Barcelona Dreaming
Page 5
That night, I was the last to leave. When I got up from the table, Jaume offered to call me a taxi. I told him I’d prefer to walk. It was downhill all the way, I said. It would only take me twenty minutes.
“You’re sure?” he said. “After what just happened?”
“I’m not likely to get mugged twice in a week—and anyway, this is Sarrià.”
Jaume smiled. “All right. But call us when you get home.”
“This is like being seventeen again,” I said to Montse.
She gave me a look. “In more ways than one.”
I set off down Avinguda Valvidrera, the moon at the top of the sky and seemingly caught in a net of cloud. Saturday night. My head spinning from all the wine. Stopping on the bridge over the Ronda, I leaned on the rail, the six-lane highway fifty feet below. Traffic rushed beneath me, north to the Costa Brava, or south to Castelldefels and Sitges. Exhaust fumes mingled with frangipani…
Moving on, I rounded the roundabout, then turned into Major de Sarrià. The narrow street curved downhill between tall thin houses. Everything was shut. I crossed Bonanova, then walked through the square where the church was and on past Casa Rafael, a little place where I sometimes went for lunch. A light wind circled me.
And then it happened.
A man lurched out of a side street ahead of me, gray flannel trousers flapping round legs that were impossibly long. He must have been seven and a half feet tall. He wore a dark shirt that was untucked, and his hair, which was also dark, had been cut in an old-fashioned style, with a side parting. He passed in front of me with lengthy, cantilevered strides, as if his feet were only loosely bolted to his ankles. Perhaps he sensed my presence, though, because he stopped in the middle of Major de Sarrià and turned to face me, and when he spoke his voice was light, almost a tenor, not the deep, hoarse bass I would have expected.
“Are you lost?”
I laughed. “Do I look lost?”
He seemed to take the question seriously, but chose not to answer. Instead, he put a finger inside the collar of his shirt, as if it was chafing him.
“I’m on my way home,” I said. “I live close by.” I indicated the street beyond him, but he continued to look at me. “I’m sorry,” I went on. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that you startled me, appearing suddenly like that. I suppose I thought I was alone.” I paused. “Also, to be honest, I’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
“I thought I was alone as well.”
He smiled, and I smiled too. His face was all dents and hollows, suggesting the huge skull that lay beneath.
“Would you like me to escort you?” he asked.
“Oh no,” I said. “No, thank you. I’m nearly there.”
“Well, good night.”
“Good night.”
He lifted one hand in a gesture of farewell and then moved on into Carrer de Monterols.
As I watched him go, his head almost on a level with the first-floor balconies, I thought of the procession that took place in Sarrià every September, during the Festa Major, something children always looked forward to. Papier-mâché giants—or gigants, as they were known—were built in the image of monarchs or aristocrats or even local celebrities. Ten feet tall, maybe more, they were paraded through the streets, with people inside them, both to carry them and to maneuver them. When they passed by, they would slowly and solemnly turn this way and that, as if to acknowledge the crowds that had gathered. The giants were an expression of local identity and culture, and their presence on that one day of the year represented a kind of blessing. In that moment I felt I had also just been blessed, and as I approached my apartment I took out my phone and called Montse.
“Are you home?” Montse asked. “We were getting worried—”
Looking back along the street, I talked over her. “Something extraordinary just happened.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY was Sunday, my day off, and I slept late, waking at ten to find I was alone in the apartment. As I stepped out of the shower, the front door opened and Mar appeared. She had bought croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice, and the newspapers in English and castellano. She had discovered a new bakery, she said, near Plaça Artos. I gave her a kiss and told her she was the best daughter ever. Later, I called one of my favorite restaurants—Agua—and booked a table for lunch. Mar would be going back to Bristol in a day or two, and I wanted to take her somewhere special.
That afternoon, we drove down to Barceloneta. The coolness of Via Laietana, which always seemed to be in the shade, no matter what time of day it was. Then the port, the masts of boats swaying and clicking in the offshore breeze, the sunlight glassy, dazzling. We found a place to park, and by a quarter to three we were sitting at a simple wooden table that overlooked the beach. We ordered fresh asparagus and pasta with crayfish, and drank cold white wine and Vichy Catalan.
Halfway through the meal, Mar’s face swung towards me suddenly, as if she’d been fighting an urge until that moment, but could fight no longer.
“What’s going on, Mum?”
I knew I couldn’t duck the question, or pretend not to understand. I had felt it coming for some time. Ever since the night my bag was snatched, I had sensed a fidgety quality in her. When we were in the same room, she would glance at me if she thought I wasn’t looking, and when we ate together one of her knees would be jiggling under the table.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” I said. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“You might not like it.”
She shrugged.
“All right,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
I started at the beginning, with the sound of somebody crying in the middle of the night, and then I just kept going, and though the story felt natural, the way one moment fed into the next, I could see that it easily outstripped whatever Mar might have had in mind. She had stopped eating, and had slumped lower in her chair, her eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses, a tension in her mouth and jaw.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s no way it can last.” I looked out to sea, where a dinghy with a light-green sail slid across the blue. “Right now, though, it’s as strong as anything I’ve ever known.” I reached for my wine and drank.
“Jesus.”
I glanced at her, but she was looking past me, along the promenade.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” I said.
“Do you love him?”
“It’s not love. At least, I don’t think it is.”
“What is it, then?”
I put down my glass. “Didn’t you always say I should have a boyfriend?”
For a few moments Mar didn’t react, but then she met my gaze and we both began to laugh. People at neighboring tables glanced in our direction, and when we saw their puzzled smiles we laughed even harder, partly because we knew things they didn’t know, and partly because we were just as puzzled as they were.
* * *
—
ONCE MAR HAD FLOWN back to the UK, Abdel started visiting again. I would turn the corner, into my street, and there he would be, leaning against the brick wall next to the photocopying shop. I didn’t mention the fact that I’d been robbed. It would only make him feel guilty for not having walked me to the metro, and I didn’t want him feeling any guilt. He appeared every three or four days, through the rest of August and on into September. There were evenings when we went to Bar Tomás—he loved Quique, the head waiter, with his leg that dragged and his growling voice, his kindness hidden underneath, like an embarrassing condition—or if it was too hot to be indoors we would have a drink in the square by the church. I couldn’t help noticing how the difference in our ages was obscured by the way in which he took control of certain situations. It was a version of maleness that seemed to come naturally to him, a
nd must have had its roots in his culture. He made me feel younger just by being himself. Sometimes I felt younger than he was.
On a warm evening in the first week of October, I took him to a restaurant in Sarrià for the first time. We sat in a walled garden, under a palm tree, and he told me about his new job at a factory that manufactured laminated glass. He was proud to have been hired, but the work was hard and the hours were long. He showed me his hands. There were cuts on the inside of his fingers, and the base of his thumb had an inch-long gash in it. His palms had become as rough as sandpaper. I saw no trace of resentment or self-pity on his face, but sometimes he looked at me as if he was hoping I might change his life for him. I couldn’t do that, though—could I? When he turned twenty-six, I would be fifty.
We didn’t talk much that evening. We just ordered, and ate, and smiled at each other, the night air curling round us. It seemed enough to sit in silence, imagining the love that would happen later, in my apartment. I remember only one exchange, and it was the one I’d thought he would prohibit.
“I have to ask you about that night,” I said.
“Again?” He looked away from me, into the garden.
“I need to know what happened.” I put my hand on his hand. “It’s how everything began.”
He was avoiding my eyes, and his face was somber, almost desolate, like someone who is about to be evicted and has nowhere to go.
“Tell me,” I said.
He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I sold myself,” he said in a low voice, looking at the table. “To men.”
The moment he opened his mouth, I somehow knew what he was going to say. Perhaps I had known all along.
“Did you use condoms?”
His head came up, and he stared at me, wide-eyed. “Is that all you can say?”
“It’s important—and not just for you. For me too.”
He looked away from me again. “I had no life to lose. That’s what I thought.”
I brought his scarred hand to my lips and held it there, no longer conscious of where I was, not seeing anything at all.
“Yes,” I heard him say, as if across a great distance. “I always used condoms.” He seemed to hesitate. “Except once. The night we met.”
That night, he went on, the man who had picked him up forced him to do things he didn’t want to do. The man was English. He drove an expensive car. A Lexus. It was black.
I began to cry.
He put his other hand against my face.
“When I saw you in the car park,” he went on, “I thought you might be his wife.”
“His wife?”
“I don’t know why.”
Abdel paid the bill, even though he had no money. He insisted on it. Then we walked back to my apartment.
We crossed Bonanova, then took a right turn, past the church. Up against the side wall was a hidden plaçeta—a small square—with tall trees and a couple of benches. During the day you would see skateboarding teenagers or Roma people with paper begging cups. At night it was usually deserted. We stopped beneath a first-floor apartment, its French windows open, no curtains. I heard a burst of static. Someone was trying to tune a radio. The ceiling of the room was white with dark wooden beams. Another crackle, then piano music, clear as water. I leaned against Abdel in the shadows under the wrought-iron balcony. His white shirt, my sleeveless dress. Almost nothing separating my skin from his…
Later, when we rounded the corner into my street, my heart turned over. Senyor Artes was standing in front of my apartment building, smoking a cigar and leaning on his cane. He looked like someone sampling the air before setting off into the night, but that, I knew, was as far as he would go. To enter the lobby, we would have to pass right by him. I thought about doubling back and walking round the block. Waiting until he went inside. At that same moment, Abdel noticed Senyor Artes, and I felt him slow down, his hand pulling on mine.
“Perhaps it’s better if I go,” he said.
“No,” I said. “This is my home.” I faced him, smiling. “I don’t want you to go.”
He nodded, though he still looked troubled.
I took out my keys, hoping we might slip past the old man, but he had positioned himself so as to bar the entrance, like some self-appointed guardian of the building.
“Excuse me, Senyor,” I said.
Artes didn’t even glance at me. Instead, he fixed Abdel with a look of contempt and drew on his cigar.
I put a hand on the old man’s arm. “Please let us in.”
He shook me off. “Not him.”
“What?” I laughed in disbelief.
Artes continued to stare at Abdel, then he turned and spat on the pavement, just to one side of the entrance. I took advantage of the momentary lapse in his attention to try and push my way into the lobby, but he lashed out with his stick, catching Abdel across the face. I gave the old man a shove. The pavement was narrow, only three or four feet wide, and as he staggered backwards he was struck by a passing car. It was only a glancing blow, but he fell awkwardly. The car braked and stopped. Its headlights showed me the street as it stretched away towards Avinguda Foix. Abdel was standing up against the outside wall of the building. There was a bruise on his cheek. Some blood too.
The car door opened. The man who got out was wearing a blue-and-white-striped shirt and a pair of chinos. He looked at Senyor Artes, who was lying half on the pavement and half in the road, then his eyes lifted to mine. “You pushed him.”
“He fell,” I said.
“You pushed him in front of my car. I saw you.” He crouched next to Artes. The old man’s eyes were closed, and his face had stiffened. His stick lay in the gutter.
Another car approached. When the second driver—a woman—saw the road was blocked, she honked twice.
I turned to Abdel, who was still standing by the wall. “You should leave.”
He didn’t seem to understand.
“Please go,” I said.
The driver of the first car glanced over his shoulder, putting out a hand. “No one’s leaving.”
“Go,” I said to Abdel. “Now.”
Abdel moved uncertainly along the pavement in the direction of Avinguda Foix, his back lit by the headlights.
I bent down next to the driver. “Is he badly hurt?”
“I don’t know. I think he hit his head.” He punched a few buttons on his phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Of course,” I said. “That’s right.”
I was shivering, though the night was just as warm as before.
The woman in the second car was standing behind her open door. “What happened?”
“He hit my friend,” I told her. “He hit him in the face.”
I sat down on the curb, my forearms resting on my knees, my mind buzzing, blank. At least Abdel had got away. That was all I cared about. A phrase my father used to use floated into my head. It’ll end in tears. But this was a story that had begun in tears.
In the distance I heard a siren.
* * *
—
SENYOR ARTES DIED in the ambulance, on the way to hospital. The next day I was summoned to the police station on the hill, where I was questioned by Grau, the bad-tempered chief who had once featured in my fairy tales. Having taken depositions from other witnesses—including, presumably, the driver of the car—Grau didn’t think the death of Senyor Artes could be dismissed as a simple traffic accident, and he arranged for my immediate transfer to the local headquarters of the Mossos d’Esquadra, the division of the police that dealt with violent crimes like rape and murder. Since there was no such thing as manslaughter in Spain, he told me, I would be charged with something called “imprudent homicide.” I was in a daze. I’d had no sleep, and everything seemed to be happening behind a sheet of glass.
During my first interview in the stat
ion on Iradier Street, I admitted to having had a relationship with Abdel ben Tajah, the man who had “fled the scene,” as they put it, though I claimed not to know where he was living. The police officer running the investigation—a man by the name of Bernardo Lull—didn’t believe me. He produced an official report, stating that my bag had recently been snatched in Sant Andreu. Which coincidentally, he added, watching me closely, was an area known to be populated by Moroccans. As you say, I murmured. Coincidentally. Lull was still watching me. Abdel would always come to Sarrià, I explained. We would see each other in my apartment. That, after all, was how we’d met. But Senyor Artes had disapproved of me seeing—or even knowing—a Moroccan. Artes had been a racist of the worst kind. Lull kept returning to the same question. If I had no address or phone number for the Moroccan—he called Abdel “the Moroccan”—how would I contact him? I didn’t contact him, I said. He would just appear. Whenever he felt like it? Grau interjected, with a sneer. I nodded. For me, I said, it was never often enough. Lull changed his approach. Was he employed? He had a job in a glass factory, I said, but he didn’t like to talk about it. I think he was ashamed of it. Once again, Grau stepped in. If he was ashamed, it was probably because he was a rent boy. It was probably because he sold himself. Obviously, they’d been saving this piece of information for the moment when they thought it would unnerve or provoke me the most. As before, I remained quite calm. I knew about that, I said. He told me. Lull and Grau exchanged a glance, then left the room.
Abdel hadn’t done anything wrong, I told Lull later that day, when he returned, alone. Senyor Artes had hit Abdel in the face with his walking stick, but he had chosen not to retaliate. If Artes had lived, I added, Abdel would have had every right to bring charges against him. For assault. So why did he run? Lull asked. He didn’t want to run, I said. I told him to. Lull asked why I would do something like that. Because I didn’t want him to become involved, I said. Because I wanted to protect him. Lull found that strange. Surely he would have been useful as a witness, he said. Invaluable, in fact. I shook my head. He was an illegal immigrant, I said. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had also spent time working in the sex trade, as Lull’s colleague in the Guardia Urbana had been so eager to point out. Did he—Lull—really believe that a jury would listen to someone like Abdel? Lull had no answer to that.