The Street of the Three Beds (15 page)

“Did you bake them?”

She had done. When he finished the muffin, she began to massage his shoulders with an expert circular motion.

“Do you want to talk or would you rather lie in bed? If Socrates's twittering bothers you, I'll cover the cage with a cloth.”

“Socrates doesn't bother me. I'm in heaven. Let's talk for a while, shall we?”

“If you like.”

“I can see you're a girl with many talents.” He raised his chin, pointing at the knitting.

“I'm prepared for life.”

“Not only for
this
kind of life, I'd say.”

“This is the one I have,” she replied flatly.

“Because you've chosen it or because you've fallen into it?”

“Because it's my lot.”

Perhaps his optimism was premature, but this comment, uttered in a tone of resignation rather than enthusiasm, seemed encouraging. He knew by now that, for different reasons, both Margarita and Hortènsia wished to remain in the bottom of that well. If, on the other hand, Violeta entertained the slightest hope to climb out of it, that hope could further his purpose. When he no longer felt his shoulders, anesthetized by the massage, he took her hand and brought her around to his side.

“What about you?” she asked equivocally. “What talents do you have?”

“Not too many, I'm afraid. I play the piano a little.”

“Too bad we don't have one here. I'd like to hear you play.”

If she lied, it was impossible to detect. He changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself. Do you have a family?”

“Yes and no.” She hesitated for a moment. “I have a little boy.”

“How old is he?”

“He just turned three.”

“Where is he?”

“With a woman who takes care of him . . . well, him and others.”

“Do you see him often?”

“Not as often as I'd like. They take me there twice a month.”

“They take you there? Is it far?”

“No, but we don't go out by ourselves.”

“Why's that?”

“Miss Pràxedes feels . . . responsible for us.”

Miss Pràxedes's logic, he reflected, was baffling.

“Do you have a picture?”

Once again the shadow of a smile played on her face. “Do you really want to see him?”

“Really. I'd like to know more about you.”

His eyes followed her as she went to the nightstand and took the picture from the drawer. It was protected by glass and a brass frame. It had been taken when he was still a toddler, bundled up in a coat and cap that barely exposed the tiny face.

“You must be very proud.”

“I am, like any mother.”

“What's his name?”

“Pere Anton, like the grandfather he'll never know.”

“And . . . the father?”

“Ah, the father . . .” She breathed in deeply, looking away. “That's another story.”

“Go on.” For the first time he placed his fingers, which never pressed, on the back of her neck.

“In my hometown I used to be a schoolteacher.”

“A teacher!” He couldn't repress his surprise. Suddenly, Socrates's credentials were explained.

“I came to Barcelona with a recommendation to teach young children in a public school. After a few months I met a man who said he wanted to marry me. When the principal realized I was pregnant, he fired me. My son's father disappeared like snow in the spring. Later I found out he was already married. The whole thing sounds pretty trite, doesn't it?”

Unbeknownst to her, each word cut him to the quick. Too many echoes of his relationship with Rita; too much cyclical repetition of the pettiness, the desertion, the oblivion under which one tries to bury a woman as if she were an ant, a worm, a nothing; too much guilt, which is nothing but fear of what has already happened rather than of what's yet to come. He didn't fear the future—he could face it calmly and calmly accept it. What he feared was the past.

“Tell me more.”

He'd rested his head again on the top of the sofa, letting his eyes wander to the ceiling.

“From then on everything went downhill. I had to take the only jobs available to me, I had no choice. Nobody wanted a pregnant girl, not even as a maid. Finally a bar close to
the harbor hired me as a waitress, but neither the owner nor the customers would leave me alone, even though I was getting heavier by the day. His mother, who hit the bottle and was in a wheelchair, told me she knew a place where they'd help me raise the child and treat me better than in the poorhouse . . . a boardinghouse for girls, she said . . .” She lifted her eyes to him. “You can imagine the rest.”

Another Mrs. Prat, he thought. Indeed, he could imagine the rest.

“Was it true, what that woman promised?”

“My boy's better off this way. With a little bit of luck, he'll go to school in a couple of years.”

“Then, your son was born here?”

“In this room.”

Something indefinite came over him, and she had noticed.

“And how about you? Are you happy?” he finally asked.

There was a moment of silence.

“I do my job, I don't complain.”

He brought his face up to hers, plumbing the depths of her brown eyes. “That's not what I asked.”

“What's happiness? Does anyone know? All I know is when you don't expect much from life you're less unhappy.”

A screeching Hail Mary tore unexpectedly down the hallway and drew a smile from both of them. By association, Maurici asked, “What about Socrates?”

“He keeps me company. One day I heard a bird twitting at the window. Birds never fly down this wretched skylight. I opened the window and saw him through the bars. He let me pick him up so easily. This is what he wanted”—her glance covered the room—“he wanted to be caged in. Freedom was too much for him.”

“Have you ever tried to open the cage?”

“No.”

“Well then, today we'll set a precedent. Open the cage, will you?”

Her eyes lingered on him before she complied with his wish. Socrates hesitated a few long seconds until he finally hopped to the tiny threshold. Maurici retrieved his coat from the armoire and, as he placed the money on the table under the vase, he noticed that the flowers were beginning to fade.

“I'll be back Friday, same time. Keep an eye on Socrates. I expect a full report.”

* * *

When he showed up Friday evening with a bunch of gardenias in his hand, Violeta didn't keep him waiting. It had been a hot day and she wore a yellow, cotton dress.

“Are these for me?” she asked, burying her face in them and taking his arm with characteristic ease.

“Who else?”

Miss Pràxedes was busy trying to pet the parrot, who seemed intent on biting her finger off. Her “good evening” sounded as sticky as the weather.

He followed Violeta into her room and asked her if she'd make coffee, this time without cognac. She changed the flowers in the vase and went into the kitchen. Meanwhile, somebody knocked on the front door. A moment later he heard Miss Pràxedes drag her feet and rasp her throat down the hall. Then came a whispering exchange between her and a man. Maurici got up, opened the door slightly, and recognized the pale visitor who'd been asleep in his father's office that night. He closed the door noiselessly and resumed his seat.

Violeta emerged from the kitchen and replayed the ritual of loosening his tie and taking off his shoes. Submitting to her skilful manipulations, he reflected on his ludicrous situation. As much as he told himself that the end justified the means, the truth was that he stood on the verge of an affair with a professional prostitute who pampered him as an idolized husband worthy of every consideration. His past experiences had been predictable seductions without twists or surprises, ruled by the protocols of sex and class warfare. It was always known in advance who the winner would be. This time, on the other hand, he was incapable of upsetting the order of her world, of telling her “enough of this farce” and challenging her to lay her cards on the table—or rather, on that deceptively chaste-looking bed—thus taking a straight path to his goal. But he found this woman disconcerting. He knew himself to be trapped, vulnerable, sitting on her sofa in his shirt and socks waiting for his coffee. The point was to make sure she didn't find out.

When he saw her coming, holding the cup and saucer in her hand, he asked, “How did Socrates do?”

“He took his sweet time coming out. He flew around a few times and then, all by himself, went back into the cage.”

“Did you try again?” he inquired, sipping the hot coffee.

“A couple of times. I think he likes to come out now and then. With the window and the door closed, I guess there's no danger.”

“All this time without flying. Think what he's been missing!”

She gave him a look that seemed to ask, “Where is this going?” Then she changed her expression, running her hand gently through the lock of hair that shadowed his forehead and stamped the signature on his face.

“What would you like to do today, Lluís?”

“The night's still young. We have lots of time, don't you think? I'd like to hear more about you.”

“I already told you my story. What else do you want to know?”

“I'd like to ask you a delicate question. Do you mind?”

“No.”

“What kind of . . . visitors come to see you?”

“You want to know who my customers are,” she said uncannily. “You're curious as to what kind of a man pays to kill time with a phony housewife, right? A whore that cooks and knits and doesn't wear whore outfits? You can call things by their names, I'm not going to be offended.”

It was he who was offended. He looked at her unblinkingly.

“The men who come to be with me want the make-believe of a wife that listens to them and makes them feel like they're somebody, even if it's all a sham and lasts only a couple of hours. Either they're lonesome or, as they say sometimes, the woman they have at home ignores them or laughs at them. Sex is less important, if and when it happens. Some aren't interested, others are impotent. I don't have as many takers as Margarita and Hortènsia, but my customers are more loyal and less . . . problematic. I'll tell you something, though: you're different from all of them. They are older, sadder men—losers who need company and affection. I honestly don't know what a woman like me can offer a man like you.”

“You'll soon find out. Have you been the same Violeta since you came here or is there another one I don't know of?”

“I'm the only one. At the beginning Miss Pràxedes didn't think I was going to make it. She took me on probation and told me I'd have to leave if I didn't pay off.”

“How do you feel about Miss Pràxedes? Is it true she's the heiress of a country estate?”

“Who knows! The only thing I'm sure of is that, any day, that cough will kill her.”

It was hard to tell what emotions she experienced when she issued this dire sentence.

He leaned forward toward her. “And the other girls? I know that Hortènsia's predecessor committed suicide. Did you know her?”

“Very little. She was here just for a short time.”

“You don't know why she killed herself?”

“No. Whatever it was, she didn't tell me. What about you, did you know her?” she asked, with a mixture of curiosity and reserve.

“No, but I have a friend who did.”

“Maybe he can tell you more than I can.”

“Do you know how she got here?”

“No. We hardly ever talked.”

“But you were here when it happened. Did you hear something that night?”

Her body tensed up like a bow ready to shoot.

“Margarita was here too. I was with a customer and didn't hear a thing.”

“Who had brought her here?”

“I don't know.”

He took the last sip of coffee and, leaning closer to her, said with deliberation, “This friend of mine is very worried about what happened to Rita . . . or Hortènsia, whatever you want to call her. I'm trying to help him. Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Prat?”

The bow snapped. She sprung to her feet with the swiftness of a deer that sniffs danger.

“I told you I don't know anything about this girl. Why do you ask so many questions I can't answer?”

“Hasn't Margarita told you?”

“What should she tell me?”

“That I have, let's say, a professional interest in your lives,” he explained, also rising from the sofa.

She challenged him with a piercing gaze. Her voice barely quivered when she said, “I don't know who you are, sir, or what you want. All I know is you're not police. I can smell them a mile away.”

“Oh, it's
sir
now, is it?”

“First names are part of my job. If we're doing something else, there's no need to be so familiar.”

He gave her a crooked, sarcastic smile. “Your logic's very interesting and some time we'll talk about it. But right now we must talk about something else.”

“I'm sorry but this conversation can't go on. I have nothing else to say.”

For the first time she'd retreated completely to a defensive position. However, he was prepared to display every weapon—even those most abhorrent to him—to get to the desired end.

“You're paid for your time. How we spend it is for me to decide.”

“If you have any complaints you can talk to Miss Pràxedes.”

He came closer to her and spoke in a low voice, emphasizing every word, “I have no intention at all of talking to Miss Pràxedes.”

He knew how much pressure he could exercise and he knew he'd reached the breaking point. It was time to ease up and change his tune. “You asked me who I am. You tell me. Who do you think I am?”

She enveloped him in her wise, intense, mistrustful stare.