The Street of the Three Beds

by Roser Caminals-Heath

  “Have you ever tried to open the cage?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, today we’ll set a precedent. Open the cage, will you?”

  Her eyes lingered on him before she complied with his wish. Socrates hesitated a few long seconds until he finally hopped to the tiny threshold. Maurici retrieved his coat from the armoire and, as he placed the money on the table under the vase, he noticed that the flowers were beginning to fade.

  “I’ll be back Friday, same time. Keep an eye on Socrates. I expect a full report.”

  * * *

  When he showed up Friday evening with a bunch of gardenias in his hand, Violeta didn’t keep him waiting. It had been a hot day and she wore a yellow, cotton dress.

  “Are these for me?” she asked, burying her face in them and taking his arm with characteristic ease.

  “Who else?”

  Miss Pràxedes was busy trying to pet the parrot, who seemed intent on biting her finger off. Her “good evening” sounded as sticky as the weather.

  He followed Violeta into her room and asked her if she’d make coffee, this time without cognac. She changed the flowers in the vase and went into the kitchen. Meanwhile, somebody knocked on the front door. A moment later he heard Miss Pràxedes drag her feet and rasp her throat down the hall. Then came a whispering exchange between her and a man. Maurici got up, opened the door slightly, and recognized the pale visitor who’d been asleep in his father’s office that night. He closed the door noiselessly and resumed his seat.

  Violeta emerged from the kitchen and replayed the ritual of loosening his tie and taking off his shoes. Submitting to her skilful manipulations, he reflected on his ludicrous situation. As much as he told himself that the end justified the means, the truth was that he stood on the verge of an affair with a professional prostitute who pampered him as an idolized husband worthy of every consideration. His past experiences had been predictable seductions without twists or surprises, ruled by the protocols of sex and class warfare. It was always known in advance who the winner would be. This time, on the other hand, he was incapable of upsetting the order of her world, of telling her “enough of this farce” and challenging her to lay her cards on the table—or rather, on that deceptively chaste-looking bed—thus taking a straight path to his goal. But he found this woman disconcerting. He knew himself to be trapped, vulnerable, sitting on her sofa in his shirt and socks waiting for his coffee. The point was to make sure she didn’t find out.

  When he saw her coming, holding the cup and saucer in her hand, he asked, “How did Socrates do?”

  “He took his sweet time coming out. He flew around a few times and then, all by himself, went back into the cage.”

  “Did you try again?” he inquired, sipping the hot coffee.

  “A couple of times. I think he likes to come out now and then. With the window and the door closed, I guess there’s no danger.”

  “All this time without flying. Think what he’s been missing!”

  She gave him a look that seemed to ask, “Where is this going?” Then she changed her expression, running her hand gently through the lock of hair that shadowed his forehead and stamped the signature on his face.

  “What would you like to do today, Lluís?”

  “The night’s still young. We have lots of time, don’t you think? I’d like to hear more about you.”

  “I already told you my story. What else do you want to know?”

  “I’d like to ask you a delicate question. Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of . . . visitors come to see you?”

  “You want to know who my customers are,” she said uncannily. “You’re curious as to what kind of a man pays to kill time with a phony housewife, right? A whore that cooks and knits and doesn’t wear whore outfits? You can call things by their names, I’m not going to be offended.”

  It was he who was offended. He looked at her unblinkingly.

  “The men who come to be with me want the make-believe of a wife that listens to them and makes them feel like they’re somebody, even if it’s all a sham and lasts only a couple of hours. Either they’re lonesome or, as they say sometimes, the woman they have at home ignores them or laughs at them. Sex is less important, if and when it happens. Some aren’t interested, others are impotent. I don’t have as many takers as Margarita and Hortènsia, but my customers are more loyal and less . . . problematic. I’ll tell you something, though: you’re different from all of them. They are older, sadder men—losers who need company and affection. I honestly don’t know what a woman like me can offer a man like you.”

  “You’ll soon find out. Have you been the same Violeta since you came here or is there another one I don’t know of?”

  “I’m the only one. At the beginning Miss Pràxedes didn’t think I was going to make it. She took me on probation and told me I’d have to leave if I didn’t pay off.”

  “How do you feel about Miss Pràxedes? Is it true she’s the heiress of a country estate?”

  “Who knows! The only thing I’m sure of is that, any day, that cough will kill her.”

  It was hard to tell what emotions she experienced when she issued this dire sentence.

  He leaned forward toward her. “And the other girls? I know that Hortènsia’s predecessor committed suicide. Did you know her?”

  “Very little. She was here just for a short time.”

  “You don’t know why she killed herself?”

  “No. Whatever it was, she didn’t tell me. What about you, did you know her?” she asked, with a mixture of curiosity and reserve.

  “No, but I have a friend who did.”

  “Maybe he can tell you more than I can.”

  “Do you know how she got here?”

  “No. We hardly ever talked.”

  “But you were here when it happened. Did you hear something that night?”

  Her body tensed up like a bow ready to shoot.

  “Margarita was here too. I was with a customer and didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Who had brought her here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He took the last sip of coffee and, leaning closer to her, said with deliberation, “This friend of mine is very worried about what happened to Rita . . . or Hortènsia, whatever you want to call her. I’m trying to help him. Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Prat?”

  The bow snapped. She sprung to her feet with the swiftness of a deer that sniffs danger.

  “I told you I don’t know anything about this girl. Why do you ask so many questions I can’t answer?”

  “Hasn’t Margarita told you?”

  “What should she tell me?”

  “That I have, let’s say, a professional interest in your lives,” he explained, also rising from the sofa.

  She challenged him with a piercing gaze. Her voice barely quivered when she said, “I don’t know who you are, sir, or what you want. All I know is you’re not police. I can smell them a mile away.”

  “Oh, it’s sir now, is it?”

  “First names are part of my job. If we’re doing something else, there’s no need to be so familiar.”

  He gave her a crooked, sarcastic smile. “Your logic’s very interesting and some time we’ll talk about it. But right now we must talk about something else.”

  “I’m sorry but this conversation can’t go on. I have nothing else to say.”

  For the first time she’d retreated completely to a defensive position. However, he was prepared to display every weapon—even those most abhorrent to him—to get to the desired end.

  “You’re paid for your time. How we spend it is for me to decide.”

  “If you have any complaints you can talk to Miss Pràxedes.”

  He came closer to her and spoke in a low voice, emphasizing every word, “I have no intention at all of talking to Miss Pràxedes.”

  He knew how much pressure he could exercise and he knew he’d reached the breaking point. It was time to ease up
and change his tune. “You asked me who I am. You tell me. Who do you think I am?”

  She enveloped him in her wise, intense, mistrustful stare.

  “A man.”

  “Not a customer?”

  “No.” She, too, had lowered her voice. “A man.”

  “What’s the difference? What’s a man to you?”

  Her eyes, still gleaming with misgivings, took on a new ambiguous, obscure expression.

  “The enemy.”

  There was a long pause.

  “And if I told you I’m not the enemy? That in fact I may be the only friend who’ll ever walk into this room and can help you? That maybe I have some power and influence to change things?”

  “We’ve only met twice. Why would you want to help me? It doesn’t make sense. What’s in it for you?”

  He sighed, planning his next move. After a brief hesitation, he went to get his wallet from his coat and came back with a picture in his hand.

  “Remember I mentioned a friend who knew Rita?”

  He handed her Rita’s picture, ignoring her startled reaction as she looked at it.

  “There’s no such friend.”

  “Then, you’re the one who was involved with her?”

  Maurici nodded.

  “You’re the rich boy she boasted about! The son of an industrialist, the son of a big man!” and suddenly she whispered, “Be careful! You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  “You tell me: What are they capable of? What did they do to Rita? What have they done to you?”

  Anxiety and fear, incompatible as they seemed with her temperament, disturbed the calm in her face.

  “Take my advice. Get out of here and forget all about it. It’s too late, anyhow.”

  “I can’t forget it, I can’t pretend it never happened. If I did that, then I’d really be lost.”

  “Did you love Rita?”

  He averted his eyes.

  “No. And that’s the trouble.”

  “Then let her rest in peace. It’s over for Rita, Lluís. Too late!” she repeated.

  “It may be too late for her, but not for you.”

  “What do you think you can do for me? Set me up in a little nest somewhere in Barcelona and pay for the expenses till you get tired of me?” she asked with anticipated resentment, echoing Margarita’s words. “And what about my son? I don’t need your money; just what you pay me to come here, that’s all. This is the deal and that’s all I want. I don’t want to exchange this kind of bondage for another.”

  “If you help me, you’ll break free. I’ll find you a job. Isn’t that what you’d like, to go back to work and be able to support your son? Well, I can make it happen. I told you I have contacts. Rita wasn’t kidding when she said my father’s a big man.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Break free? You don’t know what you’re saying. Obviously, life has been kind to you. Do you think we can come and go as you do? Once you’re in here, there’s no way out. We are all mortgaged to Miss Pràxedes. For starters, she buys us clothes, furniture, jewels. She makes it sound so easy. For me, on top of everything else, there’s a child to consider. Before you realize, you have a rope around your neck and a pile of debts on your plate. You have to make monthly payments besides the rent they charge us for the rooms. If business is slow for a while and you go broke, they give you a loan, and if you can’t pay the interest they raise it till the rope tightens and tightens so much it strangles you. Do you think we haven’t tried to leave? The few times we go out we’re always escorted by the boss or some other woman in the same line of work, always under her watch, just in case we get the notion to split for good. Some time ago Margarita almost made it. They reported her to the police as a thief and twenty-four hours later she was back in here. Then they made it real hard for her for a while. As for me, I also tried once . . . when Miss Pràxedes took us to church on Easter. Can you imagine three whores under a madam’s surveillance going to church? I took advantage when she got distracted for a moment to leave her behind and blend in with the crowd, but they found me. I still have marks from the beating.”

  Rage had distorted her features.

  “Who beat you up?”

  “I won’t tell you or they’ll do it again. How do I know I can trust you? What proof do I have?”

  “You can trust me for a simple reason: because I need you. I’m in your hands. I just told you the truth and you’re my only hope.”

  Violeta studied him as if she waged an inner struggle to believe in his sincerity.

  “Supposing I wanted to help you, what could I do?”

  “Start by telling me who beat you up.”

  The struggle went on, unresolved.

  “Who beat you up?” he repeated, holding her firmly by her arms.

  There was a silence.

  “I don’t know his name . . . He’s a retarded man who comes with a woman.” Her voice was as thin as a thread. “He does what he’s told. You can’t imagine how strong he is. He can’t say a word but, God, can he handle the strap!”

  “He beat you with a strap?” he asked, his naïveté yielding to shock.

  “The boss has him well trained, like a circus animal.”

  He slowly let go of her, visualizing the scene as if it unfolded in front of him. Jaumet, with his apish body, gaping smile, and gleaming eyes, brandishing the strap and swinging it down on Violeta—or was it Rita?—with impeccable timing and blissful ignorance of any relation between cause and effect, proud to be useful, basking in Violeta-Rita’s screams as if they were applause or down payments on the award he’d receive from the trainer, a monster at the service of another monster.

  He closed his eyes to exorcise the image.

  “I promise . . . I swear that if I succeed, no one else will lay a hand on you. Help me and I’ll get you out of here. There will be a future for you and the boy.”

  Her eyes grew softer, her expression more relaxed.

  “The future always goes to the devil. I know from experience. I’m twenty-five years old but it’s as if I was twenty-five hundred,” she replied, laying her hands on his chest. “Only the present belongs to us.”

  The clock had already struck eleven. That night, Maurici didn’t sleep at home.

  Chapter 8

  That night washed old wounds and offered a glimpse of a new beginning. Violeta’s wound, inflicted by her first lover, had been constantly reopened by the pretence, the parody, the empty gesture, the mechanical repetition of strictly outer signs of love, to the point that it no longer hurt. By contrast, Maurici’s injury was a recent stab that hadn’t yet stopped bleeding. The wounds persisted, but after that night they ceased to fester in darkness and were exposed to the air and the sun: a healing sun that would gradually tame their virulence.

  He’d delivered himself to the joy of discovery, deferring the next attempt to extract more information from her. Sooner or later he’d have to proceed, but his intuition told him that the relationship was beginning to set its own pace and that he shouldn’t try to force it. The morning after, as he left before nine to go to the factory, she refused his money and gave him an address where he could see Pere Anton.

  In the afternoon the carriage took him to Aurora Street. In the past he’d rarely set foot on the jigsaw puzzle of the lower city connecting The Ramblas to the Paral·lel. Only the main arteries that ran across the battered body of the red-light district were vaguely familiar. Far from qualifying as one of them, Aurora Street was merely a thread of the cobweb: narrow and glum like the rest, festooned with clothes lines that connected opposite façades as if to erase the minimal distance between them. He sauntered through the neighborhood oblivious to the nearby Black Island, the graveyard of veteran street walkers Margarita had so decried; nor did he realize that many of the children he was about to meet would spend their entire lives within those few blocks which, like a possessive uterus, refused to release them. Women’s voices and children’s cries flew from the balconies up to the strip of sk
y that crowned the street.

  A tin box of candy under his arm, he passed through a relatively wide doorway. There was no doorkeeper inside, only darkness. As he climbed the stairs, a racket of racing footsteps and children at play grew louder and louder. By the time he reached the third floor, it was so deafening that he had to knock several times on the door. A stout woman greeted him, wiping her hand on a grey apron that covered her skirt. Her name was Maruja.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Good afternoon to you, sir. How can I help you?” She didn’t speak Catalan, but a variety of Spanish that lilted with southern rhythms.

  “I’d like to see a boy called Pere Anton,” Maurici answered, also in Spanish.

  Maruja’s eyes took him in from head to toe; a smile played on her lips.

  “You a friend of Violeta’s? My, how that girl has prospered. Good for her! Come in and watch your step, them little brats are worse than usual today.”

  While she spoke a boy and two girls between six and nine years old clung to her apron. The boy stuck his long tongue out. The offence earned him a rather ineffectual slap.

  Other children joined them down the hallway, some of them pulling and tugging at Maurici’s coat with uninhibited curiosity. The youngest was barely walking and the oldest couldn’t be more than twelve. Some rooms were open and in disarray, like the rest of the apartment, but the walls were clean and freshly painted. The entire place smelled of bleach.

  “How many children do you have under your care?”

  “Seven, right now. I tell you, at the end of the day I can barely stand. I’m sore all over, yes sir. Look, there’s Perentón. That one’s a little angel. You won’t hear a peep from him. Come here, sweety pie, this gentleman’s come to see you.”

  They stepped into a large room, empty except for a few low chairs and brightened by the last breath of afternoon sun that slanted through the balcony. The boy took a few steps in Maurici’s direction, stopping in front of Maruja. He wore a patched-up frock with pockets. The eyes—his mother’s eyes—questioned unblinkingly the stranger’s intentions; the blond hair, clumsily and closely cut, gave him the appearance of a tin soldier. The woman mumbled an excuse and returned to the kitchen, while the boy uneasily watched her fade away. Suddenly, he broke into a run to follow her but Maurici bent down and cut him short.