The Street of the Three Beds (6 page)

“If your legs are stiff, my ass is dead.” Sebastià opened his mouth to yawn. “Come on, let's hit the street.”

“Albert, what do you say?” Maurici asked his cousin.

“I say let's call it a day and go home.”

“Home?” Jaume jumped in alarm. “It's only six o'clock.”

“I know, but tomorrow I have to go to Tarragona with Father.”

“Tarragona? Haven't you collected enough votes in Barcelona?” Sebastià asked maliciously.

Albert and his father, Enric Palau, were members of the conservative Lliga Catalana. Sebastià's father, on the other hand, was a staunch supporter of the monarchic party that met at a mansion in the old town.

“I know what happens when we hit the street. We never get home before dawn. My train leaves at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. If I oversleep, Father will give me hell.”

“Not to worry,” Jaume said reassuringly, winking at the others. “By midnight, everybody in the sack.”

“Speak for yourself,” protested Sebastià, who lived off his family income and got up as late as he pleased.

“If you insist so much, I won't be the one to ruin your afternoon. I must tell you, though, I don't have a cent to my name. Albert, I'll have to borrow from you. You'll get it back.” Maurici stuck his elbow in his cousin's ribs.

“That's a funny one! What good is it to beat you at poker, then?”

“I've done the same for you lots of times.”

“Fine, fine. The thing is, where do we go?”

“We could go to the Alhambra and shoot some pool. I'm sure I'll beat you this time.”

“Haven't you had enough games for one afternoon? I'm for some variation. Let's check out the Paral·lel.”

“I don't know why you always want to go to that side of town.”

Maurici invariably wrinkled his nose at the prospect of heading down to the harbor. To go into that neighborhood was to return to the days of the dingy gun store and the execution he'd watched nearby. Why not go to the Condal, which was in a nicer area, to play squash?

Jaume rolled his eyes. “There we go again! Do you really want to hit a ball now?”

“Anything but the Paral·lel.”

“Juicy tarts, at the Paral·lel,” Sebastià licked his lips.

Jaume smiled wickedly. “Maurici has already had his fill of those.”

“If nothing else, it'll feel good to stretch our legs,” Jaume said. “Look, it's stopped raining.”

Draining their glasses and yelling, “Evarist, put it on my account!” they set sail for the Paral·lel.

* * *

They strolled with their hands stuffed smugly in their pockets as if an invisible wall protected them from the promiscuity of the street, confident that they could immerse themselves in it and resurface unpolluted. It was exciting to play the part of the libertine, to taste the ambiguous fruits of the urban tree, to join a mongrel breed of lowlifes and struggling artists only to emerge unscathed, reaffirmed in the superiority of their own caste. The experiment validated their condition as gentlemen and ratified their self-regard. But, to prove their point, they needed blue-collar prophets of anarchism and starlets who strutted their stuff on decrepit stages.

In truth, they weren't the experts in vice they pretended to be: they merely dabbled in depravity. The most promising of them in this respect was Sebastià, who found more pleasure in cheating women than in seducing them. He also found pleasure in cheating his father. Whenever he ran up gambling debts, he told him he needed money for an impoverished, imaginary friend who suffered from an equally imaginary disease. He was exceedingly proud of the title Jaume had conferred upon him: “The Trickster of Barcelona.”

While Sebastià and Albert discussed politics, Maurici's eyes wandered indifferently through the hustle and bustle of the promenade. His attention turned briefly to a makeshift shack called The Working Man's Barbershop, even though on Sundays it was closed. On the opposite side a sign advertised two women built like Amazons who shared the stage name of The Vitamins. An endless line waited outside the cinematographer to see a Max Linder film.

Sebastià was getting tired of walking. “Let's have coffee and cognac at L'Espanyol.”

The first round was followed by a second. Albert and Jaume ordered anisette and Maurici absinthe to go with the flow. At the next table, men in working clothes played dominoes while the waitresses and a few idle women inspected the new customers. Sebastià's eyes and hands wandered toward the female traffic, until twenty minutes later the others yanked him out of the café that reeked with smoke and proletarian sweat. It wouldn't be the first time that, after having had one too many, he started a row in a public place. Feeling somewhat euphoric, they resumed their walk.

As they went past the Barcelonès theater, Albert shouted, “Let's go in to see some wrestling!”

“Not a chance!” Jaume objected, his tongue thick with alcohol. “I haven't come this far to see a couple of fellows in underpants rolling on top of each other.”

And, propelled by uninhibited laughter and barely noticeable drunkenness, they took a few more faltering steps toward the Olímpia. Maurici vaguely remembered that his Aldabò grandparents had gone there at one time or another, when it had been an outdoor dance hall. The sign over the entrance promised a thrill “never seen before.” A crowd of the curious—from unshaven men with homemade cigarettes between their lips to ladies in silk—swarmed in front of the ticket window.

“This will be good,” Albert forecast enthusiastically. “They say Czech theater is a sight to see.”

“If it's a tearjerker, count me out,” Sebastià grumbled. “I don't go for heavy stuff.”

“Nothing like that,” Albert persisted. “This is experimental. It won't be like anything you've ever seen.”

“You've got to be up-to-date,” Jaume cut in, hoping to dazzle those who were unfamiliar with the new sensation. “Maurici, you're not paying attention. Do you vote for or against?”

“For, of course. Novelty's always welcome.”

Maurici, who had never heard of Czech theater, offered to get the tickets. The other three stepped into the tavern next door. A few minutes later, he joined them with the intention of killing time till eight o'clock. More absinthe, more anisette, more cognac. More catcalls to the girls and gibes at their escorts, more off-color jokes, more guffaws and rowdiness. Maurici lit a Cuban cigar to smother the stink of cheap cigarettes. Jaume, eyes ablaze, zigzagged toward the miniature train on display in the middle of the tavern and made a clumsy effort to climb on it.

“Albert, aren't you s'posed to take the early train tomorrow? Might as well take it now. Come on, man, all aboard! Toot, toooot!”

Only a few people turned their heads; the rest, deafened by the general din, didn't even take notice. Sebastià asked Maurici, “Listen, how long will this act or whatever it is we're going to see last?”

“Why d'you ask? Are you in a hurry?”

“How'd you like to top off the day at La Criolla or El Chalet?”

“La Criolla's full of transvestites. Besides, look at Jaume. Do you think in his condition he can satisfy any of the sirens at the Chalet? We're all smashed. D'you want to make a fool of yourself?”

“Nonsense! What's wrong with you?”

He didn't want to admit to queasiness in his stomach that would disarm him in combat with any female, whatever her mythical attributes. Finally, they pulled Jaume off the train and made their way into the theater. The audience was as diverse as before, but strictly designated rows of seats drew social lines.

The stage was bare. The lights went out and silence fell on the theater. The first notes of Brahms's “Lullaby” rang in the air. Maurici mentally pressed the keys: “mi, mi, so . . .” Suddenly a powerful light encircled a girl in fine lingerie lying on her side in a metal bed. She had gleaming white skin, brown hair, and the rhythmic breathing of deep sleep. The sheets and her clothes were also white. On the right side of the stage the dark profile of a faucet stood out against the background. The “Lullaby” swelled to fill the empty spaces.

The shape of a man's large hand appeared above the faucet and began to turn it slowly, repeatedly, until water trickled down onto the floor and gradually made a spreading puddle. When it rose to the level of the bed, the audience drew a muffled exclamation.
Then the bed, with the girl in it, lifted and began to float to the surface. Shortly after, out of the faucet slipped a multi-colored transparent fish that was received with wonderment. Others of different species, big and small, followed: flying fish, swordfish, baby sharks. Octopus, slick jellyfish, and miniature sea horses joined in the dance, revolving from end to end of the aquatic stage. Soon the water pushed the bed up until the headboard touched the ceiling. The girl, cradled by Brahms's music, remained asleep. The audience brimmed with excitement.

The fantastic fauna kept moving gently, majestically. The stage was bathed in a pale blue tinge, except for a strip at the top the water hadn't yet reached. With a low gurgle, the water suddenly swallowed the bed and filled the entire stage. A cry rose from the pit but the girl, breathing in the liquid environment like another fish, didn't wake up. The bed, somewhat tilted, was suspended at center stage. The aquatic ballet revolved around it.

It was hard to keep track of time. After a while, the man's gigantic hand reappeared and started to turn the faucet slowly, repeatedly, just as it had before, but now to the right. The first fish that had entered the stage gracefully swished its way back and disappeared up the faucet. Others followed it in a solemn, orderly march. The water began its descent, leaving a dry strip once again at the top. Once the last fish vanished into the faucet, the octopus, jellyfish, and sea horses swam across the stage. The faucet devoured them one by one in the twinkling of an eye.

As the level of water sank, so the bed levitated downward, swinging hypnotically to and fro, till its legs rested delicately on the floor. Sleeping beauty, gently shaken by the landing, still didn't wake up. Little by little the water flowed back up the faucet, leaving the stage dry and bright under the limelights. At the last turn of the handle, bed and girl collapsed and were sucked into the small circular abyss. The lights went out,
and there was total darkness and silence. When they came on a few moments later, they shone on a stage as bare as it had been at the beginning.

Applause exploded like a bomb. Some people rose from their seats shouting, “Bravo!” at the top of their lungs. Others remained fastened to their chairs, too astonished to clap; a few, unsure how to react, cast glances at the delirious crowd around them. The girl and three men, probably the director and the choreographers, came out onto the stage and took a bow.

Albert, Jaume, and Sebastià, faces flushed and eyes glazed over, stood up to applaud. Maurici took his handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe off the cold sweat that trickled down his face. The lump in his stomach tightened up. He didn't know what was happening to him. He couldn't figure out why the girl's disappearing act had upset him so, why those shadows had distressed him more than any real experience. He'd seen it with his own eyes. What couldn't be, had been. The impossible had happened. Logic was not foolproof. He'd been sitting there, watching the girl, and the girl had vanished. A dizzy spell frustrated his efforts to stand.

His cousin, noticing he was as pale as a ghost, helped him up and elbowed his way among the crowd that blocked the hallways. Outside, night had fallen and countless stars punctured the sky. With Albert's assistance, Maurici braced himself against a tree and threw up all the alcohol of the afternoon. His whole body ached as if he'd just been carrying a heavy weight.

“How awful to make a scene in front of so many people!” he, who always boasted of how well he held his liquor, lamented.

Albert scolded him: “I've told you before, absinthe's poison.”

Maurici inhaled deeply with his eyes closed. “It wasn't the absinthe.”

“What else, then?”

He helplessly waved away the question. Sebastià and Jaume watched him with concern. They'd never seen him in such a humiliating situation before, and their own drunkenness prevented them from responding to it. When he finally regained his composure and his cheeks regained their color, Albert threw his arm around his shoulder.

“You'll be fine now, let's go. Let's take a cab and go home.”

Maurici didn't know it yet, but after that day he'd never be the same.

* * *

Next morning he woke up late, drifting like the survivor of an overnight shipwreck, thick-tongued and fuzzy-headed. He took a long bath to see if soap and water would also cleanse his brain, dressed, and asked the maid to bring him only coffee. He eluded his mother's questions—“What's the matter? You don't feel well?”—and on shaky legs rushed down the stairs and out to the street. He had no intention of going to the factory.

The avenue teemed with morning activity: women out shopping, wet nurses pushing perambulators, carts filled with merchandise for the central market. Everything except a free carriage, so, after waiting in vain for five minutes, he set off walking in long strides that grew steadier as he approached the old city.

The boardinghouse had a white sign hanging from a balcony that said “Lola” written in red letters. It was in a narrow busy street, next to a public laundry that occupied the cloister of a former convent. In a corner of the lobby a watchmaker, pinned between the wall and a counter no more than five feet long, dissected a timepiece. The stairway was dark, the steps high. On the first floor, Maurici knocked on a door. A few seconds later he knocked again and heard a tired voice: “Comi-i-i-ing!”

The door squeaked open to reveal a middle-aged woman in a large, tattered apron, a skirt frayed at the edges, and wool slippers. A few strands of gray hair peeked under the shawl that covered her head.