The Street of the Three Beds

by Roser Caminals-Heath

  “My favorite dish? I don’t know, . . . lobster cardinal. Violeta, . . . what’s your name?”

  Her lips stroked his, muffling his words as they came out.

  “Are you married?”

  Maurici threw his head back to let out a burst of laughter. It seemed rather hilarious to think of that at this point.

  “No!’

  “Don’t laugh! One never asks a customer this question. Only a man,” and she resumed her sensuous, implacable, frontal attack.

  “What’s your name?” he pressed her harder, locking his arms around her waist.

  Her face didn’t pull back at all. “If you lie to me, I’ll kill you,” her narcotizing murmur concluded, while subtle fingers brushed his hair back from his forehead.

  She rose and led him by the hand to Margarita’s door. Her free hand gave two dry knocks on the door. Margarita, in a pink satin robe, her face bare of make-up and her hair trailing loose halfway down her back, let them in.

  “I’m leaving this place,” Violeta announced.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “I know I’m taking a big chance. But my mind’s made up. Before the end of the month, I’ll pay my rent and move out of my room.”

  Margarita, resting a hand on a swishing hip, threw a scornful glance at Maurici.

  “If he turns out to be a son of a bitch, which they always do, you can always come back.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What? You don’t think he’ll turn out a son of a bitch or you don’t think you’ll come back?”

  Violeta gave a cryptic smile for an answer.

  He faced her and insisted, “What’s your name?”

  Her smile turned bittersweet.

  “In my hometown, when I was very young, they called me Caterineta.”

  He studied the face of the new madam waiting for her reaction, which was to open the curtain of the closet where she kept the basin and the pitcher. She beckoned Violeta to approach. When she stood by her side, Margarita gathered Violeta’s hair in her hand, pushed down her head and, lifting up the pitcher, poured a thin stream of water.

  “I baptize you Caterina.”

  Chapter 10

  That Saturday morning, as he lathered up the bluish stubble on his jaw, he studied the stranger in the mirror. He also studied the black and white tiles on the floor, the large bathtub resting on lion’s claws, the gold faucets, the marble sink. He heard the maid and the cook bustling with breakfast preparations, he smelled the lotion his father had patted on his face an hour before. He knew these perceptions were soon to be extinct, that they’d reoccur only a limited number of times in the future. He knew life in the luminous avenue would soon fade to become as unreal as Amphitrite the siren.

  He still read the papers as often as possible. His mother, in a white gown and robe that made her look slimmer and with her black hair braided, sat opposite him at the table. For years they’d been having breakfast together and he knew that, inevitably, he’d miss those mornings. Every now and then he lifted his eyes from the paper and smiled. It was in one of these moments that he asked, “What are your plans today, Mother?”

  “Same as every Saturday. At three thirty, after my nap, we have our get-together at the Maison Dorée.”

  “Who will be there?”

  “The regulars: Lita Ramalleres, Pirula Camprodón, Montserrat Despí, and Adela Coromines. I’m sure they’ll ask about you. All my friends adore you.”

  Visions of Mrs. Ramalleres at the peak of past intimacy flashed though his mind like meteorites. He almost blushed.

  “Oh, right. I’d forgotten your gatherings at the Maison Dorée.”

  “You’ve been very absent-minded lately.”

  Ignoring the remark, he kept feigning interest in his mother’s Saturday routines as he browsed through the paper.

  “And then, what will you do?”

  “Father and I have tickets for the theater.”

  “What’s on?”

  “Crehuet’s The Dead Woman. Afterwards we’ll go to the Lyon D’Or for a bite. In the evening, you find la crème de la crème of Barcelona gathered there.”

  She played with her cup for a moment.

  “Maurici . . . are you sure everything’s all right?”

  Her eyes were so imploring he was tempted to confess that perhaps for the first time he loved a woman, that she was not a society girl, that . . . Then he thought of Lita Ramalleres and Pirula Camprodón, the musical quintet, and bucolic fantasies in pastel colors splashed on the walls of the Lyon D’Or, and answered, “You don’t need to worry. I feel better than ever.”

  Slurping the coffee dregs and folding the paper, he stood up to leave. As if she understood that a forbidding chasm had opened between them, she lowered her voice to beg, “Why don’t you play something?”

  He expected anything except that particular whim.

  “So early in the day?”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with it?”

  He went to sit at the piano.

  “What would you like to hear?”

  “Anything you want, . . . but make it cheery.”

  “As you please, Madame.”

  After thumping through several sheets, he tackled a Slavic piece that had recently become popular, “Hora Stacatto.”

  She smiled behind his back. Seconds later, tears welled up in her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks: farewell tears that glazed her smile.

  He skimmed over the opening notes rather indifferently, but little by little Dinicu’s feverish brilliance infected him. The fingers that gripped his squash racket like tongs and melted at the touch of skin now ran the entire gamut: they beat, banged, leapt, vibrated, brushed, trembled, fluttered. It had been a long time since he’d sat at the piano; he’d forgotten the orgiastic power of its keys. He didn’t even miss the violin. For a few minutes all the thoughts that had burdened his mind faded: his mother’s questioning, the pending reckoning with his father, Dr. Serra, Rita, Caterina, the plan of action he’d drawn up that morning. There was only the whirlwind of music, the pirouette of notes flung into orbit like spinning tops that, like a juggler, he caught in mid-flight just to twirl them again into a new rotation. A burst of sunlight danced in through the windows. He’d never played so well.

  Lídia held her breath and wiped her tears. When he turned around to face her, he only saw her smile. His mind still carried the melody, his entire body throbbed like a musical instrument as he rose, closed the piano lid, and, after kissing his mother soundly, vanished down the hallway.

  * * *

  The music had lent him wings. It didn’t even cross his mind to hail a cab to go to the Raval. He felt propelled by the certainty that that morning he’d find Proverbs: the last notes of “Hora Stacatto” had told him so. First he went to the tavern on the Street of the Three Beds, where Bartomeu greeted him like an old friend and reported that Proverbs had stopped by the day before, but who knew where he might be by then. In any case, he added, he usually stayed sober till the evening. This information confirmed what Maruja had said earlier.

  He crossed the square, dodging pigeons and children jumping rope, and then The Ramblas. The side street he took teemed with ragamuffins, whores, and housewives carrying baskets of food from the Boquería market. At the first corner he stopped at the Brandy Fountain, which Officer Segura had mentioned as prime territory among those marked by Proverbs.

  The Brandy Fountain was true to its name: it didn’t take up more space than a fountain and it didn’t serve anything but brandy. There were three stools, none of which guaranteed stability, a bar painted black and decorated with obscenities—text and illustrations—carved at knife point and, in the back, two shelves threatening imminent collapse under the weight of no more than half a dozen glasses. On the opposite wall, a cracked, foggy mirror distorted the customers’ backs into so many humps. A crust of grime on the floor had long erased the pattern of the tiles. The bartender was thin and had weak lungs; a cigarette stub
hung from his lips like a permanent appendix of his face. Precariously perched on a stool, a customer in a black beret stared at the newcomer with the impertinence of those who have nothing to lose.

  He ordered brandy. The first and last swallow sufficed to burn his throat. Noting an inscription on the counter that read: “Stay healthy and cool and find a hole to stick your tool,” he asked for Proverbs.

  “Who wants to know?’

  “A friend.”

  The bartender gave him the once over, seriously doubtful that Proverbs had friends dressed in white linen.

  “Is he in trouble? He never hurt nobody. You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “No. Once he did me a favor. I want to thank him.”

  The man hesitated, scrutinizing his eyes and the money he’d placed on the counter. The fellow in the black beret remained absorbed in contemplation of the stranger.

  “If you must know, he comes here every day. But you didn’t hear it from me, all right? Sometimes he can be a sourpuss.”

  “Do you know if he goes some place in particular Saturday mornings?”

  “You can’t say he goes anywhere. He just bums around. If you’re patient, you’ll find him in any bar around here.”

  “If he comes while I’m gone, would you send me notice? I won’t be far.”

  Ogling another bill laid on top of the others, the bartender nodded.

  “Everything’s possible in this world. But remember, not a word about me.”

  Maurici plunged deeper into the street, thus launching the pilgrimage in search of Proverbs. A dairy, a grocery store, a pawnshop, and a bakery alternated with bars—sleepy at that time—where he went in to ask. Closer to the harbor, the family businesses became rare and the bars became joints. A disheveled woman stepped out on a balcony, lifting up a bucket and shouting, “Water coming down!” He pressed his back against the opposite façade to dodge the splash. The water splattered heavily, dumping papers, bones, balls of bloodied cotton, and orange peels down onto the cobblestones. It meandered down its bumpy path, circling around protruding stones and sinking into the cracks. The final destination was a small sewer in the middle of the street, covered with a grate. As it reached it, the slithering glob of domestic slime sped up its progress, as if in a hurry to dive into the underground, and then lingered, ebbing and flowing at the mouth of the clogged sewer. Finally, the gutter’s allure overpowered the grate’s resistance and the water trickled down in agonizing gasps, leaving the solid debris sitting smugly on the grate with the mission to block it indefinitely.

  He turned left toward the harbor. The brothels were still asleep, undisturbed except by the occasional ranting of a drunken sailor. Drawing a complete circle, he ended up at the southern end of the maze and entered one of the main streets. Then he realized he’d navigated all the way down to Black Island and that the swanky hustle and bustle he remembered in the so-called New Street—with the avant-garde Palau Güell by Gaudí, and music blaring out of the Eden—screened off the sores of the neighboring alleys. Sex shops and signs advertising treatments for venereal disease alternated with dens that sold liquor and rented rooms. Vice provided its own antidotes.

  He probed into holes unacquainted with daylight. Walking along the streets—already mobbed at that morning hour—he was shouted at, insulted, courted, pawed, pinched. A couple of waiters and idle women admitted willy-nilly that they knew the character he was searching for, but he felt as if he were moving in circles, like a dog chasing his tail. Proverbs was very close and at the same time very far, since their paths might never meet within the convolutions of the labyrinth.

  Unexpectedly, as Maurici turned a corner, he felt a tug at his sleeve. A boy about ten years old, wearing a beret and tattered canvas shoes, led him back to The Brandy Fountain and put out his hand. As soon as the boy collected, he hurriedly tipped his beret and broke into a run. Before Maurici’s eyes could focus on his fleeing shape, he’d vanished.

  All three stools were occupied. The customer that had stared at him before was gone. Another man stood arguing with one of the three sitting at the bar. The bartender threw a complicit glance at Maurici as he casually ordered another brandy.

  “That seat’s taken,” yelled the man deprived of a stool.

  “If you wanted to sit, why on earth did you leave?”

  “I saw Casimiro; I had some business with him.”

  “So? If your ass is for sale, you can’t sit on it forever.”

  He surmised the man who’d just spoken must be none other than Proverbs. Cutting in in the middle of the dispute, he asked, “Mr. del Must?”

  “Who’s calling me by my bad name?”

  “Isn’t that your name?”

  “Yes and no. If it’s your humble servant you’re looking for, I’ll have you know my name’s Proverbs.”

  “Beg your pardon. I didn’t know you prefer your nickname.”

  “In the case of yours truly, Proverbs is no nickname. It’s a title.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Proverbs, could we talk for a while?”

  “What have we been doin’ so far?”

  “I mean talk about a certain matter.”

  “Excuse me, young man, first things first. Tell me, do we know each other?”

  “Let’s say I have references about you.”

  “God help us!” Proverbs shouted across the counter. “Lousy references, no doubt.”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  The drunkard’s face—a cobweb of fine veins through which wine circulated—turned toward Maurici. The angry customer took advantage of the distraction to reclaim the stool and Proverbs, raising a fist, showered him with insults.

  The bartender mediated: “Cut it out, Proverbs, no one’s offended you. Go on, scram. I don’t want fights in my place.”

  “You got no charity and God will punish you for it,” Proverbs replied in the most apocalyptic tone of his repertoire. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

  Before the bartender could recover, Maurici came to the rescue.

  “Would you mind if we went to a quieter place?”

  Seizing on the opportunity to take his revenge both from the bartender and the stool usurper, Proverbs accepted the invitation.

  “Delighted. Let’s go to The Last Drop!”

  Wondering whether The Last Drop would be a bar or a public urinary, Maurici paid for the drink he’d barely touched. Proverbs grabbed the glass, “If you don’t mind,” and in the twinkling of an eye downed its fiery contents.

  The Last Drop turned out to be one of the joints he’d previously visited without paying attention to its name. A musty smell permeated every dim object under the light of two bulbs wrapped in cobwebs. No sooner had they sat at a table than a woman well past her prime recognized Maurici and came up to him. There was a black rim around her teeth and a tuft of red feathers on her head.

  “Hello, you gorgeous mama’s boy! I see you missed me. You got five minutes for Carmela? How’d you like to do a sixty-nine?”

  “Get out of here and take your math with you!” Proverbs rebuked her. “Don’t you see the gentleman and I are talkin’?”

  “Nobody’s talkin’ to you, you pig!”

  “Pig must’ve been your father, and it’s plain as daylight you’re just a spittin’ image of him.”

  Maurici, glaring at Proverbs, slipped a bill into Carmela’s palm while she filed her claws to pounce upon the offender.

  “Come on, honey, go drink to my health. Mr. Proverbs and I have some business to conduct.”

  Carmela smiled, swishing her hips listlessly out of habit. Then she gave Proverbs a charged stare.

  “I’ll be leavin’ now ‘cause this . . . prince asked nicely. Don’t you think I can’t tell a fine thing when I see it.”

  And she drifted slowly to the bar. Meanwhile, Maurici was looking for the best angle to initiate the conversation.

  “They tell me you’re a good-hearted man.”

  “Yes, I’d say I still got some of that. You know? O
nce a fool, always a fool . . . Who told you ‘bout my infirmities?”

  “Maruja, the woman who takes care of children.”

  “Oh, yes! A saint. Hers will be the power and the glory.”

  “Well then, I must appeal to your good nature and ask you a favor. It has to do with a girl named Rita Morera. Do you remember the name?”

  “Dependin’ what it’s about, I’m just as likely to remember as not.”

  “It’s simple. You found her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On the Street of the Three Beds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You told the police you’d found a red and white bundle in the street.”

  “The police? Is it, by any change, Sergeant Vila who sent you?”

  Proverbs’s face twitched in alarm.

  “I have nothing to do with the police. I haven’t met Sergeant Vila, but somebody named Segura let me read your deposition.”

  “Ah! We got ourselves a curious fellow. Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t you know?”

  “I knew Rita Morera and I know she didn’t commit suicide as the police report says.”

  “Hold your horses, my friend, take it easy. Is that what they say, that she committed suicide?”

  Maurici nodded.

  “I found the body in the middle of the street—so far, so good. How it got there, I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you remember what the body looked like?”

  “More or less. Listen, I’ll be honest with you. It was very late or very early, depends how you look at it. Anyway, in the wee hours of the mornin’ my eyesight ain’t so good. I got a range of talents, understand? I can be merry, tipsy, tight, soused, sloshed, smashed, plastered, or drunk as a skunk. I’d say that night I was . . . between sloshed and smashed. So who knows what I seen. All cats are grey in the dark.”

  Maurici smiled in spite of himself.

  “The impact of so much blood is probably what you remember best. Where was the blood?”

  “All over them petticoats. You’re damn right I remember, ‘cause she was all in white. They say beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, . . . well, to this beholder she was a pretty girl, yes sir, in her prime . . .”