The Dream of the City (32 page)

CHAPTER 32

First thing in the morning the next day, Héctor Ribes i Pla entered his office in the depots at Horta and told his secretary he was not to be bothered; he didn't want to see anyone, he wasn't taking any messages. He opened one of the drawers of his mahogany desk and took out a box marked
Jaquecurine Golobart.
He took out a few pills and brought them to his lips. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. For an hour he sat there in his leather chair. Recently he'd been suffering more migraines than usual, and he had the impression he was becoming addicted to analgesics.

The war had affected every country, albeit in different ways. In Catalonia, some businesses were making a fortune off exports; but others, who provided basic services and couldn't raise prices at their whim, had to pay exorbitant prices for their parts and materials. The workers were exploited as it was, and the seething class conflict meant that it was impossible to place any further pressure on them. Ribes i Pla had gotten all he could out of his contacts in construction and metalworking, but the tram business was suffering, the cost of raw materials had exploded, and there was a constant push for improvements apart from the maintenance expenses. And these difficulties couldn't be compensated by raising the price of tickets; doing so would lead to an outcry that none of the politicians were willing to deal with. So there was nothing left to do but hold his head and try to make do with his other businesses.

After that period of reflection, Ribes prepared to tackle the tedious piles of paperwork before him when someone knocked at the door.

“Pardon, Señor Ribes i Pla,” the secretary said, peeking through the door. “There is a young gentleman here to see you, he assures me you know him. I asked him to return in an hour, but …”

“A young man?” he complained.

The secretary looked at her paper.

“His name is … Dimas Navarro.”

“Navarro …? Of course I know him. Send him in,” he ordered. He was intrigued.

When the secretary closed the door, Ribes stood up with his hands crossed behind his back. He was surprised to be hearing from Navarro and assumed he must have a good reason for coming. He remembered well the days when he'd worked for him and knew he wasn't just dropping in to say hello.

“Good day, Señor Ribes i Pla.”

“Please, call me Héctor, we know each other well enough, Navarro.” He extended his hand, and Dimas grasped it firmly. Ribes gave him an affectionate smile. “So, boy, I see things are going well for you.”

Dimas ran his thumbs under the lapels of his suit and then waved a hand, brushing off the compliment.

“I can't complain, but I imagine they're much better for you.”

“I doubt that. I sincerely doubt it.” Ribes arched his brows. “It's hard times around here. This is far from an easy business, as you know.”

“I'm sure,” Dimas said, nodding. After a pause, he continued, “That is precisely what brings me here. I am in possession of something that I think could be of use to you.”

“Use to me?” Ribes didn't conceal his surprise. “How so?”

The industrialist offered him a chair in front of his desk while he returned to his own seat. Dimas unbuttoned his blazer and sat down calmly, holding his hat in one hand.

“I have not forgotten, Señor Ri—
Héctor, who was willing to place his trust in me when I was just one more mechanic in the shop.”

Dimas gently declined the cigar Ribes offered him before lighting his own. After a few short puffs, the magnate replied, “You made me a good offer and I took it, just like any businessman worth his salt. Do you have something similar up your sleeve?”

“Maybe something better.” Dimas smiled. “I'll be direct so you won't have to waste your valuable time. See, I hear that the price of copper has gone sky-high and I know you need high-grade material for the overhead cables, the relays, the accumulators, the pantographs, and so on.”

“You're not wrong about that, no,” Ribes i Pla said from his armchair.

“Well, I can get my hands on five tons,” Dimas proclaimed, slicing the air with one hand. “Five, and at a good price, quite a bit under market value.”

“How much are we talking about?”

With a calm but stern voice, Dimas said, “We're talking about 275 pesetas per hundred kilos.”

Ribes scratched his ear. The price was good, very good, but he pretended not to be satisfied.

“Well, young man, it's a little high. …” He did the calculations in his head. “In total you're looking at more than thirteen thousand pesetas. That's a lot of money in these hard times.”

“Last year copper was priced at 290 pesetas per hundred kilos, and this year it's hovering around 325. Unless the war ends today, it'll keep going up. And even so, those countries will need to keep buying; they're not going to stop using it from one day to the next. … I wouldn't be surprised if it hit 400 pesetas in 1915, if not more.”

Ribes sat back in his seat and took a long pull on his cigar. His lips curved upward in an amused and ironic smile.

“You've done your homework, Navarro. … So what's the catch? Where's the trick?”

“It's a time-sensitive offer. The deal has to be closed today.”

“Today? Come on, you're asking me for an amount of money it's not easy to get ahold of in just one day. What's the rush?”

“I got a tip. If we wait 'til tomorrow, there will be more buyers. And the price will go up.”

Ribes found himself particularly comfortable in this situation. Dimas had begun his ascent and it even inspired a bit of pride in the older man. He could no longer look at him as another of his
creations
.

“I see you're still up to your tricks, no? No one can deny you're smart. By the way … are you still working for Jufresa?”

“Yeah. It's not going bad,” he admitted. And then he looked straight at Ribes i Pla and said, “But let's say today's my day off.”

Héctor Ribes i Pla understood straightaway. After a pause, he grinned complicitly.

“As I was saying, your old tricks. … It's no problem. I'll be discreet; no one will know about our little deal. That would be best for you, right?'

Dimas swallowed. Ribes knew very well what he was talking about: If Ferran found out his right-hand man was acting on his own, the reaction wouldn't be pretty. He would probably put him in his place. And his job with Ferran was not only agreeable, it also put him where he needed to be. He needed Ribes i Pla to cover for him.

“That's right, Héctor.”

Ribes i Pla enjoyed a puff of his cigar. He tried to make a smoke ring, but it came out in a muddle.

“I've been in this business a long time, son, and I've seen all kinds. In this world, everything has a cost, and discretion doesn't save you from the laws of the market. How about if we lower the price for a hundred kilos to 250? That should be enough to get you a pretty profit, and I'll be able to save something on my end. Deal?” he asked, stretching out his hand.

Dimas brought his own hand close and answered, “If it's in cash, it's a deal.”

“Goddamn!” Ribes laughed aloud. “You're sharp these days! Give me your hand, Navarro. Let's go to the bank. I'll give you half now and the other half on delivery.”

“Two-thirds now, and the other third in a promissory note, if you like.”

Ribes didn't expect Dimas to respond so rapidly, and he looked at him a bit confused.

“Don't be surprised. I trust you. …” Dimas smiled, showing his teeth.

The businessman erupted into a laugh and coughed on his cigar smoke. His face reddened slightly, but he didn't lose his good mood.

“You are tremendous! Just tremendous!”

Dimas had never had so much money in his hands. He asked the bank employee to give him an envelope with its letterhead. When he showed the money, he wanted to make a good impression and show he'd gotten it from a respectable institution: the Bank of Barcelona, right on the Rambla of Santa Mónica.

Under a cold, radiant sky, Dimas crossed the Ramblas to turn toward Pueblo Nuevo, where Jaume Camps's factory was located. He only had a few hours before Ferran would awaken from his alcoholic stupor and require Dimas's presence.

While he looked for a taxi, he tried to stay calm, but inside, he was burning with impatience. The Ramblas were streets where you could meet the most refined members of the upper classes mixed with the sharpest pickpockets, and that worried him. If they robbed him, he would be digging his own grave: Ribes i Pla had given him 8,333 pesetas with the director of the bank as a witness. He put the idea of a robbery out of his mind and concentrated on catching a cab.

He told the driver the address, and the driver replied with a measure of respect Dimas found excessive and a bit irritating. Still, that was one advantage of his suit: more than a few people confused him with a man of means and flattered him in hopes of a generous tip. He had noticed it since the day after he began to work for Ferran. He remembered when he put on his double-breasted suit for the first time, and he felt happy: everyone began treating him differently, and he seemed to hold the keys to power and proof he was one step above everyone else. Now, just a few months later, he still wasn't used to the feeling. He was halfway between a preening bourgeois, showing off on the Paseo de Gracia, and a simple worker who aspired to nothing more than putting a bit of bread on the table.

In no time they had arrived at the foundry of Jaume Camps. Dimas got out and tipped the driver generously. He was nervous, though he tried to hide it. If he wanted his plan to come out right, he needed to play his cards well and not act too rashly. Once again he was face-to-face with destiny, and he couldn't choke.

The few workers still there stared at him resentfully. They had no idea of the future that was awaiting them and were making their pieces without any sense of whether they'd ever end up being used. Dimas introduced himself to the secretary as an investor who wanted to speak to Jaume Camps. The word
investor
worked perfectly, and the man showed up before him straightaway, incapable of concealing his pressing need for good news. He invited Dimas into a chaotic office full of papers, boxes, and metal filings. There was barely any small talk; Camps wanted to get straight to the point. Dimas was encouraged by the businessman's silent desperation. He appeared very different from the night before at the casino, Dimas thought, now with his badly ironed suit and his thick, untrimmed mustache. Dimas remembered the words Ferran had uttered about the importance of little details.

“Let's see, Señor Camps … In this modern world of today, what matters is information,” Dimas began resolutely. He had been thinking about this phrase, which would undoubtedly make the owner more nervous. “Facts, having them on hand, knowing how to find them out, contacts: that's everything. The right bit of information at the right time can be the start of a good business. Don't you agree?”

Camps squirmed nervously in his chair.

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“And thanks to certain facts at my disposal, I have come to propose something which I have no doubt will be to your liking.” Camps narrowed his small brown eyes with suspicion. Dimas went on, now sure of himself: “I understand that you have on hand a supply of copper. Five tons, if I'm not wrong.”

Dimas fell silent a few seconds to watch the businessman's reaction. His face remained cold, but his eyes were blinking quickly.

“I'm here to buy it from you.”

With a deliberate gesture, Dimas took the envelope with the seal of the Bank of Barcelona from the inner pocket of his jacket. He waited for this action to have the desired effect. Then he stretched out his hand and asked for a letter opener from the desk. Camps handed it to him, slightly bewildered. Dimas took out a thick sheaf of bills blithely, as if it were an issue lacking importance.

“I have eight thousand pesetas here. 170 for every hundred kilos. I know it might seem low, but you and I know that copper has been around here for some time. You bought it for a good price when you had a use for it, but now …” Dimas decided against finishing this last phrase.

Camps's chubby figure seemed to quiver back and forth. Dimas wasn't sure if he felt offended or backed into a corner. Maybe it was a combination of both. Before he could say anything, Dimas went on.

“Keep in mind that if you accept my proposal, you will have cash in hand right now. No IOUs, no waiting. You won't find many customers willing to buy that quantity of copper all at once. And when word gets out in a few days that your company is bankrupt, a fact that I will gladly keep to myself if we can come to an agreement, this place will be surrounded by vultures who won't offer you more than pennies for whatever you have left.”

Camps brought his hand to his chin; his face went white as if he was about to faint. It was obvious that Dimas knew too much.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“No one. I'm here on my own account.”

Camps seemed to suspect some unnamed rival behind it.

“Don't rush to conclusions, Señor Camps,” Dimas continued. “I give you my word that no one will know anything. I know how necessary discretion is in these … delicate times. And I hope I will be able to count on yours as well.”

Dimas knew the price he was offering was almost half of the market value, but for Camps there was a more important factor: As soon as his desperate financial situation was made public, his creditors would swoop down on him like buzzards. And any potential buyer would vanish or would offer him next to nothing.

Camps stood up and walked through the ramshackle office, running his fingers through one side of his mustache. Dimas watched him, more relaxed now, though feeling a bit sad for the man. He gave off an unmistakable air of defeat.

“When will the copper be picked up,” Camps suddenly asked.