by Dancer, Jack
“Should we give them the Hotel Arts for our address?” Monica asks.
“Let’s put down the Hilton. We still have that room.”
“I don’t know a lot of information they’re asking for here, Tucker,” she says.
“I don’t either. Just leave it blank and we’ll complete what we can.”
Five minutes after I’ve returned our completed forms to the lady at the window we’re called up to see Lieutenant Sanchez.
***
After we've given Lieutenant Sanchez the bare-bone facts on the situation with Terry and Ebba, without telling him anything about our Paris detour or about the IndyBoys or Dick or the lottery ticket or that we're now at the Hotel Arts or that we're carrying on an affair, his response is pretty barebones too.
"So, you're telling me you're here to report two grown women missing because you haven't seen them in the last 36 hours?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Señor Blue and Señora Reyes, when is the last you have seen your mothers? Has it been more than 36 hours?"
We look at each other. No answer.
"Have your mothers reported either of you missing?"
We look at each other. No answer.
"Didn't think so. Maybe what I have in front of me are two stalkers. Are you stalkers?"
We look at each other. No answer.
"Look around Señor Blue and Señora Reyes. Can you see how busy we are here? (Pretty busy.) Over one million people will be turning out into the streets of Barcelona one week from now calling for independence. Do you not think the police of Barcelona aren't busy preparing for that?"
"I'm sorry we've wasted your time," I say standing to leave.
"Señor Blue, Señora Reyes," he says standing and smiling, "Have you considered the possibility that maybe your friends have disappeared from you on purpose? Maybe they think you are both overbearing fools they simple cannot tolerate being around anymore?”
"Goodbye Lieutenant Sanchez," I say and we walk out.
“Fuckhead,” I say under my breath.
***
The Rider.
Now the police?
What is going on with these two? First the Fira, then the tenement building, then the Bagdad and now the police?
It doesn’t make sense. There is no rhyme or reason to this. You’re trained to look for patterns. There is no pattern here! It’s like following a drunk or a schizophrenic. They take you nowhere.
Could it be the IndyBoys are being held by the fat man at this station? It’s the only explanation. I will come back and tear this place apart.
***
“Well, that was embarrassing,” Monica says as we walk back through the glass doors and outside where three children - two boys around six years old and a pretty little girl with a ponytail, maybe eight or nine - are laughing and having the best time swinging on the two flag poles out front.
“Ya think?” I laugh and catch myself looking around for a parent or some adult I’d expect to be nearby watching the kids but all I see is an empty police car parked across the street and a fellow wearing wraparound sunglasses smoking a cigarette and leaning against a beautiful, black Ducati motorcycle. Always wanted a Ducati, I think to myself.
“Oh well. At least no one can say we didn’t try,” she says. “So, you think we should forget checking out the Four Cats?”
“No. I don’t care what the police think. I still think something’s fishy about Terry and Ebba disappearing like they have. Surely they would have called by now. At least Terry would. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I do,” she says. “Come on Tucker I want to show you something pretty cool.” And she takes my hand and swings us around onto a short walk-through next to the police station called, Carrer l’Estel where we come out onto the Gardens Sant Paul del Camp.
“Right, this is very nice,” I say admiring the little park.
“It is but this is not it. Follow me,” she says and we continue around the park on Carrer l Hort de Sant Pau to Career de Sant Pau where we take a left and come upon a very old church.
"It's one of the oldest churches in the city," she says walking up to a plaque in front of the old medieval church describing its history. Course, I can't read the language but I got my handy dandy translator.
“So, what does it say translator?” I ask.
“One of the oldest churches in the city,” She reads. “Destroyed when Almanzor sacked the city in AD 985, also known as The Day the City Died. Rebuilt in the 11th and 12th centuries, all that survives of the Visigoth temple are the columns and lintel of the main door. The tomb of the original builder, Count William the Hairy lies inside the church.
“Count William the Hairy? Ha, that's funny,” I say and she goes on.
“The French troops used the church as a hospital, later occupied by Italy's forces as barracks. Finally, it became a parish church in the 1830s. Saved by the Catalan Hiking Club, a hotbed of bourgeois nationalist pride, then burnt by the masses angry over the reactionary Catholic Church. That's all I can figure out.”
“Hell, of a job honey. You can be our tour guide from now on,” I say.
“Well, thank you Señor Blue,” and she leans into me and gives me a peck on the cheek and while I am gladly accepting this little show of affection I notice a woman walking up and giving Monica the once over at arm's length. At first I thought she was going to object to our public display of affection or something but then the old woman starts breaking into tears with excitement.
“La Princesa! Oh, el meu Déu que és la princesa! (Oh, my God, it's the princess!) Princesa Rei. Vostè és princesa Rei és el que no? (You are princesa Reyes are you not?), Si us plau, señora, puc tenir el seu autògraf? (Please ma'am, may I have your autograph?). The woman pulls a pen and paper out of her purse and shoves it at a completely embarrassed Monica.
"Jo no sóc una princesa. Vostè s'equivoca, però jo et humor. Si we plau, només ens deixen. Si us plau.” ("I am not a princess. You are mistaken, but I will humor you. Just please leave us. Please") she says and takes the woman's pen and scribbles on the paper then hands it back.
"Gràcies Princesa, gràcies i que Déu els beneeixi. Mai oblidaré quest moment. Gràcies.” ("Thank you princess, thank you and may God bless you. I will never forget this moment. Thank you.") The woman says backing away in supplicating bows of her head.
All this has caught the attention of others around us and Monica notices. When they start approaching, she grabs my hand and pulls me with her into a trot down the street.
"Wait, wait, slow down,” I plead pulling her to a stop at the next cross street, "What was that all about back there?"
"Nothing. It was nothing, Tucker. The woman's obviously delusional,” she says.
“Delusional? She didn't seem delusional to me. She acted like she'd just met the Pope. Did she? Are you the Pope and you haven't told me?” I say.
"Yeah, Tucker, I'm the Pope. Pope Monica. You think that would go over big with the Catholics?” she says.
I pull her to a stop and say, "No, really, what was that all about? The woman kept calling you, princesa. Then you suddenly blurt out a string of Catalan just like you did at the apartment. You were great."
"I really don't know the language that well, Tucker. It's been a long time."
"Sure didn't sound like it."
"It just came out. I don't know why. It just did."
"Quit being so modest. I think it started turning me on,” I say.
“Christ Tucker, road kill would turn you on."
"No, really. What was that all about you being a princess? Why’d that woman think you're a princess?"
"I told you; she's mad.” She sees I'm not buying. "Okay, it's not the first time.”
"Not the first time, what?"
"Not the first time someone has mistaken me for someone else."
"A princess?"
"Well, yeah. Apparently, I look like someone who must be a princess, and they mistake me for her. Now, you satisfie
d?"
"Come on. Don't be that way. What would you think if the tables were turned and someone out of nowhere came running up to me thinking I'm a prince, groveling for my autograph, and all. How would you react?"
"You are a prince, Tucker. You’re my prince. Besides, I’d just tell ‘em to get down on their knees and kiss your..."
"Ring?"
“Yeah, your ring,” she laughs.
“Okay, I get it. Still, it was a little strange.”
“Stranger than fiction.”
“Don't say that because the actual line is, 'truth is stranger than fiction' and that would mean you really are a princess.”
“Criminies, Tucker, aren't you the paragon of literary correctness.”
***
The Rider.
The rider stood next to the Ducati smoking a cigarette watching through his wraparounds as the old woman approached the American woman groveling like she was a rock star, pushing paper and pen at her.
Keeping his face turned, the rider steps closer to overhear what the old woman is asking. Princesa? She's calling the American, Princesa? Why? Is she crazy? And why is the American accepting the paper and pen and writing? Is she giving the old woman an autograph? Who is she?
When the man and woman break away and run to the end of the block, he approaches the old woman and asks her who the woman was.
"Princesa Mònica ! Va ser Princesa Monica."
"May I see her signature," the rider politely asks the old woman, and she gladly shows the young man. Monica Reyes, Princesa Aragó, it says.
"Sagrat merda!," the rider says aloud and the old woman says, "No parlis d'aquesta manera de la jove princesa . Vostè ha d'estar avergonyit de si mateix . (Do not speak that way of the princess young man. You should be ashamed of yourself.)
He looks back to the Americans. They've disappeared. He runs for the Ducati and at the end of the street, spots them walking down Carrer de la Riereta.
Who are these people?
***
“Come on Tucker, just forget all that and keep walking, alright? It's finally starting to feel like we're on vacation, like we're the tourists we're supposed to be. Please don’t ruin it with the Princess stuff. I’ve been through that so many times you have no idea, and it gets really old.”
“Alright. Let's head toward the Four Cats and check for the girls. We should at least make an effort.”
"What if we find them? Then what?" she says.
"Run like hell?"
"Yeah. I don't want to be stuck with them. They've already ruined one whole day let's not let 'em ruin another," she says.
"We won't," I say, then notice the street going off to the left is Carrer de la Riereta, where Dick's apartment is located. Number 24 1/2. "Let's walk up this street," I say pulling her along.
"What's up there?" she asks.
"I don't know, just looks interesting. Give us a real feel for the inner bowels of the El Raval. Look at how narrow this street is. And all the balconies.”
"And all the laundry hanging from all the balconies and the smell . . . Jesus, Tucker. This place stinks."
"All a part of the ambience,” I say hurrying along, looking for number 24 1/2. When I find it I stop and look up. "What does the banner hanging off the balcony up there say?”
“'Volem un Barri Digne',” Monica reads, “Something like, 'We want barrio worth or dignity,' something like that.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?” I ask scoping the place out.
“Got me. I guess they want some sort of neighborhood recognition.”
“Nice building though, pretty good size too, five stories, three balconies, two windows on the ground floor, a garage. Hey, check out the skinny front door? You ever see anything like that?” I say.
“Pretty skinny all right. Why’re you so interested in this building? You wanna buy it or something?”
“No, I just think it's a nice building. I mean, look how solid it is, solid block, the whole thing, artillery couldn't bring this place down,” I say trying to downplay my interest but maybe I’m doing just the opposite. You might want to take a good look too, honey. This just may be our next move; I'm thinking.
The place even has surveillance cameras outside and it's just about the only building on the block without electrical wiring and panels mounted on the outside walls. That's good. Someone can't just walk up and kill the building's power. All in all, the place looks like an attractive bunker.
Across from the apartment is the Societat Coral Rosa d'Abril (April Rose Choral Society) with a motion detector light and surveillance camera above the door; and next to that, another doorway with another sign.
“What does the sign say?” I ask Monica pointing out the Unio Sindical Obrera de Catalunya.
“Workers Trade Union of Catalonia,” she says.
“Sounds appropriate to the Raval’s image as the hotbed of unrest and anarchism. I read somewhere they called it, the Nursery For Revolutionaries.”
"And the nursery is one stinky place too. I think I'm going to gag. Come on Tucker, let's get out of here before I throw up,” Monica says.
***
The Rider.
The rider circles the block until he's at the opposite end of Carrer de la Riereta. He shuts the bike down and watches the couple from a distance.
They've stopped. What are they doing looking over that old building as if they're inspecting it but do not go in or knock on the door? What's so interesting about the building, he wonders?
When they continue on, the rider again mounts the Ducati and circles the block, approaching the building to study it. He makes a note of the address, and the adjoining building, and then pulls out his cell phone and dials. He leaves instructions for someone to research the ownership of the three addresses and to a return the call, "quickly, it's important."
The return call comes and informs him a corporation owned by another company and on and on, leading nowhere, owns the building in question.
A woman named, Bovarie, however, owns the adjoining building, and it is licensed with the city as a "comfort house."
A whorehouse, he says to himself. Interesting. These Americans are not simply tourists.
***
We walk to the end of the street and take a right on Carrer de l'Hospital.
“All the graffiti, it's everywhere, doors, walls, even the garbage cans. And the buildings are actually very beautiful, but the graffiti. It's unbelievable," I say.
“You know you’re in the Raval," she says.
"Yeah, does seem worse here, but I've seen it all over the city, especially on the roll-down grilles. I don't think they've missed a single one of those. Yuck, look over there," I say nodding to some guy squatting in a doorway defecating.
“Oh, my God. That's just gross. Keep walking before I go over there and kick him,” she says.
A few blocks later, we're entering Las Ramblas, the wide Boulevard running through the middle of the city and perhaps the most famous street in Barcelona. It runs along what used to be the old city walls when all the sewage from the city ran into the Ramblas, and it became known as the Caganell - the shit stream.
Several people are tacking up handbills with two girls' faces on them.
“They’ve been putting these up all over the place, let's see what they are,” I say and we walk over to one.
“It’s a missing person's notice,” she says, "Two girls, Elena Basso and Sophia De la Riva. They're looking for anyone who might have information. God, Tucker, they're only teenagers. How terrible.”
“Really terrible. Bet their parents are going nuts. Wonder if they got the same run around we did with the police and had to resort to this?” I say pulling her away. We walk until we come across an outdoor cafe centered in the pedestrian walk running up the middle of the Ramblas.
“Want to take a moment?” I ask.
“Sure.”
We take a table under one of the white umbrellas and order up two espressos. But, before our coffees arr
ive, a kid about ten years old runs up with his hand out for money.
“Por favor Señor.” I dig out a fifty-cent piece and hand it over.
“Gracias Señor, gracias,” he says backing away to the next table and prospect. A waiter quickly appears shooing the boy off. “Sortir d'aquí noi,” he says, and the kid runs off laughing.
“Performing their respective duties,” I say.
“Don't you feel sorry for these poor kids, out on the street, having to beg for a few pennies just to live?” she says.
“Wanna adopt him?”
“I'd rather have your baby, Tucker,” she says.
Yikes!
“Cat got your tongue, Tucker?”
“No. I was just thinking how much I’d love to accommodate you on that. We oughta get started right now. We’re not getting any younger, you know. Times a wasting,” I say standing, “This could take a few tries so let’s get back to the hotel and get started. You ready?”
I think I stunned her. She’s blushing.
“Sit down, Tucker,” she says, a smile coming over her. “Been snipped, huh?”
“They’re not a hundred percent. Just means we need to keep trying.” I say.
“You almost had me there for a minute.”
“In my younger days, maybe. Takes more than a minute these days,” I say.
“Tucker, you are one piece of work,” she says laughing. “I oughta give in just for that.”
“Yeah. I agree you should.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” she says.
“Okay, but I gotta tell you there’s a waiting list for my sperm donations.”
“Even for one shooting blanks?”
“It’s a short list.”
***
“Amazing how busy this city is, all the people and all the shops. Everyone's carrying at least one shopping bag. It's literally a shopper's paradise, isn't it?" I say.