The Dream of the City (23 page)

CHAPTER 23

The last truck entered the Hispano-Suiza factory just after midnight. Dimas got out and said good-bye to everyone. The trip had been a success, and they had finished ahead of time: only six days after leaving, they were already back in Barcelona. Mark Birkigt, the Swiss chief engineer of the trucks, was waiting for him in the factory; he had moved to the city with his family after the Great War broke out. Birkigt, forewarned that the trucks would be returning that night, wanted to hear firsthand how they'd held up during the journey. He was focusing his talents on creating a high-powered motor for airplanes, and he had introduced some improvements into the trucks that were intended to give more horsepower and added reliability. Knowing how they'd worked would help him along in his research, and he was therefore anxious for the convoy's arrival. Time was flying and he needed the motor finished before the end of the year. The warring powers couldn't wait, and if he didn't make it, someone else would.

In correct Spanish, but with a strong French accent, he battered Dimas with questions. Thanks to a knowledge of mechanics he had acquired working in the depot, Dimas was able to respond clearly and resolve the engineer's doubts articulately. Birkigt was thankful and offered to take Dimas wherever he needed to go in his own car. Dimas was about to refuse the offer, but then it occurred to him that a drink might be just what he needed. After all those sleepless nights, he didn't feel like going to bed, but there was no sense in going to visit his father and Guillermo, who would already be asleep. Barcelona, on the other hand, never slept.

Mark Birkigt dropped him in the Plaza Cataluña and Dimas walked down the Ramblas until he arrived at the Calle Conde del Asalto. He had heard that the London Bar was open twenty-four hours a day.

Decorated in the purest modernist style, it was inaugurated in 1910 by Josep Roca, the owner, and had always had a special atmosphere. It was known for its crowds of circus and variety show performers, because Conde del Asalto intersected with Paral
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lel, where there were numerous theaters and spectacles, as well as the Ramblas, the city's nerve center. For that reason, all the performers looking for work came by the London Bar, if only to stick their heads in.

The bar itself was to the left as soon as customers came in the door. To the right was a row of round marble tables on cast-iron feet, which was common in most of the establishments throughout the city. An upright piano sat in the back, next to a door that led to a back room half for storage, half for impromptu rehearsals. When Dimas arrived, a knife thrower was trying to convince someone to let him show off his gifts, but the slight sway in his step led everyone to turn him down. Beside him, a waiter was holding a metallic tray with several glimmering cocktails. With the other hand, he grabbed the elbow of the knife thrower, trying to calm him down.

“Come on, Great Khan, with the amount of absinthe you've drunk, you'll be trying to stick those knives in your own head when you wake up.”

The man, in street clothes but with makeup around his eyes, protested in a slurring and pompous voice while he jerked away from the waiter's hand, “The Great Khan is always on his toes! Why, I've just returned from a triumphant event, where I threw thirty knives at my assistant without grazing a single hair! Manel”—he hiccupped—“you know very well I could knock the balls off a fly. You know it!”

The people at the next table over laughed. Manel gave them a look that showed he shared in their amusement.

“And who would doubt it, Great Khan? A star like yourself has nothing to prove. Besides … do you think this group is qualified to judge your talents?” he asked, gesturing around the room, who were watching the reactions of the waiter and making catcalls. “Nothing to prove, I say. Wait for tomorrow morning when the flies show up and you can castrate as many as you see fit. We'll have a new dish: Fly testicles flambé à la Great Khan.” He nudged him and managed to get him into an empty chair. He left him a drink on the table. “Here, this one's on the house.”

Another customer nearby protested good-naturedly.

“Come on, Manel! What do I have to do to finally get one on the house?”

The waiter, who carried on through the crowd serving the guests who had been waiting, answered sardonically, “Threaten to kill me in front of the clientele!”

The laughter rose up again. Suddenly, another waiter shouted from the door of the main room.

“Café con lecheeeeeee!!” Several customers playing at one of the tables in the back rushed to remove their cards from the table.

From what Dimas had heard, the London Bar was also known for holding high-stakes games. He recognized the waiter's phrase was a warning for the customers when the policemen had come in.

After observing the scene and seeing that there was no one he knew or room for him to sit down, Dimas went up to the bar. When the same waiter as before came over, he ordered an anisette and water.

“It's busy in here,” Dimas remarked to him. He had an urge to talk to someone new after all those days hearing the same boring stories from the drivers and the pointless chatter of his cab-mate.

“You're telling me! Here it never stops. … Good night, gentlemen,” Manel said to the pair of uniformed policemen who were leaving the bar. “What was I telling you? … Oh, yeah, it's like this every night.”

“During the week, too?” Dimas asked with surprise.

“There are worse ones. I came in late one day and the Great Khan had thrown his knives at a juggler who was watching his clubs. One went through his hand and pinned him to the wall. Imagine what that could do to your throat. But they're all good guys. Really, we're like a family; you forgive each other's faults.” Manel gave him a pat on the elbow while he pointed to the entrance. “Look who's coming through now. …” he said, winking one eye.

Raquel, Raquel the Beautiful, as she had been called at the beginning of her singing career, had just come in. The policemen, who hadn't quite made it to the door, saluted her with excessive deference and gawked with admiration. It was clear they regretted having to continue their rounds. Raquel was a young woman with black, slightly curly hair, high cheekbones, big brown eyes, fleshy lips, and a wasp waist. All the men close to the entrance stared at her as she walked by. One of her hands was resting on her hip, the other held a long cigarette holder with a minuscule cigarette emerging from its tip. She stopped in front of Dimas and took a deep breath. All was suddenly silent in the bar. Everyone held their breath. At last, Raquel blew smoke in his face and gave him a lascivious look. The laughter exploded and the revelry began again at the tables and the bar. Raquel the Beautiful waved to the man at the piano, not taking her eyes off Dimas until she vanished through the door in the rear.

“Careful, my friend,” Manel warned him from behind. “I'm going to give you another anisette to help you calm down. You'll need it: Raquel the Beautiful takes no prisoners.”

Dimas downed his drink in one sip. He had seen posters of Raquel the Beautiful in the kiosks; her face and figure were impossible to ignore. Manel refilled his glass and poured one for himself.

“To whatever life is left for us,” he toasted, raising his glass.

“Life is strange,” Dimas responded, his eyes lost in his drink. “You can't imagine what I would have given a month ago for a look like that. And yet now …”

“Sometimes things don't come along when you want.”

“And when they come, it seems like they're not really there,” Dimas said.

“I see how it is. Our new guest doesn't understand the ways of women. … But hey, either does anyone else!” Manel smiled. Then he shouted to his coworker, without waiting for a response: “Josep, I'm taking five.”

He invited Dimas to follow him to one of the tables that had recently emptied. Once they were settled there, Manel leaned forward on his elbows, focusing on Dimas with his large, honest eyes, and even though they seemed to be the same age, said to him, “Tell me everything, kid.”

Dimas looked at him for a few moments in silence. The waiter held his gaze, generous, smiling, and Dimas thought at last he found himself with someone who wasn't hiding behind a uniform, a violent pose, or a costly suit. After introducing himself and telling his name, he began to talk, calmly, as if he'd known Manel all his life. He talked to him about his trip to Bilbao, his boss Ferran, his dreams, the businesses he wanted one day to have, his father, Guillermo … and Laura. That girl who still seemed to him like a spoiled child but whom he couldn't stop looking at, maybe because the kind words her brother spoke about her made him want to know who she really was, what was hidden inside that gorgeous girl with the cat eyes who had become an enigma for him, so intriguing that he couldn't manage to clear her from his mind.

When he was done talking, Dimas felt much better, like a new man. It was as if he had rid himself of a heavy burden.

“Look,” Manel said, “one time a neighbor, an old guy who used to come by the bar to have his little glass of sweet wine after dinner, told me that he didn't regret a single thing he had done, despite his age; but he was deeply wounded by the things he didn't do.” He got up and said solemnly, “Now I have to get back to work. It's been a pleasure, Dimas.”

“Likewise,” Dimas said, making a thankful gesture.

When he was was alone, he drained his glass. Looking around, he paused at some eyes that were gazing directly at him. He was surprised to see it was himself, reflected in the mirror among the smoke and the crowd. He looked at himself for several minutes, asking himself whether he really was the person he thought he was, if he was living up to his expectations. The truth was, he no longer had problems with money: he dressed well, he was free, his father and brother could live more comfortably … But what had he changed into to accomplish it?

On his way out, he left some change on the bar and said good-bye to his new friend, who continued watching him until he'd gone outside.

When Manel struck up a friendship with certain customers, he always had the sense they would come back. But there wasn't much time to reflect: through the window, the face of another policeman appeared. He took a deep breath and shouted out, “Café con lecheeeeeee!!”

The next morning, the day was calm. It was the nineteenth of November and Barcelona seemed to be fattening itself up to get ready for winter. Everything was serene, tranquil; even the sun's warmth was just enough to chase away the cold. Dimas met his father in the stairway.

“Good morning, son; it's good to see you. I was just coming down to see if you were back from your trip. How did everything go? Are you off to work already?”

“No, it's a calm day. I was actually coming up to see you. I missed you after all those days on the road.”

Juan, holding up the bread he had just bought, said, “Listen, I've got a proposition: How about we wake up Guillermo, we'll take him to school, and then you and I can have breakfast at that place where you went with that girl … Laura, right?”

Dimas was taken aback for a moment, hearing a reference to that afternoon coming from his father's mouth. He imagined Guillermo must have told him.

“Sounds good,” he responded brusquely. In fact, he wasn't feeling sociable. His head ached.

They prepared Guillermo's breakfast, laughed with him for a while, and then left for the school. The boy, still tired, walked cheerfully. He didn't remember how long it had been since his father and brother had both walked him to school. When they said good-bye, Juan proposed a change of plans, saying they should head toward the center of the city. He seemed to be in very good humor.

They went to have breakfast at the Zurich on the Plaza Cataluña. Workers from the streetcars used to meet there, since various lines crossed at the plaza. When they saw Juan, more than one of them greeted him. Dimas felt irritated when he saw the pity in some of their eyes. His father understood and leaned in close to him.

“Some of them are afraid what happened to me could happen to them. You have to realize that among those men over there”—he pointed at the group—“there are fathers with families, with three or four kids or even more. It's not personal, son.”

Dimas felt the blood flowing into his face. It was as if his father had read his thoughts.

“And you're not angry about how it all happened?” Dimas ventured.

Juan looked at him and smiled serenely.

“Look at what happened to Guillermo's parents, your aunt and uncle; that's what misfortune is. That's something that lasts forever. Of course I was mad, and the right thing to do would have been to give me a pension or a job where I could manage. But the world doesn't change for just one man. I only have one life and I will not waste it going to the tomb with that bitterness in my soul. I have you, I have Guillermo … You have to keep looking ahead.”

Dimas took a sip of his coffee. His mouth was dry. A soft, cool breeze had just lifted up. His father looked around as excited as a tourist, an immigrant, as if he hadn't been there thousands of times before. He said that after breakfast they should take the streetcar up the Rabassada.

“The views are spectacular, and the walk up there is really worth it.”

As they rode the streetcar, Dimas found it strange to repeat the path he took so often, driving Ferran to rub elbows with the city's rich and powerful. And yet, for the same reason, the idea appealed to him.

He was aware that he stood out next to his father, that his suit was much more elegant than the clothing Juan wore. He should take Juan to the same tailor he himself went to. And Guillermo as well. He knew his father was a man of modest tastes, but he wanted him to at least have one nice suit for special occasions.

They were silent throughout the journey: a comfortable silence, warm, knowing. Down below, Barcelona looked that day like a kind city, a place you would aspire to live. A city filled with souls that were struggling just to stay afloat, watched over by angels who cared for them, or by the ancestors Juan's aunt had told him about back in Abejuela. Juan let himself be caressed by the sun flooding in through the window.