Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (13 page)

“But this is something quite different,” his wife retorted, trying to calm him down. “You wait… Just be a bit patient!”

Cecília and Iolanda appeared a quarter of an hour later, the latter weighed down by the bags containing
our breakfast. The two of them quickly put out a few baguettes and a bag full of wholemeal croissants, and, while Cecília put it all on a tray, Iolanda headed towards the kitchen. She raided the fridge for boxes of fruit juice, yoghurts, vegetable margarine, non-fat jams and a dish of cream cheese, which she put next to the bread and croissants with the fruit left over from yesterday and transparent glass jars of muesli and various kinds of cereals. She then brought tea bags and went off to heat the water.

“Isn't there any coffee, or even decaf?” I asked Iolanda.

“I'm very sorry,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “Coffee is banned.”

When we had all served ourselves, Cecília apologized, saying that Iolanda had had a problem with her key and leaving it at that. Sebastià, who'd disappeared from the dining room while we queued at the counter, came back and sat next to Borja.

“Someone put silicone in the keyhole,” he whispered. “That's why Iolanda couldn't open the door.”

“How incredible. Even this neighbourhood has got its hooligans!” sighed Borja.

“Somebody stuffed it in from the inside,” Sebastià went on. “I reckon the vandal is here among us!”

After lunch, we all went to our rooms to brush our teeth and then went down to the Samsara Room where Bernat was waiting. This time he was dressed like us in a white kimono that enhanced his dark tan and deep blue eyes. Mònica, whose hair looked as if it had come straight from the hairdresser's, started to flirt with him, and that made him uneasy. Conversely, the rumour that someone had put silicone in the keyhole had spread and everyone was discussing the incident. Cecília said it was true, but they had solved the problem.

We had to sit on the floor again.

“I'm not sure if you know what Bach flower remedies are all about,” began Bernat. “Let's have a show of hands. How many of you have heard of them?”

Everyone lifted a hand, with the exception of Xavier and Borja.

“And how many of you have tried them?” he went on.

The only ones who didn't raise a hand were Xavier, Borja, the girl who had just separated and yours truly.

As most people knew what Bach flower remedies were, Bernat gave a very short presentation and said that anyone interested in finding out more could ask him whatever they needed to know, in private or public, or could even ask for an appointment. He told us about the life of Dr Bach and his theory – he called it his discovery – that illnesses are caused by negative mental states and a lack of harmony, and explained how the doctor conceived the idea of using pure water in the preparation of his floral cures.

“Early one morning he went for a walk in a dewy meadow and it occurred to him that each sun-warmed drop of dew contained the curative properties of the plant on which it was resting. He then went on to develop thirty-eight preparations with thirty-eight wild flowers that had the power to cure all illnesses.”

“All illnesses?” I interrupted, not intending to be impolite or impertinent, but because I was so surprised by the categorical nature of his statement.

“To cure all the negative states of mind that prompt illnesses,” Bernat finessed with a smile.

“Oh!”

“He explains all this in a book he wrote called
Heal Thyself
,” he continued. “If you are interested, you can buy it in our shop.”

“Lucky he didn't write anything called
Operate on Thyself
,” Xavier whispered in my ear. “My wife would have butchered herself!”

“In any case,” added Bernat, looking at us out of the corner of his eye and raising his voice slightly, “it is always best to have recourse to a professional for advice on what is the best cure to re-establish harmony in each individual case and for a prescription of the correct dosage. That, as you now know, is precisely my field of expertise.”

I remained a doubter.

“So why are they wild flowers? I mean, what do flowers have that other plants don't?” I asked, as I raised my hand.

“Dr Bach discovered the vibrational characteristics of particular flowers,” came his pat reply. I could see Valèria and Mònica nodding in agreement.

“But there isn't any scientific proof that these preparations work, is there?” Alícia suddenly piped up. Everyone stared at her, surprised by the sour tone of her voice.

“Oh, yes, there is!” said Bernat. “But you all know how scientific tests are designed for conventional pharmaceuticals and tested by cruel experiments on animals that make them suffer. That is why some people refuse to admit that Bach flower remedies work.”

“But isn't it rather naive to trust in what was basically a vision – for that's what your Dr Bach had almost a hundred years ago, when he was walking through a meadow – and to take it at face value?” continued Alícia in that same cutting vein. “I have read the studies carried out by Dr Ernst that cast doubt on —”

“Come now, Alícia, I'm not sure where you want to take us…” Bernat stopped her in full flood, “You yourself have benefited from Dr Bach's cures…”

“Precisely,” responded Alícia dryly.

A murmur rippled round the room. Cecília got up, looked
meaningfully at her watch and announced with a broad smile that it was time for a break. As the weather was fine, she said she was inviting us to take tea in the garden and enjoy the sunshine. Before we got to our feet, she reminded us that smoking was banned at the centre.

“And after tea we will start the yoga session that I will lead,” she added, still smiling broadly.

The tea break lasted a good three quarters of an hour, and we were standing the whole time. Then we all went to the Nirvana Room, except for Alícia, who said the tea hadn't agreed with her and she was going to rest in her room. I was tempted to do the same, but Borja stopped me with one of those thunderous glances of his.

“Don't even think of skiving off!” he whispered.

Cecília asked us to take our shoes off. I noted that all the women in the group, except for her, had painted their toenails in different seductive shades of red. Mine looked awful and I had to agree with Montse, who sometimes reproaches me for neglecting certain details. Borja gave me a withering look.

After taking several deep breaths in and out, Cecília told us to sit on our heels and rest our elbows on the ground, level with our shoulders. Then we had to draw out our knees (or at least attempt to), lower our heads and put our arms in front of us.

“This is known as the dolphin position,” she said, demonstrating how to do it. Some people, yours truly included, simply rolled over.

As I was trying to right myself, I noticed my whole body was itching. Initially, I tried to scratch myself discreetly (Borja had told me it's very rude to scratch in public), but the itching got worse and became intolerable. I saw Cecília had started scratching herself and that everybody around me was scratching furiously.

“What the fuck is all this about?” bawled Xavier, standing up, still scratching himself. We all followed suit and stood up. The itching on the soles of my feet was torture.

“I can't stand this!” yelped Marta, her neck sore and red from so much scratching.

“This is an allergy,” commented Valèria. “We've all got food poisoning.”

“I think not,” reacted Carles pompously. “I am rather of the opinion they cleaned the carpet with a product that provokes nettle rash.”

“Look!” whooped Borja, bending down and examining the ground. “There's something on the carpet and I think it is itching powder.”

“I don't get it,” said Cecília, aghast. “Last night we all sat here and we had no after-effects… I think we should go to our rooms, have a shower and a change of clothes.”

There was a general stampede towards the door.

“I'm getting out!” roared Xavier as we went upstairs.

“There must be an explanation…” piped Carme, his wife. “Let's wait for Horaci to get here.”

“That's true. Where
is
Horaci?” Ernest suddenly asked.

“He'll be back after lunch,” replied Cecília, scratching away. “His meditation class is at three.”

There was a mumble of disapproval. Why the hell wouldn't Horaci be back until this afternoon? Why didn't he participate in the activities? In any case, as everyone was rushing to take their clothes off and dive into the shower, attempted mutiny was temporarily shelved, and Cecília gave a sigh of relief.

I spent ten minutes splashing myself with cold water and put on a clean kimono. When I went back into the corridor, I saw that, in the end, no one had deserted. And as nobody felt like a repeat of the yoga experience and we were all too much in turmoil to listen to any spiel about the virtues of
feng shui, Cecília suggested we rest in our rooms or in the garden and meet up in the dining room at one.

“I'll try to investigate what happened,” she added.

A gaunt Cecília went downstairs and slammed behind her the door to the office of Bernat, who'd disappeared after his early-morning talk on Bach flower remedies.

Most people decided to retreat to their bedrooms, but Sebastià, Borja and I went to a far corner of the garden to light up. Marta saw us smoking and sidled over to ask if we could spare her a ciggy.

“This is all very odd,” said Borja as he offered her a light.

“Alícia was lucky, because she missed out on the itching,” he said, recalling that she'd not joined the yoga class on the excuse that she was feeling poorly.

“Yes, hers was an extremely opportune indisposition.” Sebastià's tone suggested he believed it was a fraud.

“You're not suggesting Alícia…” Marta interjected. But she had to break off mid-sentence because an annoyed Ernest had come over to remind us that smoking was banned throughout the centre.

“I'm sorry, we didn't want to upset you,” Borja apologized. “As we're in the open air…”

“Well, your smoke is annoying me at this very minute,” said Ernest huffily.

“Well, if you must stand right next to us…”

“I have a right to stand wherever I want to!” he rasped back.

Sebastià, Borja, Marta and I moved several metres away from Ernest.

“I will speak to Horaci!” he shouted, turning round, walking into the building and snarling, “Smoking is banned here!”

All four of us sighed and decided to extinguish our cigarettes. As it was almost one o'clock and we were hungry, we
headed straight to the dining room. The married couple, Xavier and Carme, had beaten us to it: he was in a bad mood and she was trying to calm him down. Isabel, the woman with cancer who didn't want treatment, was there too. She was by herself, as usual, in one corner, and nobody was paying her any attention, so I did.

“Are you feeling OK?” I asked.

“I've got cancer. But I'm curing myself,” she replied with a resigned smile.

“The other day you said you didn't want treatment…”

“I'm curing myself. I never go to doctors. I don't trust them. They only want to prescribe medicines and get their hands on your cash,” she added.

“So, if you never go to the doctor, how did you find out you've got cancer?” I asked.

“I
know
I've got cancer, I don't need to go to any doctor to find that out,” she replied confidently.

“You mean you made the diagnosis yourself? That you've not had any tests or check-ups?”

“I don't need any tests. I told you I am sick. But I will cure myself.”

“And how will you do that?” I enquired, intrigued.

“Through my mental powers and eating asparagus.”

“Asparagus?”

“Yes, purée of asparagus: it's the best cure there is for cancer. I found that out on the Internet.”

“Oh!”

I now understood why Isabel was always alone and nobody spoke to her: she was as mad as a March hare. I beat a discreet retreat to where Borja and Marta were standing as I wondered whether some people who have cured themselves using home-made remedies might not be people who've been wrongly diagnosed or, as in Isabel's case, have never been diagnosed medically.

“Yuck! This is inedible!” I heard Sebastià shout, who'd sat down at a table and tucked into the pumpkin purée he'd served himself.

Xavier and Carme, who'd also sat down with their respective trays of chaotically stacked food, tasted their helpings.

“It's very salty,” said Carme, spitting out what she'd put into her mouth.

“So what kind of joke is this?” roared Xavier, throwing his fork down on his plate. “Are they trying to poison us or what?”

Cecília, who had just walked in, asked what the matter was and Xavier gave her a spoonful from his plate. She immediately wrinkled her nose and went to the counter where Iolanda had set out the trays with lunch. She started trying all the dishes with a spoon.

“It's true. It is all far too salty,” she said. “As if someone had added pounds and pounds of salt.” And she turned to Iolanda and asked her, “What the hell did you do to the food?”

“Nothing at all,” replied Iolanda, looking scared. “What I always do. I took the Tupperware containers out of the fridge, heated everything in the microwave and served it up on the usual dishes.”

“Well, this is quite inedible,” declared Sebastià.

“So what are we going to eat for lunch?” asked Valèria with a sigh.

“We can bring out cereals, yoghurt and fruit…” suggested Cecília.

“I don't intend eating anything that has come out of this kitchen!” concluded Xavier. “There's something fishy going on!”

“Perhaps the microwave has gone haywire…” ventured Cecília, as if there could be a connection between a broken-down microwave and the fact the food was salty.