by Andrés Vidal
“We need the jewels here to shine in all their splendor, that’s why we have to have the lamps on. In our workshop, in Calle Francisco, which is old and dark, it would be impossible to work without electric lights.”
“Señores, while I am deeply interesting in the running of your businesses, for now I am more concerned with the second shipment being readied for Germany. Bring me up to date, if you don’t mind.”
Andreu Cambrils i Pou was a busy man and he didn’t care to waste time on banalities.
“Of course,” Ferran said, coughing slightly, and without setting down his glass of champagne, he began to speak. “The German army will buy everything we can sell them. They don’t want to have to worry about supply.”
“Fifty more tons,” Josep Tordera added. “Imagine the profits. Especially now, when nobody’s under the illusion that the war will end any time soon.”
Just over forty years in age, Josep was now running the textile business that his father had nearly bankrupted. Esteve Tordera had lost his judgment and sunk a great deal of the family fortune into satisfying the whims of his lover, buying and furnishing her luxurious apartment. When his wife and son pressed him, he confessed that he was madly in love with her. It didn’t go much further, but, like every other business at that time, the company ran into difficulties and seemed close to going under; that is, until Josep took the reins and put things in order as best he could: asking for loans, despite the hardship the debt would represent, and eliminating unnecessary expenses. Since that unfortunate time, he had learned an important lesson: no one gives anything for free, and when you’re down on your luck, you can only rely on yourself.
“And how did the first shipment go, Ferran? Any obstacles come up?” Cambrils i Pou asked.
“Not a single one, Señor Cambrils. The trucks arrived in Bilbao without a hitch. Naturally Bragado’s assistance came in handy. The most complicated part was the sea crossing, because the French and English control the entire eastern front. The whaler traveled around Scotland to the north and stopped off once in Bergen. From there it hedged close to the littoral, arriving in Denmark and then took the Elbe River in to Hamburg, the final stop.”
“Excellent.” Cambrils i Pou raised his glass and said, “To the war.”
The toast was barely audible over the jubilation of Pilar, the matriarch of the Jufresa family, when she saw the Antichs enter the jewelry shop. She couldn’t cover her excitement and she left to one side the Catalàs, whom she had been talking with for some time, and rushed over to the new arrivals. Her dress undulated in a sinuous movement as she walked toward the door; it had been brought straight from Paris just before the beginning of the war, as Pilar never failed to mention any time she was asked about it, especially as the beginning of hostilities was putting an end to the importation of luxury goods from France and England. Its designer was none other than the great Paul Poiret. Mothers and daughters glared enviously at the Grecian contours of the ochre fabric and the fox stole that covered the suggestive line of her bust. Pilar’s hair was gathered in a great bun that showed off her neck—still supple for a woman of fifty-four years of age.
“Remei, Josep Lluís, and our beloved Jordi.” She smiled, showing her white teeth, while she took Jordi’s hands in a gesture of welcoming. “I’m so happy you’ve finally been able to come.”
“It’s a pleasure, Pilar. We’re excited to see how the store has turned out. Some of us more than others, I have to say.” The father of the family gave a roguish smile and looked over at Jordi.
Josep Lluís Antich was a man of elegant stature, though somewhat bent over due to a problem with his joints. Men’s fashion at the time was not especially daring, and like the majority of the men there, he contented himself with a black frock coat. A long corduroy coat was draped over his arm, and he handed it to the servant woman along with his hat and his cane with the gold pommel. Since he was the face of the textile company, his clothes were always of the highest quality.
“Father!” Jordi upbraided him with an angry face. His gaze strayed away from the group while his father began an animated discussion with Pilar and Francesc, who had also come over to greet them.
More than friendship, the two families were united by business: all the jewels in the clothing designed by Antich were supplied by the Jufresas. With Jordi’s initiative and his knowledge of the latest trends in Europe, they had begun releasing, several years back, a line of clothing adorned with fine jewels: pearls around the necklines of the women’s dresses, gold filaments running through the seams, buttons of mother of pearl and silver. Not only did the Antichs export, they also supplied the great department stores and many other smaller boutiques, and for that reason, if only from a commercial perspective, it was worthwhile to keep them happy.
“Laura is inside getting ready. She’s coming out right now.” Pilar winked at Jordi, who continued looking around nervously. The young Antich cleared his throat.
“How timid these young men of today are!” Josep Lluís exclaimed in a jovial tone after taking a sip of the brandy he’d been served.
Josep Lluís Antich was convinced that the younger generations were going downhill and firmly believed that everything had been better in the past. Jordi had struggled to a certain point to oppose his father’s opinions, but at this point in his life he no longer had faith in changing his mind; everyone had his little corner of the world from which to expound his ideas, and his father, being the head of the family, was not going to budge. His mother, with her exquisite manners, stood there beside him in silence. The neckline of her dress reached almost to her chin, and she barely took her hands off it, wanting to be sure it was always in its proper place. Her deep blue eyes followed the conversation without losing track of a single detail.
“It’s just that today the young people have more options and they don’t have to get married as early as they used to,” Francesc commented in a relaxed tone.
Pilar gave him a hidden nudge with her elbow. It wasn’t the time to be contradicting any of their guests. Francesc looked at her sideways and took a drink from his glass.
“Bah! When I was a boy, things were much simpler,” Josep Lluís Antich said. “Now it’s ‘we need to get to know each other,’ ‘maybe I want to study,’ ‘maybe it’s better to plan for my future.’ … Time flies by, ticktock, ticktock.” He rapped softly on his new wristwatch. “What we need to do is just set a wedding date and put an end to this foolishness.”
“That would be perfect!” Pilar exclaimed, clapping her hands. “It would be a magnificent wedding, and Jordi and Laura would be so beautiful together. Don’t you think, Remei?” she asked.
“Yes, they’re two good-looking children. I’m sure they’d be the couple of the season,” Remei responded prudently, not raising her voice.
Jordi began to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t like to be pressured, especially not with so many people around.
“It’s still early to be talking about all that,” he opined, looking at his mother and then the rest of them. “But if you’re pressing me, I’ll tell you one thing. I think that Laura would prefer to have the wedding in the spring. It’s the season she likes best, and if we held the banquet in one of the gardens, we could enjoy a nice atmosphere without suffocating from the heat.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Josep Lluís shouted. “Initiative, son, that’s what you need.” Without lowering his voice, unconcerned with who overheard him, he added, “And of course, you need to decide where you want to live. I’m thinking the Jufresa mansion may be a little full, am I right, Francesc?”
The latter nodded, visibly discomfited. He didn’t think this was something that should be talked about in the middle of a roomful of people. Especially when the person most concerned with this issue didn’t even know what they were talking about.
“Núria, where’s your sister?” Pilar asked her eldest daughter.
Núria,
who would be responsible for the new shop just as she had been for the old one, was walking from one end of the room to the other, trying to make sure everything was perfect. Since Ferran had come up with the idea, she hadn’t relaxed once. Now she was making sure there was enough of cold Moët et Chandon, that the canapés weren’t drying out, that all the servants’ dresses were immaculate, that the best pieces from their catalog were on display and well arranged; in other words, that the gossips in attendance would find no overlooked detail to lambast. She had to stop a moment to realize what they were asking her.
“I don’t know, Mother,” she finally answered. “She was taking apart some boxes of something or other in the storeroom.”
“Tell her to come out, there’s someone here who wants to see her. We can’t organize a wedding without the fiancée present,” Pilar said, looking at Jordi with a smile.
“Please don’t worry, Pilar, I’ll see her later. There’s no rush,” Jordi said, and he excused himself, slightly overwhelmed. This wasn’t a joke, and he had no idea how Laura would respond. She was vehement, passionate, rebellious, and if she saw herself pushed in a direction she hadn’t chosen, it could cause her to react adversely.
“I’m not worried, Jordi. It’s a pleasure,” she said, putting her hand on the young man’s arm.
Núria showed a certain surprise, and after her initial joy at the news, she felt irritated at being the last to know. With the same determination she devoted to everything, she pushed through the crowd in the direction of the storeroom.
When she arrived, Núria saw her sister seated on top of some crates. She looked irritated and was smoking a cigarette.
“What are you doing?” Núria asked, waving her hand back and forth to clear out the smoke.
“Nothing. Why should I go to that party? Most of those people don’t even know what we sell. They just want to eat canapés and show off their new clothes. I’d rather stay here by myself than get into another conversation about how good the salmon tastes.”
“Come on, cheer up, I have good news for you.”
Laura crossed her arms and gave her sister an apathetic look.
“Surprise me.”
“They’re already making preparations for the wedding!” Núria exclaimed. She looked at Laura ecstatically, waiting for an embrace that didn’t come.
“What wedding?” Laura asked, standing up.
“What do you mean, what wedding? Yours and Jordi’s.”
Laura began to pace from one wall to the other like an animal in a cage. Around her was nothing but crates and boxes, and atop one of them, a glass of red wine. Her face turned scarlet. Núria, frightened, watched her movements, waiting for a response.
“Who said I was going to marry Jordi?”
“Mother … and, well, everyone. Everyone’s talking about it.”
Laura’s look was filled with the determination of a person who has thought long and hard and finally knows what she wants. Or what she doesn’t want.
“I’m not going to marry Jordi,” she decided. And she kicked one of the boxes, sending it flying through the room. “I don’t care who says what.”
“Careful, Petiteta, think about it. If father and mother are so convinced … And you’re already at that age, and … Jordi seems like as good a husband as any, if not better.”
“But I don’t want a husband. Why do I need to get married? Why do I need to live like you and your husband? The two of you barely even speak.”
Núria didn’t say anything else. She pursed her lips and turned around.
Laura regretted what she had just said, but after Núria left, she stayed there by herself. She didn’t want to face the superficial world out in the store. As soon as she left her little corner in the storeroom, she would be obliged to fake: to fake cordiality, to fake good cheer, to fake acceptance. … She sat back down on the crate and lit another cigarette. The heat of the ember warmed her face and made her anger burn even brighter. She had been cruel with her sister, even though what she said was true: Núria’s marriage, which had begun comfortably, was clearly unhappy now, and that was something Laura had always wanted to avoid. She wasn’t attracted to Jordi. He was a friend or a brother and the mere thought of sex with him struck her as a perverse mistake.
She wanted a love that would take away her breath, not just being content whenever the other person was around. She wanted something floating in the air between her and her beloved, something they would share, something ungraspable but also irresistible, something that chained them to each other, lashed them together inseparably. She wanted to feel the kind of physical attraction that would make her shout and moan; at first she’d rejected the thought, but she knew that rejection would vanish, while her attraction would be there forever, as long as she could find the man who knew how to awaken it. She wanted a man she could admire, someone she wouldn’t get tired of seeing, a companion, someone she could love down to the finest details: the way he put his hat on with one hand, how he clenched his jaw when he was nervous. … She imagined herself pressing her lips onto his mouth, letting his big hands caress her while her body trembled beneath his touch. Just thinking of it sent a shiver up her spine.
Laura wanted a man she couldn’t get out of her mind, even when he wasn’t there, and she wanted to think about him night and day, every second; she wanted someone she would look at each time as if it was the first.
She threw the cigarette to the floor. She finished her wine in one sip and smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress. She wanted the kind of man who knew what he wanted, whether or not that meant spending his life with her.
She opened the door, ready to leave. Jordi stared at her from the other end of the shop, as if he had been watching for her the whole time.
“Congratulations, Laura,” Señora Miralles said, stopping her. “We hear you’re going to be married soon. Jordi Antich will be an excellent husband.”
Señora Miralles couldn’t help but stare disparagingly at Laura’s dress: It stopped just below the knee, revealing the girl’s slim legs in a titillating manner that the more traditional people still found to be scandalous. Her form was elegantly outlined by a closely tailored fabric that shimmered in the lamplight like one of the jewels on display behind the glass. Her neck and her thin arms also emerged sensually, showing off her soft, clear skin. It wasn’t often Laura let herself be seen in such elegant dress, with her disinclination to pompous celebrations, but that day she looked spectacular; men and women alike were incapable of looking away from that girl with her unmistakably individual style. Under her powder and makeup, her skin looked like pure porcelain, emphasizing her features and her dark stare, which now shot arrows through Señora Miralles. Thinking of her family, Laura swallowed her words and a lone syllable emerged from her carmine lips: “Thanks.”
While she walked over to meet the Antichs and her parents in the center of the room, she watched how Jordi contemplated her from the distance, with those big, gleaming, desperate eyes, like a lamb strung up for slaughter. Then she saw that he wanted the marriage as well, that the conspiracy hadn’t consisted only of their parents, because for him, she wasn’t just a friend.
She imagined herself dressed in white, with a bouquet of flowers in her hands and organ music in the background, walking between the rows of benches to the altar in the cathedral while Jordi waited for her with a smile running from ear to ear and her father watched her nervously, walking her up to him and asking all the while: “Are you sure?”
She needed another glass of wine.
CHAPTER 25
Though the recent days had been busy ones, Dimas Navarro was able to finish work early. After returning from Bilbao, he needed to ready another shipment, and the fact that the one from fifteen days back had turned out well didn’t mean the same would be true now. This time he was responsible for figuring out a new itinerary, a different ship, a new cover story: the whaler wo
uldn’t be available and Dimas didn’t know what to do. With Bragado’s help, he could be sure there wouldn’t be questions, but that didn’t keep the spies from the other side from getting wind of it. No one trusted anyone in that Europe racked by war, and the upcoming operation was causing him terrible headaches. On the other hand, it did him good, working so much; with a thousand things to distract him, he didn’t have to think too much about what had happened with his mother.
Arriving at his apartment, Dimas left his jacket at home and went up to see his brother. He liked spending time with Guillermo. He saw himself projected in the boy. The difference was that whereas Guillermo’s parents had been stolen from him by the violence of the police, Dimas’s mother had decided to abandon him in cold blood.
Although Dimas had only been a boy when Carmela left them, he still had sweet memories of what their life had been before then: Sunday excursions in Collserola, games on the evenings when Juan didn’t work, the sponge cake she would make him every time his birthday came around. Sometimes he had the feeling that those weren’t memories, but rather dreams of a little boy who still lived inside him. And the more pleasant they were, the more his adult vexation grew.
His father wasn’t the same after she left; the lack of an explanation and the doubts ate at him from one day to the next. For the first few months, Juan barely slept, barely ate. He lived to drive his streetcar, nothing else, and when fate took that from him as well, nothing was left of him but the shell of the strong, determined man he’d once been. Dimas had been obliged to grow up fast, and he didn’t want the same to happen to Guillermo. He deserved to enjoy the innocence of childhood for as long as it could last; for many more years, he hoped. Because Dimas was older, he felt responsible for him.
As soon as he went in, he heard an unfamiliar voice belonging to a woman. It wasn’t common that his father had visitors. Surprised, he shut the door, and when he crossed the hall to the living room, he heard his father say, “He’s here.” Three people were seated at the table: his father, Guillermo, and a young women with a serious face.