The Dream of the City (34 page)

Dimas lifted his torso slightly, resting his hands on the ground. He clenched his teeth trying to resist until he saw Laura's face, driven wild by pleasure. Only then did he slow down to savor still more the moment of her climax while she smiled radiantly. Finally he closed his eyes and got slowly on top of her, eyes closed and breathing shaken by ecstasy. She covered every corner of his face with small kisses while he held her, wanting to vanish in her like water into sand. Amid the sound of the waves below and the breeze that caressed them, Dimas's voice could be heard.

“I love you,” he said to her.

And she responded with another kiss.

CHAPTER 34

While Laura took refuge in Dimas's arms and he declared his love, Laura's parents, Francesc and Pilar, found themselves in a very different situation in the room that had been converted into a library in the mansion in San Gervasio. The back wall was covered by shelves lined with books. At one end was a fireplace with glimmering bronze andirons that reflected the flames throughout the room. Four comfortable armchairs were arranged around it for the ease of conversation. They had retired there after the Sunday meal, which Núria had attended without her husband, who had been busy with his own family. Laura wasn't there either; she had gone off on some excursion. Pilar didn't care for these sorts of changes; for her, the Sunday meal was sacred. It was also true, though, that as the children grew, it was getting harder and harder to get them all together.

“In this house, everyone does what they feel like. There's no respect whatsoever for customs.” Pilar, in one of the armchairs, looked at her husband over the ridge of her glasses without leaving off with her knitting.

“They're young, they have other things to do besides sit around the table with us,” Francesc responded without looking up from his book.

“You seem to enjoy always taking the other side.”

Francesc rolled his eyes and went on reading. Pilar must not have cared much for the piece she was working on and pulled the conversation in another direction.

“Do you like my new piano?” she asked him.

“What was wrong with the old one?” he asked, stretching out his words.

“It was shabby,” his wife said, as if it were something evident. “Now we have an honest-to-God one.”

“We'll see if you play this one more often,” he complained.

“The important thing is its beauty. There should be a piano like this in every proper house.”

“Even if nobody plays it?”

“Even if nobody plays it,” she replied, resuming her handiwork. The conversation ended, and they each went on with their respective activities.

Suddenly they were interrupted by knocks on the door. Pilar took off her spectacles.

“Who could be visiting at this hour?” she mused.

Francesc called Matilde, who announced the arrival of Josep Lluís Antich. He had arrived unannounced and wished to talk to the men of the house. Pilar left what she was doing and walked out with a solemn face. She added that she needed to get ready, that she and Núria had a date with some important ladies in the city. Ferran, who had also been called from the neighboring room, came in, trying to put on his best face. He asked his father if he knew what the unexpected visit could be about.

Josep Lluís's bent silhouette appeared in the door frame. Dressed impeccably, he entered the room with a stately step. His dark eyes, with deep rings beneath them, gave lie to the tepidly friendly smile that crossed his lips. Francesc, cordial as ever, approached him with open arms.

“What a pleasure it is you've decided to surprise us here.”

“I have allowed myself to do so because I knew it would be welcome,” he answered in a somewhat frosty tone. Francesc led him over to an armchair while Ferran walked over to the bar to make him a drink.

“Would you like a brandy, Señor Antich? Or anything else?” Ferran asked, addressing him formally.

“A brandy would be nice, thanks.”

The patriarchs waited in their seats until Ferran came over with the drinks. Francesc offered him a cigar, which Antich rejected, offering one of his own, “They just brought me these from Cuba. Do me the favor of trying one. They're delicious.”

The two Jufresas took their respective cigars in accordance with the other man's wishes. He had a rare ability to give orders to others that couldn't be rejected. The next few minutes were spent lighting the Cubans and praising their various qualities. After the first puffs, a silence fell amid the blue smoke. The Jufresas were waiting with concealed impatience to find out why Antich had come. And the latter knew it, and seemed to enjoy making them wait, taking slow puffs of his smoke along with minuscule sips of brandy, savoring it, or else just soaking in the situation.

“You will wish to know, my dear Francesc, the purpose of my visit …”

“Your company and these delightful cigars are more than sufficient motives for you to stop in whenever you wish,” Francesc replied amiably.

Antich's lips curled into a sarcastic smile.

“Thank you. Your wit and your inevitable talent for courtesy are enviable.” Each of them nodded, with a gallant gesture. “The problem, my dear Francesc, is that what brings me here is not an … agreeable matter.”

Ferran twisted in his chair. A fleeting look at his father was enough to see he didn't know what the man had meant either.

“As you well know, it is necessary for the better families like ours to reinforce our ties in the proper ways. One of these is through the merging of business interests—”

Ferran interrupted, “And we have the immense privilege of counting on you as one of our most important clients, which pushes us to be sure our products are always up to the demanding standards of quality the Antichs are known for.”

Ferran's nervous smile provoked a frown of distaste in the generally unexpressive face of Antich.

“Yes … And we've always been satisfied with the results. Our fabrics and dresses owe much of their success to the details that come from your jewelry. But of course, that is not the only means of uniting strengths and interests.” There was a momentary silence, broken by Antich's puffs on his cigar. “There are also family ties. And for me, those are the most important. When two families are united through marriage, they become one. And it is then when the shared objectives and hopes are brought together definitively, in a truly lasting way,” he said, bringing his hands forcefully together. “Sadly, those ties have been broken between us.”

The Jufresas looked at each other, perplexed. Seeing Francesc's and Ferran's expressions, Antich loosed what seemed like a grunt of satisfaction, though it could also have been of anger.

“From what I see on your faces, perhaps you are not informed, but Laura has broken her engagement with my son, Jordi.”

Ferran went pale, and his mouth fell slightly open. Francesc showed not a single emotion.

“But … is that certain?” Ferran asked. “I mean … how? Couldn't it be a confusion, a misunderstanding?”

Josep Lluís Antich responded with a certain irritation in his voice, “My own son told me. And no, by his tone and his degree of disappointment, there could not have been any kind of confusion.”

Ferran stared at his father, who cleared his throat before speaking.

“I'm sorry, Josep Lluís. I had no idea that had happened.”

Antich pursed his lips. His voice seemed laden with repressed anger.

“I see. It's bad that it's come to this, if you'll allow me to speak freely. This is not something to be taken lightly. What do you plan to do about it?”

Josep Lluís glared at Francesc menacingly, waiting to hear precisely what he wanted to hear.

“I've hardly seen my daughter these days, and as you rightly say, it's not a matter to be taken lightly or discussed in passing. I will speak with her and find out what has happened,” Francesc replied.

Ferran looked at his father reproachfully. Josep Lluís Antich limited himself to a displeased expression and a strong pull off his cigar. Ferran was about to say something when Antich's words cut him short.

“As I explained before, family is what comes first for me. If not, why else would one devote one's entire life to a business? For that reason, as things presently stand, after this most lamentable occurrence, I have to ask myself if we truly require the business relations we've forged up to now, and more important, if you all are deserving of our friendship. Why should I go on trusting a family that has refused to become united with my own?”

Ferran gulped. Antich was threatening to cut his ties as a client, and in financial terms that meant the loss of a large sum of money. Ferran couldn't trust in the passivity of his father, who limited himself to saying in a deliberate tone, “I deeply regret that you feel so hurt, Josep Lluís. I am certain that Laura at no moment wished to harm or disrespect your family in the least.”

Antich gave him a sullen look.

“I will not say the contrary. I will simply aver that actions have a consequence. And at this moment I find myself in the position of doubting sincerely whether our friendship has a reason to exist in light of this enormous disappointment.”

“But…” Ferran attempted to intervene.

“But nothing,” Josep Lluís carried on, ignoring the young man. “I came here to find a solution to these humiliating circumstances, but your reaction, Francesc, is simply not what I expected. Your daughter has taken advantage of my son's good character, and you are allowing her to continue down this road.”

“I see no reason to resort to threats, Josep Lluís,” Francesc replied, still sitting serenely in his chair.

Antich stood up at once. With his cigar still between his fingers, he pointed to Francesc.

“Threats, you say?” He erupted into laughter and continued in an even sterner tone. “You may forget the meetings that I have allowed you to attend and the contacts I may once have passed along to you. Forget the idea of your jewelry ever winning another contest I have the least influence in. This kind of affront is unacceptable among the finer families of this city.” He crushed his cigar in the crystal ashtray. Then he looked up and continued, “Now that is a threat. But the cancellation of our contract is officially a reality, Francesc.” Then, with an ironic grin, he uttered a last few words, tranquilly, almost with pleasure, “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen. Now, if you will excuse me …”

And after standing at attention and bowing his head, he left with a calm step, unhurriedly.

When the door closed, a heavy and silent emptiness took over the room. Ferran had held back, waiting for Josep Lluís Antich to leave the house. When he heard the tinkling of the bell on the main door, he exploded, “But how does that brat dare to do something like this to us! Damn her!”

“Ferran, show more respect. She's your sister.”

“Father, you have to make her reconsider. She can't just reject Jordi Antich like that!”

Francesc sighed.

“There's little a father can do in these circumstances.”

Ferran stared at him, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“What do you mean, little? You could begin by explaining to her that it's her fault that every influential person in Barcelona is going to turn their back on us from this day forward. That it's not just the loss of Antich's orders; that madman will put all his weight behind making sure the entire city shuts us out. Laura can't act like a fussy little girl, she's too old for that now!”

“I'm not going to force her to do something she doesn't want,” Francesc stated roundly.

“You spoil her!”

Francesc glanced at him and answered sarcastically, “I don't know you to have a wife or a fiancée, but if you like, we'll find you one tomorrow …”

Ferran snorted with disdain. Disarmed, not knowing what to say, he walked off, grumbling some incomprehensible obscenity.

Francesc ran his hand across his forehead. Josep Lluís Antich's rage was not a passing episode. If that family wanted to, they could condemn the Jufresas to the fringes, to excluding Francesc from the only social circle they'd belonged to since he'd been old enough to notice. It wouldn't be the first time such a thing had happened, and they wouldn't be the first people to fall into disgrace for wounding the wrong person's vanity. There was no use denying that Josep Lluís Antich had become a very powerful man. He had known how to curry favor with the right people at the right time, and he always intuited what the necessary favors were. And the retribution of a man like that could be worse than a wounded animal's.

He took a sip of his brandy, leaving his cigar in the ashtray to burn itself out. He asked himself why his daughter hadn't told him anything. But he knew the answer perfectly well: he had raised her not to need him, to be an independent woman. And he couldn't throw it in her face if that's what she was.

Francesc set the glass beside the ashtray. He suddenly felt very old, the weight of his years pinning him to his chair. Picking the glass back up, he emptied it in one sip. The brandy burned his throat. He remembered how his grandfather and father had struggled and strived to get ahead, and it wasn't his choice to just give up now.
The Jufresas
, he said to himself,
will
survive. Come what may
.

CHAPTER 35

Located at number 30 Paseo de Gracia was one of the most distinguished fashion boutiques in Barcelona, belonging to Ramona Trilla. She, María Molist, and Carolina Montagne had been among the most highly regarded designers in the city since the end of the nineteenth century. They copied their patterns from Paris, where they had traveled frequently before the war broke out, and brought back exclusive luxury designs. They knew how to dress a woman for every occasion: the
matinée
, when she was out walking or attending some reception; the
tournée
, when she was paying a visit; and the
soirée
at the theater or an evening ball.

In the late afternoon, sitting in a pair of comfortable armchairs, Pilar Jufresa and her older daughter were looking at the models Ramona had designed for that winter season. They had gone to the third floor of the building in the elevator with a number of other friends. Young girls walked in front of them on a makeshift catwalk, moving their hips to accentuate the hang of the silk, the taffeta, the tulle, and the velvet. Ramona had invited them to that private Sunday session so they could be alone and unbothered; it was a privilege only a select few enjoyed. The ladies picked their canapés of salmon and egg yolk, asparagus and fennel from the silver trays and drank champagne in tall glasses of cut crystal brought to them by a servant. While some ordered dresses to be fitted, others flipped through magazines the designer had brought from her previous voyages,
La Mode Illustrée
,
Le Paris Élegant
, or
La Saison
. The room was so clean and well-lit that it appeared sparkling new, with its marble floor and its completely white walls. The chandeliers with their four arms radiated a blinding light, and the ladies spoke openly about the latest news. Undoubtedly the most scandalous was the breakup between Jordi and Laura, a rumor that until that day had not yet been confirmed. Dying from embarrassment, Pilar Jufresa had still not fully absorbed the consequences of the bad news, which were serious, regardless of Francesc's attempts to make light of them.

“That sister of yours never stops bringing us headaches,” Pilar said to Núria. She was clothed in a skirt that fell to her knees, a matching jacket, and a hat crowned in front with a pheasant's feather. “Maybe it's not too late to repair the damage.”

“Laura is grown, Mother. If she doesn't like something, she doesn't do it. And she doesn't listen, either, so she probably will disregard anything I say.” Núria had already known Laura didn't want to marry Jordi.

Among the high-society women there was the wife of the chief of police, Berta Bragado, who liked to be called by her husband's last name to flaunt her husband's influence. She was always spreading some rumor or complaining about one thing or another. Núria Jufresa thought, as did many other women, that what was secret should stay secret. And there was the matter of the woman's bad taste in clothes and her run-down body, which gave her a tacky, nouveau riche look. Señora Bragado was wearing a dress that seemed to be from a previous time, of cotton organdy with Richelieu lace, hardly the outfit for that hour of the day. Her voice was more grating, with its high-pitched shrieks, than a poorly tuned violin.

“Lots of us would like to do what your daughter's doing, Pilar. If I could send Esteban packing, along with a few of his lovers, I'd do the very same. But at my age … I just act like a fool, ignore the lipstick on his neck, pretend I don't smell the perfume on his frock coat. Just today we had an argument about the party you're throwing on Christmas Day.”

“Don't tell me you're not going to come. I don't know how many people will cancel after what's happened,” Pilar responded. She took the glass of champagne Ramona offered her and tried to forget or at least mollify her worries. She was hoping that, as far as possible, the day wouldn't be affected by the terrible news.

“Yes, yes, we're coming, Pilar. How could we miss the best party of the year? And there are many others like ourselves, you'll see. Don't worry: whatever's happened, your family is very well liked.”

“And why did you argue this time, Berta?” Pilar asked out of curiosity.

“Well,” she cleared her throat. “Just about the dress I would buy for the party. Esteban doesn't want me spending money and he's trying to make me wear something I already have in the closet. Half of what's in there is older than I am. And then I find out about little gifts that cost more than everything I own and I have no idea who they've gone to.”

Núria grunted: she had problems with her husband too, but she didn't expose them to the four winds. The other two women with them, pretending to read their magazines, looked at each other slyly, equally stunned. Núria took the moment to vent a little of her anger.

“Then today you should buy the most expensive dress of all of them,” she exclaimed.

“And that's just what I'm going to do.” The two women clinked their glasses and smiled conspiratorially.

The older daughter of the Jufresas supposed the only reason her mother would invite Berta would be to laugh at her behind her back. But now Pilar seemed sincere in her behavior and sympathy with the wife of the chief of police. Núria didn't know if it was a charitable streak or if, carried away by the circumstances and Ramona's heavy hand, her mother had surpassed her limit with the champagne.

“By the way, where are you holding the party this year?” one of the other women asked.

“In the gardens at Parque Güell,” Pilar responded, squinting her eyes. “I've spoken with Eusebi and he hasn't shown any objection. Have you seen the Larrand house lately? It's marvelous.”

Parque Güell was related esthetically to the park of La Fontaine in Nimes. Eusebi Güell had studied there as a young man and seemed to have been deeply struck by it. Though they were public gardens, the intention, when Gaudí designed them, was that they would be a residential area away from the neighborhood of Gracia and laid out like a private park: sixty parcels with important common services. But the idea had fallen apart, and apart from the porter's lodge, only three houses had been built on the fifteen hectares; and the count and industrialist occasionally allowed events to be held in the park.

“I hear that Gaudí lives there as well,” Núria interrupted. “I'm sure Laura would be pleased if you invited him to the party.”

“Honestly, my dear, right now I couldn't care a damn about her happiness. What is happening with that girl? Her father always defends her, but this. … There's no way to get her out of this one. As soon as she returns home, she'll be receiving a stern reprimand, at least from me.”

“Maybe she's in love with someone else,” Berta blurted out.

“What foolishness, Berta. Who is she going to meet if she works all day in the studio or at that church they're building? She hasn't got a spare moment,” Pilar responded. And she settled the question by dropping the subject, pointing at the latest dress a girl of no more than twenty, her blond hair pulled back in a bun, exhibited with a timid walk. “I love it. Save that for me, Ramona.”

While the designer and Pilar began discussing when they would take her measurements so she could have her hands on that remarkable pairing of a sky-blue blouse and skirt, Núria sat there wordless. For once, Berta's words hadn't been so ridiculous. She tried to remember her recent conversations with Laura, giving free rein to her feminine intuition. Yes, Laura had shown interest for another man, though she hadn't acknowledged it openly, and Núria knew very well who it was; and likewise, she would bet that at that very moment, her sister was not off with a friend, as she'd said that morning. She looked at her glass, and when the bubbles seemed to have settled down, she drained it in a single gulp.

Close to the Sagrada Familia, where they had met that very morning, Laura and Dimas were having trouble separating at the end of the day. The good-bye had already stretched out several minutes and neither of the two was willing to make it definitive. Dimas was sitting in the driver's seat; Laura had finally relented and allowed him to drive back to Barcelona. He was caressing one of her hands propped on her knee, never taking his eyes from her.

Laura moved close to him and kissed him. She ruffled his hair with one hand.

“For once, it's not all slicked down.”

He smiled, ran his hand over his head, and responded, “Today's my day off.” After a silence, he added, “Why don't you stay with me?”

He knew it was a stupid question. She was a lady—she would never spend the night away from home—but he hadn't been able to resist asking. He'd never invited a woman into his home; he usually went to theirs, and then left the way he came the next morning.

Laura smiled.

“I can't. … They think I'm off on an outing with a friend. I can't stay out any later.”

Dimas nodded, understanding, and sighed.

“Then I should go now,” he added, looking at the watch in the pocket of his vest.

“Will I see you tomorrow at the workshop?”

“Yeah, I'll come by early, even if it's just to see you for a moment.”

“Perfect,” she responded. She kissed him again, slowly, and then bit his lower lip.

“Stop, stop or your father will have to spend the next few days looking for you.”

Laura laughed and then lowered her head. Dimas opened the door of the car and got out, looking at her the whole time. She jumped into the driver's seat and said good-bye, waving her hand. She stepped on the accelerator and the vehicle roared amid the dark streets that at that hour were almost completely empty. Behind her, she left the echo of the marvelous day they'd shared.

Dimas was euphoric and didn't feel like going to sleep. Though he was already at the entrance to his building, he decided to walk toward the city center. He would visit Manel and have a drink at the London Bar. With the glimmering moon at his back, he felt, at that place and at that time, he could do whatever he set his mind to, that the entire world was at his feet.

It took a little less than half an hour for him to cross half the city and make it to El Raval. From as far away as Conde de Asalto, he could already hear the music blaring from his friend's bar, and he suddenly thought he sat Àngel Vila, the worker from the Jufresas' studio, rounding the corner. Dimas was happy, life was smiling on him, and he thought he would greet him. He sped up, but as he turned down the same street, he saw him enter the bottom floor of a building guarded by a man three times his size. Dimas knew well what was hidden inside. He had seen others of the kind, though they changed location frequently: he himself had even gone to meetings of that kind at one time; Àngel Vila was on his way to a clandestine gathering. But it wasn't his problem, Dimas thought. He turned around and headed toward the bar.

As he entered the door, he saw that the sharp melody he'd heard was coming from the piano played by the owner, Josep Roca, now hunched over the keys. The shouts and laughter of the enthusiastic public at times drowned it out completely. Catching his reflection in a mirror, Dimas noticed how unkempt he looked: he had removed his tie and his collar was unbuttoned. He remembered the wonderful day he'd spent with Laura and forgot the anarcho-syndicalists completely.

Manel was at the bar pouring out a shot of Anís del Mono for a customer still dressed in his trapeze uniform. At the same time, a clown with a red nose and his eyes and mouth outlined in white makeup performed pratfalls on the small stage in time to Josep Roca's music. The public laughed and screamed at the top of their lungs, and Manel did the same; he seemed to never tire of the raucousness.

“It's wild in here tonight,” Dimas said by way of greeting.

The bartender glanced away from the spectacle a moment and looked at Dimas attentively.

“And you? What's going on with you today?”

“Me? Nothing. Why?” Dimas could feel the tension in his cheeks as he responded.

“You've got a girl and now you're on cloud nine. Am I right? Look at you.”

“Pipe down …” Dimas responded cheerfully while taking hold of the beer Manel had just placed in front of him.

When he reached into the pocket of his coat to take out a bill to pay, he felt the soft sand inside. While he shook it off into the air, Manel chuckled.

“I see. The beach. Good place to …”

“Hey! Take your money,” Dimas said, laying the bill on the bar.

When Manel laughed, two dimples appeared in his cheeks, dimples that made the women's hearts melt. He had a boyish, cheery face, with long eyelashes and a manly nose and lips. His tousled hair and his ruffled appearance made him look like he'd just stepped out from a brawl, though that slight touch of violence was a marked contrast to his true personality, which could not have been more generous or sincere. Dimas sat down on a stool and let himself be carried away by the laughter, and the loud, heady atmosphere of the Barrio Chino. Manel continued watching the pianist and the clown, and periodically egged them on like one more member of the public. Dimas realized he himself was the only one not paying attention. He smiled, seeing himself in the mirror, and began to shout along with the rest. He let the torrent of festivity sweep him off, and his own happiness mixed with that of the clientele.

When she arrived, Laura found her father in the library. They talked a long while in the same room where Josep Lluís Antich had uttered his threat hours before. Francesc began by asking about the excursion, and she told him how beautiful Sitges was, what a beautiful day it had been … trying not to let the smile on her face give a hint as to her deception, or her not-quite-truth, for she was incapable of lying to him. But her joy was not enough to blind her to reality, and little by little, she came to see that something was troubling her father.

She'd known that sooner or later she'd have to face her family after what had happened with Jordi, and when the time came, she was ready to face the consequences. But she had imagined the repercussions would be personal and would mean difficulties for her own relationship with Jordi, that he'd grow jealous or curt, or there would be uncomfortable silences at the round table discussions or other events where they would see each other. She never imaged that her refusal would bring any backlash to her family. For that reason, when her father recounted his meeting with Josep Lluís Antich to her, the sky fell down over her head.