The Dream of the City (11 page)

CHAPTER 11

The Jufresas' workshop had a different feel to it from the other workplaces Dimas had been in. The employees here were experts and they were dealing with precious works of art, not train parts or filthy lead pipes or the pelts of dead animals. Everything was costly and delicate, and the employees gave the impression that they were not just hammering, but rather molding the precious material with their worn hands.

Dimas had already been working a few weeks with Ferran Jufresa, and though he didn't enter the workshop often, he knew each of the twenty-two workers and the two apprentices by name. But the majority of his jobs were elsewhere. That afternoon, for example, his boss had called for him to make a delivery in his name.

“It's hot, no?” Ferran asked as he strolled between the tables. With one hand, he loosened his tie and opened his shirt collar. His suit remained pristine. Dimas nodded and tried to ignore the pearls of sweat dripping down his temples. “Let's go to my office.” They entered a smaller room. “These are the documents. I need them hand-delivered to Cabrils i Pou. He's expecting to receive them today at City Hall before he goes home. Can you do this?”

He passed Dimas the envelope that was resting on his desk and looked him straight in the eyes. Ferran always ended his assignments with this question and an inquisitive expression that helped ensure that his listener would do exactly as he said and that there was no room for error. Dimas had seen from the beginning how difficult it was for Ferran to delegate; when he managed to do so, he was always plagued by an uncertainty that never vanished until he was sure things had been carried out in accordance with his wishes. Dimas also understood that his new boss was wrapped up in somewhat shady undertakings. He wasn't sure to what degree they might or might not be illegal, however, because Ferran worked with absolute discretion; he was clearly afraid of attracting the least rumor or suspicion that might tarnish his reputation as an upstanding bourgeois from a good family. Dimas hoped to gain Ferran's trust little by little, without pressure; he would show him that he'd chosen the right man.

He took the envelope without questions and followed his boss, who was already stepping over the threshold on his way out of the office.

“As you see, we've put into place the measures you proposed to me the day we met. The panels were an excellent idea, Navarro.” He congratulated him, grasping his elbow.

A thin smile lit up Dimas's face as he heard his boss's compliment. Ferran was talking fast, pointing in various directions. His hurried movements reflected his constant agitation, as if every second counted and he had to squeeze as much profit as possible from each one.

“Well, look who's honoring us with her presence,” he announced.

Ferran walked toward a more secluded section of the workshop, where the only woman in the studio was seated at work. Dimas had seen her before, but they had never been introduced, and she had never dignified his presence with a greeting. All he knew, because one of the workers had told him so, was that she was the boss's sister. Her name was Laura.

“Hello, brother,” she said courteously.

“I assumed you were off engaged in your philanthropic labors,” Ferran replied, though she acted as if she hadn't heard him.

Laura's eyes were slightly reddened from her jewelry-making work, and her bangs were in disarray, as though she'd been running her hand through her hair, pulling it in all directions, without noticing. Dimas noticed that she gave him a quick, sidelong glance, with the slightest flicker of curiosity, before turning her large, almond eyes back to her brother and leaving Dimas ignored and utterly forgotten. The first time he saw her, in the distance, she had seemed attractive. Now, from up close, he could confirm this was the case. Her face had something feline about it, as did her languid way of walking. If he hadn't known she was just a spoiled rich girl, unaware that beyond the golden bars of her cage there were other people, sacrifices, much harder ways of living life, Dimas would have said the girl had character, savvy, courage, personality.

“I'm staying here today,” Laura continued. “I only go there once in a while. That's why I'm a volunteer.”

“What are you working on now?” Ferran went on questioning her.

“I want to try to work out an idea that's been gnawing at me for some time.”

The young man picked up the sketch that Laura had on the table and looked at it slowly. It was a drawing of some seminude creature with its back turned. Only the curve gave the impression of a woman's form. It seemed to be unfinished.

“What's this for?”

“For a pendant I'd like to sculpt.”

“Where do you put the diamonds?” Ferran asked without looking up.

“There aren't any. I'm thinking of doing it with clear enamel and gold.”

Ferran arched one eyebrow.

“I can see it's not finished, but don't forget that we need to give the public what it asks for, and that's ostentation. And without diamonds, that's not going to be easy,” he said as he passed the sheet of paper to Dimas.

“It's done,” Laura responded, tearing the sketch from Dimas's hands. “It's the memory of a nymph, a mythological figure that represents creativity in nature. It is a being of beauty, grace, a vindication of the eternal feminine. And if it's a matter of giving the public what it wants, what I propose is innovative designs that are different from what our competition is offering. Maybe what's important is not ostentation, as you say, but bringing out something completely different. Don't you think?”

Laura was aware that her brother always stressed the need to defeat the competition and she used this argument hoping to get him to accept her proposals. But it didn't seem to have worked, because Ferran's upper lip curled in distaste, which he tried to cover up with a forced smile.

“I think you hold too high an opinion of both our competition and our potential clients, little sister. Most people won't see anything in this but a naked woman. What do you think, Navarro?” he asked.

“I don't think there's any woman who would care to show that off in public. And if I'm not wrong, women are the main buyers of jewelry,” Dimas responded dryly. He clenched his angular jaw with resolve but, despite his firmness, he would not look Laura in the eye.

“See, Laura?” Ferran went on, satisfied. “This is a business, and our job is to offer the customers what they want.”

“This design is suggestive, but what do you two know? Zunico would have loved it and he would have congratulated me for taking a chance, because he really is an artist. But of course, he's not here. Here it's just you, with your dreadful taste left over from the previous century.”

Laura got up while Ferran stepped away with a triumphant smile on his face. She walked furiously past them with the drawing in her hand, but in the middle of the hallway she stopped and turned again to face them, irate.

“I'm not giving up, I don't owe you any obedience. I'll show it to our father, and I'll wait for his answer before I throw it out,” she declared and marched off.

Ferran shrugged his shoulders, then turned to Dimas and motioned for him to follow. While they were leaving the workshop, he said in a low voice, “She's a good girl, but she's still a bit naive. Nothing that time won't cure. But it's true, though, she's got a hell of a temper!” He cleared his throat, smoothed out his suit, and readjusted his tie.

During the discussion, Dimas had felt that, despite their age, Laura and Ferran's fight had been the kind of ridiculous spat between brothers and sisters who want to show off when they're playing their silly games. His initial judgment of Laura was reconfirmed: She struck him as a typical spoiled girl, unable to take criticism, no matter how appropriate. That pendant wasn't the kind of thing a traditional woman would wear around her neck, and Laura would be better off accepting the advice of her older brother, who was an expert in numbers, business, and finance. If she didn't, he said to himself, it was because she was trying to impose her wishes without any thought for her family, for the company's image, for profit … for anything, really, besides herself.

On the way to the car, Ferran changed the topic. The Hispano-Suiza was his treasure. He had already explained to Dimas how Alfonso XIII had agreed to give his name to the car because of his great affection for the brand: He had thirty of that very model in his garage. It was His Highness who received the first consumer model made available; the original had been a race car that had won a number of races in France in 1911.

“Navarro, drop me off at home. You go deliver those documents and tomorrow come and pick me up. Agreed?”

Dimas nodded and put the car in gear. He liked the roar of the motor, which could reach a top speed of 120 kilometers an hour. He had barely driven, besides the occasional truck and Esteller's car for short errands, and he enjoyed being behind the wheel with his boss at his side. The breeze was cool on his forehead and everything seemed to indicate the day wouldn't end too late and he might be able to go out for a drink that night. He wanted to have a little fun, enjoy the pleasures life had to offer, especially to those who had enough money in their pockets to pay for them, as was now the case for him.

Laura left the workshop. She let herself be calmed by the air blowing through the street, then walked to the shop next door. With relief, she heard the fading rumble of the sports car. Her brother rarely stepped into the store, though recently he had done so with a bit more frequency: He wanted to be sure the preparations for the move were coming along at a good pace. Soon they would leave the old establishment and set up in larger quarters in the Paseo de Gracia, the new fashionable avenue. For years, Calle Fernando VII had been the center of business in the old city. Now, with the creation of the Ensanche, the center had tipped to the part of the city above the Plaza Cataluña. In Paseo de Gracia, the lower floors were planned with the idea of showing off their luxurious displays; all the best companies were setting up there.

Laura would miss the old store that she was contemplating at that very moment. Her grandfather had opened it more than fifty years before and it had attracted men and women from all over with its inviting window dressing. Her grandfather had been revolutionary in his day, and Laura, in her way, wanted to follow in his footsteps.

When she crossed through the door of the shop, she stared at the nearly empty shelves. Only a few red velvet boxes were waiting to be put away; her sister, Núria, was standing alongside them. Laura looked at her as she bent over, wiping down a set of earrings with a cloth. All of a sudden, a memory struck Laura: She saw Núria as a teenager, with her flared skirt around her knees, ringlets of chestnut hair, and pale skin, beside the counter, attentive while her mother showed a customer Francesc's most recent design.

“What is it?” Her sister interrupted her daydream, pinning her with her blue eyes. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Almost,” Laura said, smiling, and lowered her eyes.

“What do you have there,
Petiteta
?”

“It's a sketch for a jewel I want to show to Papa,” she explained.

“Let me guess: Ferran didn't care for it.”

“Ferran doesn't have a clue,” Laura responded. “And now he's got his little lapdog who does whatever he says and always tells him he's right about everything.”

“Navarro?” Núria asked, lifting her head with surprise.

Laura was getting tired of it. Her brother never stopped talking about him: “Navarro this, Navarro that …” Anyway, she felt uncomfortable in his presence. She didn't like how he looked at her, with those intense, dark eyes that kept anyone from knowing what he was thinking. Sometimes she thought he hated her or, even worse, lacked respect for her. He was arrogant.

She sat on a stool beside her sister and looked at her sketch. Núria finished her work, and once she'd laid aside the freshly polished earrings, she used her common sense to try and calm her sister down.

“He works for our brother. How can he tell him anything but yes?”

“It's fine for him to go along with him, but he doesn't have any reason to make fun of me when he doesn't even have any idea what I'm doing.” Her voice sounded more irritated than she had wished. She quieted herself and continued, “I can't stand men who are insensitive to art, who don't think of anything but money. He's a brute, an imbecile without a bit of manners or sensitivity.”

“He strikes me as very polite. …” Núria responded, distracted.

“You probably haven't spoken with him much.”

“Why should I? I've only come across him when he's come to the house to pick up Ferran. He's always been nice, though I haven't given too much thought to him. I don't know, Laura, sometimes a person crosses you and you become impossible to understand. And besides, what do you care? He barely goes to the workshop; he's with our brother and there's no reason for him to affect you one way or the other.”

She spoke without looking at Laura. She concentrated on a heavy bracelet, her thin hands scrubbing as hard as they could to make the metal shine. After a brief silence, Núria raised her head and pulled aside a dark brown curl from her forehead. She added, “In any case, I don't think it's right for a girl of your age to be talking this way about a man behind his back: You're not a girl anymore, Laura.”

Her sister remained silent, feeling the rage bubble up again inside her: They weren't talking about Navarro or about what she should or shouldn't pay attention to, but rather how frustrating it was when her brother or other men put her down. Núria had pulled the conversation away from what really mattered to Laura. If only Ramon was there to make her laugh with some story of his and help her forget all that had happened. But he had gone to Madrid again and wouldn't return for several weeks.