes before, he had felt good, contented, happy, satisfied with himself and—why not admit it—with his appearance. Now, all of a sudden, a mere look from that little girl, stuck-up, insolent, who stared at him, analyzing him in the depths of her catlike eyes, made him feel like a mere paid underling to her brother, as if, no matter how well he dressed, she could see who he was deep down.

He felt ridiculous; he was ashamed of himself. And he hated her.

“His name is Dimas,” Guillermo said to Laura. “I thought I'd told you.”

“Dimas …” Laura rolled the name around on her tongue, and it seemed to him she was savoring every syllable slowly, with a deliberateness that seemed to make his name into some kind of joke, an insult, something to laugh at, the same as when she twisted the words of her brother or Jordi Antich to use their remarks against them. “It's a strange name. I never met anyone called that before.”

Dimas took refuge in the silence to control himself, to keep from exploding and making a scene in front of his brother, but especially in front of her, since she seemed to enjoy playing innocent. Very early he had learned that the image he projected of himself was important in the world of business, and he couldn't give anyone the satisfaction of losing his cool in their presence, of letting anyone else think they are right, of showing that, no matter how many costly suits he wore, he could never be like the Jufresas, cultured, well mannered, able to overcome his impulses and instincts.

“It's a biblical name,” he finally said, seeming to chew his words. He spoke in a low voice and very slowly, and he looked so intensely into her eyes that Laura felt compelled to turn away.

“The good thief,” she replied in a whisper, chastened, frightened by the strength he seemed to transmit and, above all, by his seriousness.

From her work and her enthusiasm for portraiture, Laura was used to focusing on the small details of every expression or feature of the people she came across from day to day, because she believed they provided a true reflection of their character. Dimas watched her with a furrowed brow, his lips and fists clenched tight, as if he was holding himself back. For a moment she felt moved, almost flattered by the intensity of the feelings she awakened in him, but then she recalled that they most likely consisted of hatred and disdain.

Moving quickly from embarrassment and timidity to loathing, Laura became infuriated. How wrong of Dimas to treat her that way without knowing her, with only his prejudices to lean on; it made her so angry, she wanted to slap him. How could he be so small-minded, so simple as to let appearances and surfaces carry him away, instead of considering who she really was? She was a woman who had seen the world, not some shy, spoiled little child; an artist with her own worries and not a little bride-to-be too stupid to think for herself; a soul, capable of feeling affection and understanding for her fellow man, regardless of her origins, not some classist who thought she was better than everyone else.

“You know …” Guillermo began to ask her. “Do you know his story?”

“Of course,” Laura affirmed, pinning Dimas with her eyes, defiant and unabashed, determined not to cower before him from that moment on, not to be defeated by her aristocratic appearance, to show him that she was much better than that. Who was he to judge her?

“Why don't you tell it to us over a cup of hot chocolate?” Guillermo proposed with an extraordinary, almost unreal candor, apparently unaware of all that was happening. “My brother was just asking me before you came up if I wanted to go to the walk down the Paseo de San Juan. He knows a place there where they make the best chocolate in Barcelona. I'm sure he'd invite you, too,” he finished triumphantly.

“I'll take off my smock and come out in a minute,” she said with daring and decision, smiling defiantly at Dimas.

Guillermo looked at his brother. After Laura disappeared, he saw how his brother had become much more somber than usual. Dimas scratched the nape of his neck and wondered whether he was doing the right thing. Why had he allowed his brother to say that? And what was she thinking? She was his boss's sister, the petulant little know-it-all Señorita Jufresa. He couldn't go around with her the way he did with any other woman who threw herself in his way. He hesitated; maybe it would be better for him to wait until she came out and give some excuse to free himself and her from the obligation. He could say he had forgotten he needed to pick his father up to take him to the doctor, or that he and the boy needed to make some purchase … whatever kind of nonsense. But it needed to be fast. He wasn't remotely inclined to spend an entire afternoon with that insufferable, snooty little lady. He turned to Guillermo and stared at him, surprising him.

“Guillermo …” The boy was wringing his hands with anxiousness; Dimas could tell that his brother liked her and was excited for all of them to eat together. Dimas felt a pang of guilt for spoiling a plan that would make the boy happy, but he wasn't about to give in. “When Señori— When Laura comes out, run along after me, all right?”

Dimas was surprised to find himself finishing the phrase the same way his boss would. He wondered if he was changing too much, if he was going too far in his eagerness to rise in the world, in his willingness to break his ties to the past, to his father's humble smile, his place as the son of an immigrant, his ties to the working class, to working for his daily bread, to his old friends …

All these thoughts vanished when Laura emerged from the workshop. She was wearing a simple black skirt and plain shoes, the kind of cloth slippers with jute soles, also black. Over her white blouse, she wore a cardigan, thin in the elbows. Her purse was more a leather pouch balled together carelessly. It was the complete opposite of what he had expected.

“Shall we?” she said to Dimas with her head raised high, her eyebrows arched in an inquisitive gaze.

To his own surprise, Dimas tightened his lips and nodded with an unworried expression. Guillermo looked back at his older brother, now questioningly, but Dimas looked away. They set off in the direction of Paseo de San Juan. Along the way, while the boy ran around Laura spouting story after story about soccer and school, Dimas reflected in silence on his inexplicable change in attitude and what it could mean. He was confused; suddenly he had felt the urge to accept the challenge she had posed him without resistance. To pick up the glove and assent to the duel but—and here was the strange thing—not to humiliate her or prove that she really was as unbearable and arrogant as he thought, but instead to show Laura that he was a much better person than she believed; not some discomfited, closed-minded boor, not a cold, materialistic brute, but a sensitive family man, struggling to make things better for those close to him, someone dignified and deserving of praise, someone who wanted to prosper, not from greed or vanity but simply because he thought he deserved it.