The Street of the Three Beds (22 page)

“La Mina?”

“The flophouse a couple blocks from here. Sooner or later, we all end up there.”

“Thank you.”

Maurici sighed, burying his hand in his breast pocket until Proverbs gripped his arm.

“Get this. If I told you is ‘cause that girl was a pitiful sight, yes sir, with so much to live for . . . Me, they tell me at this rate I won't be long for this world. To hell with it, I say, dust to dust. My only regret's for the little woman. Don't like the thought of leaving her alone. But who knows, maybe she won't be alone for long. How does it go, the king's dead . . .”

“. . . long live the king.”

“Ah, mister, you're all right!”

And in a split second he drained Maurici's glass.

* * *

Compared to The Last Drop, the Fondo was a respectable business. Since Maurici had never heard about it, he had to ask directions a couple of times. It was below street level, so you had to take a step down to enter. A sliver of daylight squeezed in from the sunless street. A back window with iron bars overlooked a carriage house. From inside he could hear the horses snorting and a polka playing on the gramophone.

From the ceiling hung worn-out boxing gloves and belts with flashy buckles; from the walls, pictures of the great James Jeffries and the world champion of the moment, Jack Johnson. On the shelves, bottles alternated with trophies. Two customers read sports magazines and drank beer at the tables. Behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man washed and dried glasses. Maurici sat on a stool.

“Good morning. Pour me a Moritz, please.”

The yellowish froth brimmed over the pitcher. Thirsty from his walk, he eagerly buried his lips in it.

“I'm looking for a boxing referee that comes here often.”

“We got more than one.”

“This one's a doctor. I got to give him an urgent message, but apparently he's moved to a new address.”

“Who wants him?” the man asked in a deep voice, wiping the counter with a cloth.

“Lluís Vives, manufacturer. We've met a couple of times through our common interest in boxing.”

Maurici had learnt to lie without flinching. The bartender checked out the newcomer's slim build and strong hands.

“You box too?”

“A little. Middleweight.” He hoped his guess wouldn't be too far off the mark.

“Super middleweight, I'd say, given your height.”

“Maybe. I haven't put on the gloves in a long time. I used to be skinny.”

“I don't remember seeing you ‘round here.”

“I trained in a club close to where I live. If you could tell me something about the fellow I'm looking for”—he didn't dare say the name because he suspected it was false, and hence changing—“I'd appreciate it. I really have to find him.”

“You sound like it was a matter of life and death.”

“It
is
a matter of life and death.”

Finally the man threw the rag into a bucket full of soapy water and rested his gigantic hands on the counter.

“I think you're looking for Miralpeix, but it's been a long time since he was here. Lately he just wasn't himself. I'd check the Boxing Club.”

Maurici wondered if Dr. Miralpeix and Dr. Serra were one and the same.

“Where's that?”

“Not far. Just a few streets up.”

The bells of the nearby church rang one o'clock. He'd been pounding the streets since before ten in the morning and suddenly, as he rose from the stool and put his feet on the floor, his legs felt pleasantly tired. He took a hansom cab in The Ramblas and went home for lunch.

In the afternoon he went to see Caterina, who was getting ready to move in a few days, two weeks at most. He told her about his morning adventures and, after listening to her warnings about the danger of his situation, they made love behind the half-closed shutters. He fell asleep like a child. Two hours later, he woke up with a start and checked his watch. It was already past seven. He got dressed and gave her a hurried kiss.

“I'm going to the Boxing Club.”

“Be careful with this man, Maurici, we don't know what he's capable of. What are you going to do if you find him?”

“I don't know. I just know I have to find him.”

His answer had been truthful. Back in the street he realized he hadn't given much thought to the showdown with the man directly responsible for Rita's death. His own reaction seemed unpredictable, and so he had to entrust it to the spur of the moment. The script was being written as it was being lived.

A few minutes later he found himself walking past the poorhouse, where Pere Anton would probably have ended up if he hadn't stepped into his mother's life. On the other hand, he'd never have known Caterina had Rita not been dead. The gods demanded a sacrifice. On the scales of a dubious justice, Rita and her child had paid the ransom for Caterina and Pere Anton's release.

The sign announcing the Boxing Club hung from a two-story building. At the entrance, a shoeshine boy polished a customer's shoes at dazzling speed, whistling bars from an opera. A gorilla of a man came out from behind the counter and blocked his way.

“Are you a member?”

“No.”

“Who d'you wanna see?”

“Dr. Miralpeix.”

“The gym's upstairs.”

On the second floor there was a gathering of male clones of different sizes, all of them dressed in black trunks and sleeveless shirts. One of them hit the punching bag rhythmically, another observed his own dancing legs in a mirror on the wall, a third jumped rope, and two lightweight amateurs sparred in the ring with poor technique and little enthusiasm. A teenage boy swept the floor zigzagging among the athletes.

Perched on a high chair, a man supervised every move in the ring. His grey, almost white, hair and beard gave him a resemblance to the ancient Greek sculpture the
Terme Boxer.
The muscles, softened but not flabby, had a relaxed tension that contrasted with the other bodies—taut and younger but not necessarily more beautiful. A white towel hung around his neck as he fired instructions right and left, keeping track of all the boxers at once.

“Enric, keep that left low. Lower! Toni, you're stiff at the waist!”

Maurici approached him, following the fighters' moves with mild curiosity.

“Good afternoon. My name's Lluís Vives and I'm looking for a referee who's a member of this club.”

“What's his name? Toni, the rope! Ten minutes.”

“Dr. Miralpeix.”

“Yes, he referees for us now and then. Not lately, though. You better check his home, if you can find it.”

“That's just it, see? I think he must have left his apartment.”

“Last time I saw him, he was staying at a hotel.”

“Do you know which hotel? I have an urgent message for him.”

“No. Like I said, I don't see much of him. And I never know when he's coming. Ferran, lift those fists up to your face or someone will rearrange it for you!”

“So, you don't know when he may come back?”

“I don't rightly know.”

“Any other place he might be?”

“Try the Fondo.”

“I've just been there.” Maurici sighed, disappointed but not surprised at the answer.

If the sparring coach knew something else, he wasn't about to tell him. He wasn't an extrovert, a gregarious creature of the streets like Maruja, Proverbs, or Officer Segura. He thrived in enclosed spaces, under low ceilings, living by the fist rather than the word and wearing a “No Trespassing” sign printed in his steely eyes. Better not to anger him: he had too many allies right there at his beck and call. Just in time, Maurici recalled Caterina's admonitions and left the way he'd come, a little sadder and none the wiser.

Dr. Serra, Dr. Miralpeix, Dr. Butcher, the alcoholic boxing referee: the elusive mutant had fallen into limbo, beyond time. Too late to find him at home or in one of his hangouts; too soon to find him in La Mina. He'd vanished from space, burrowing in some obscure hotel impossible to locate on the city map. Another business trip to France—shortened by taking the night express both ways—kept Maurici away from his mission for a few days. On his return, he came face to face again with the anxiety and frustration of his fruitless search.

His memory often replayed the conversations with Caterina about the chain that encircled the women of the Street of the Three Beds. In Rita's case, Dr. Miralpeix was simply the last link—sooner or later, he was certain to reach it. Meanwhile, he must backtrack to the first.

One evening he sauntered into La Perla d'Orient with a hint of resigned fatalism, feeling confident, invulnerable, validated by the inevitability of his own actions. After shutting the door behind him, he took off his hat and flung it unceremoniously on the counter. Mrs. Prat looked at him askance, as one might look at a stranger disturbing a private peace, but didn't turn her head or give any sign of recognition.

Jaumet remained in his usual observation post by the curtain of the fitting room. The sphinx tended to a mother accompanied by a child who sucked her thumb while she ran her eyes over the entire store. An older woman awaited her turn sitting on a chair and impatiently spinning her closed parasol, whose tip rested on the ground. Mrs. Prat's voice
was merely a mutter, like an insect's buzz. Prepared to wait as long as necessary, Maurici leaned his back against the wall.

Large crowds streamed up and down the street. All of them struck him as being the same people with the same faces, endlessly walking in the same circle. Some women would stop to look at the window, a few would make a visor of their hands to check if there was a line inside.

The customer who'd been waiting lifted her eyes up to the newcomer, somewhat perplexed to find a suit in a lingerie store. Mrs. Prat fished out white garments from a pile on the counter and wrapped them in silk paper. She cut lengths of blue ribbon to tie bows with hypnotizing dexterity as if her fingers lived a life of their own, independent from the rest of her body. For a moment, his thoughts digressed, speculating whether that woman played the piano.

The mother took the child by the hand, picked up the boxes, and walked to the exit. He opened the door for her, and she responded with a slight nod. The one remaining customer asked to see buttons for an evening dress. Jaumet smiled, unperturbed.

Mrs. Prat opened little drawers in the wall and took out sets of buttons fastened to cardboard strips. The dress was for the Liceu, the customer let it be known, dithering between mother-of-pearl and gold. More buttons—pearls, beads, ebony—lined up on the counter. “Oh, I don't know,” she sulked, until after a long ten minutes she decided to go with the initial mother-of-pearl. Once again Mrs. Prat did a dainty wrapping job and, this time, saw the customer to the door herself. He noticed that she locked it from inside and ran the curtain across the window, even though it was ten minutes to closing time.

Resuming her post behind the counter, she asked, “How can I help you?”

Neither surprise nor any other emotion betrayed her. She behaved as if the person standing opposite her was about to order a meter of lace or a roll of gold trim; as if his previous visit to La Perla d'Orient and the encounter in the apartment on the Street of the Three Beds had never happened.

“I want to know how Rita Morera disappeared from this store. And you're going to tell me, willingly or by force. It's up to you.”

He uttered these words staring at her unblinkingly. Picking up the scattered items one by one, she replied in her usual flat tone, “You're mistaken. I don't know what you're talking about.”

From the other side of the counter, and so abruptly that at last the stony face registered alarm, his fingers rushed to clamp her throat. His violence, surging from a previously untapped source, astonished him as much as her.

“You're the one who's mistaken, you damn bitch!” he spat, as his hand kept shaking her. “If you don't tell me right now what you did to Rita I'll choke you to death. I swear I will!”

The fingers that a few minutes before had wrapped boxes with such delicacy, now scratched and fought to loosen the clutch around her neck. Her mouth opened to scream while her eyes shot terrified glances at Jaumet, but no sound came out of her throat. Suddenly, blood rushed to her face. Her eyes grew larger as if at any moment they might pop out of their sockets. Jaumet kept smiling.

“Talk! What happened?”

Taking advantage of an instant when the pressure yielded just enough to let her voice through, she hissed, “Jaumet! Hurry! He's hurting Sis!”

While his fingertips pressed the sinews of her throat, Maurici slapped her across the face with his free hand. She coughed and choked, on the verge of fainting. Jaumet sprang
from his chair like a puppet from a box and charged toward the aggressor, his face lit by fury and his arms flailing in the air. A push from Maurici's hand sent him reeling backwards against the wall. When Maurici had turned around to repeal the attack, his grip slackened. Mrs. Prat took advantage of his divided attention to say in a broken, hoarse voice, “Jaumet, help!”

Maurici slapped her even harder this time, shoving her away. Mrs. Prat's rotundity slammed against the little drawers on the wall with a loud thud while he made a run for the fitting room. When Jaumet pounced on him once more like an enraged beast, Maurici knocked him to the floor. He yanked the curtain open and ran his eyes over the walls, feeling them with the palms of his hands and stopping on the mirror. From outside he heard Mrs. Prat's moans and the guttural growls of her brother, who'd gone to her rescue. Under the pressure of Maurici's fingers, the upper and lower right corners clicked and the mirror opened like a door. He leaped into the black mouth that summoned him while in the background Mrs. Prat chocked and screamed, “Jaumet! The club, get the club!”

He paid no attention. Fear itself spurred him further down the corridor. A pit-a-pat of rat-like steps signaled that Jaumet had started off in pursuit. Maurici didn't care. Now that he'd found the source—the labyrinth of the Minotaur, the belly of the whale—there was nothing to do but embrace its darkness and keep going. Maybe Dr. Serra-Miralpeix would be waiting at the end, exultantly brandishing the scalpel that had torn apart Rita's body; or, worse, maybe there would just be a blank wall, the final boundary of time and space. Pure speculations into a distant future. The present rested on tangible facts: the touch of humid walls right and left, the bumpy, gritty surface under his feet. The creaking of leather boots marked his long stride like a metronome and smothered the echo of Jaumet's wimpy steps, assuming he still followed. He couldn't say how long the blind race,
the voyage down the river of gloom, lasted—his memory could only retrieve a sliver of light framing a vertical rectangle and, almost simultaneously, a short circuit in the back of his brain that blew all his fuses.