The Street of the Three Beds (10 page)

The parting and return home became a hazy blot in the past. He didn't know how he descended from the suburb on the hill, how he crossed the doorway, climbed the stairs, and found himself in front of the apartment. Nor could he explain how he got out of his clothes and into bed. The only thing he remembered, rather vaguely, was that sleep came as a slow fall into a bottomless well.

On Sunday he woke up nearly at noon, his throat raw from cigar smoke and his head beating like a drum. When he opened the curtains the sun hurt his eyes. He felt queasy, on the brink of nausea. The rest of the afternoon he just drank coffee and vegetated. Later he dragged himself to the sports club to play squash. At first his arms and legs seemed made of lead, but after a while his power and coordination improved and he covered the court at good speed.

That week he showed his face often at the Equestrian and every other night went out on a binge. A couple of mornings he was late for work and his father threatened to dock his pay if it happened again. His appetite had come back with a vengeance and the funny one-liners and gleaming smile came often to his lips. At the factory he resumed the conversations in French, seasoned with double entendres and naughty remarks, with clients who'd found him more reserved of late. As he paced through the rows of looms he allowed himself a certain amount of banter with the workers, particularly the females, and patted little Remei's head with a hand that never pressed hard.

Lídia felt that a weight had lifted from her mind. Maurici, the same Maurici as always, had returned to her. The old aura shone more brightly than ever, and her son seemed to have regained his supreme gift for easy living.

Barcelona's a fine town if you got a fat purse. P-purse or no purse, Barcelona's still fine. Fat purse or no fat purse . . . Barcelona's . . . got a hang-hangover. Hangover, yes sir, hangin' around with a hangover. Got to sleep off the hangover, over and out. Out. Soon as I can r-remember where I live. Sleep off the hangover. It'll come to me . . . any minute now. Soon as I lo-locate the street. The missus's awake by now. Sure thing. Three in the mornin'. No, th-three in the afternoon. Mo-mornin', afternoon. Three in the afternoon and d-dark, dark as a dungeon. Fine woman, the missus. Very fine woman. Barcelona's a fine town . . . A s-saint. Who says otherwise, uh? W-who? Whoever it is, he's gonna get it. He's got it comin' . . . I'll smash his face . . . like so . . . he-he's got it comin'. Here's number . . . wait a minute . . . can't see. Twenty-seven; number twenty-one, no, twenty-seven; twenty-seven to twenty-one; twenty-one to twenty-seven . . . Why's the street so dark? D-damn city. I've been on this street before . . . once . . . Barcelona's a fine town. Here it splits. The street sp-plits. Right or left? Right, left; left, right. Let's go right. Always right to go home. That's the ticket, right. Wait a minute, wait a minute . . . I th-think I turned left. I've been on this street before, once. I turned left, no, right, I turned left . . .

Hey! Where's my bottle? I had a bo-bo-bottle. Help! Watchman! The bottle, my bottle . . . Ah! Here t'is. Bottle, my little bo-bottle . . . Empty! It's empty. Who drank my gin, eh, who? Help! Watchman! It was gin, warn't it? Sure, gin. Maybe it was brandy. Who cares, g-gin or b-b . . . This neighborhood ain't what it used to be. Not even c-close! Scum,
that's what they are, scum. Barcelona's a fine town. Barcelona's full of scum. Fine sc-cum. If you got a fat purse. But I ain't got no fat purse, ha, ha! Purse ain't fat and bottle's empty. Thieves, scum. Watchman! Wait, my darlin', I'm a comin'. Soon as I can r-remember . . . Not a soul in the street, not a one. Barcelona's got a hangover. That's the problem. Barcelona's got a hang-hang-hangover. Hang it. Hang the hangover. Sleep it off, I say. It sleeps . . . splits, the street sp . . . It jist sp . . . Barcelona's gettin' dizzy . . . on the me-merry-go-round, me-merry, very merry . . . Fat purse or no fat purse, Barcelona's got a hangover. Wait a minute, I've seen them palm trees before. No foolin' around with me, eh? That's cheatin'! You've been here before, Agustí, yes siree, you-you've been here before. Patience, my darlin', I'm comin'! Soon as I . . . find somebody to fill up my bottle. The bottle was full, full to the br-brim. Th-thieves, scum, all of you. Can't even walk the streets anymore. What's the matter with the street, anyway? It splits, it jist sp . . . Barcelona's a fine town. Not a single bar open. Tell me, who's gonna fill up my bottle, eh? Lazy b-bums, good for nothin'. Bums, jist don't do no work. Dark, locked up. Barcelona's sleepin' it off . . . got a hangover. A hangover and an empty bottle. Thieves, bums. You heard it from me, me, Agustí, yes siree. Scum. Can't even walk in the street. And where does the street go, eh? Who keeps movin' it? Never in the s-same place. There we go again, palm trees, . . . not to worry, my darlin', I'm comin', sweet-sweety pie, comin'. Soon as I can remember which street. Street, street . . . twenty-seven, no, twenty-one. Speakin' of the devil, what's become of the street, eh? Who keeps movin' it, eh? Scum, nothin' but scum. Barcelona's a fine town . . . fat purse or no fat purse. Wait a minute! Who's comin'? A cat! Mew, don't run away! Come here, I wanna ask you somethin'. D'you happen to know, sir, w-who'd fill up my bottle? No? What kind of business is this? Can't even walk the streets anymo-more. Nobody knows nothin'. Lazy bums, jist a bunch of bums. Good for nothing, jist don't wanna work. Barcelona's a fine
town . . . Not good enough to fill my bottle. Gin, was it? I was drinkin' gin, warn't I, not brandy. Let's see how much's left. Not a d-drop. Bone dry. Help! Barcelona's a fine town. Comin', my darlin', don't get all upset, comin'! I know you miss me bad. Soon as the street quits splittin', sp . . .

Barcelona's a fine town if you got a fat purse. Fat town, fine purse. Right on the next corner. I'm s-sick, sick of this street split-splitting all the time. Why do they keep movin' it? Who d'you take me for? Scum, thieves. There was a time you could walk, ‘round here. There was people and lights. Them streets didn't sp-split. They stayed in place. Yes, sir, yes, siree. There were bars to fill your bottle. If only somebody'd fill up my bottle, . . . the name of the street would come to me. That's the trouble. Lazy scum's what they are. Never do no work. Thieves. Oh, I'm sorry for the missus. The missus's worried. Comin', Ra-ramona, comin'! Hey! What's that, over there? A rat. Two rats. Eleven, twelve, thirteen rats . . . The street's full of rats. Mew! Mew! Whe-where did the cat go? Good for nothin', jist like the rest, never come when you need them. Off with you, big rat, off! It's the gin you're after, hey? You want my gin. Thieves, scum. Off with you!

Barcelona's . . . They're leaving. They're gone. So long, rats! Now I'll find the street. It's called . . . number . . . Comin', sweet Ramona, comin'! If I see someone, I'll ask. This neighborhood ain't what it used to be. Not even close. Ain't what it used to be. Barcelona's got a hangover. Fat purse or no fat purse. These cobblestones ain't flat. Th-they go up and down. Hard to walk. Why don't the city fix it? Bums, just a bunch of lazy bums. Can't walk the streets anymore. This street sp-splits. Enough of it, I say. Keeps running into the square. More palm trees. Enough! I'm sick of them. Ramona, any time now! Almost there. Hang-hangover . . . Hey, how come nobody fills my bottle? Gin, I said. I said filler up with gin. Don't remember where I live. So what? Ain't nobody's
business where I live. Don't you worry, sweet Ra . . . mona, I'm right here. If I don't get service, I'll go to another bar. Yes, sir! To another neighborhood. Take it or leave it. Barcelona's a fine town. Full purse. What ‘bout the bottle? Empty, bottle's empty. Soon as I find the street, up I go. Sleep it off with the m-m-missus. Comin', Ramona, comin'!

Wait, wait . . . This's different. This street m-makes a bend. It don't sp . . . Jist bends. Let's go ‘round the bend, ha, ha! Steady! Round the bend. That's it, I'm on my way now. I'll find you, Ramona, here I come! Not a drop. Not a drop left. Thieves, lazy bums. Shame on you. Hey! Filler up, I said. Let the city fix it. The ci . . . Barcelona's a fine town. Fat purse or no fat purse. How come it ain't fat? Lazy bums, th-thieves. The street makes a bend. March forward! Street goes up, down . . . Be still! Steady. My bottle. Fill up my bottle. Not a dr-drop. At the end of the street, I'll go right. No, left. R-right. Right, left . . .

Wait a minute. Stop! What's that over there? A bundle at the end of the street. I got to a d-dead end. Ha, ha! Hey, bundle, out of my way. Out of my way, bundle. Let me through. Let me through, I said. Fill up my bottle. Out of my way, I said. You deaf, bundle? Let me through, Ramona's waiting. Comin,' Ramona. Golly gee, ‘tis a big bundle. Everything's dark ‘xcept this here bundle. White bundle . . . in the middle of the street. Out of my way! White . . . all-all of it. Let's see . . . all white. Wrong, ha, ha, wrong! Red. Big, long bundle. Mr. Bundle. Oh! Ha, ha! Sorry, Mi-Mistress bundle. It's Mistress Bundle, ha, ha! Or is it miss, eh? White, red, red, red, r-r-red . . . Bundle . . . Oh, my God! Holy Mary! Help! Someone! Over here, help! Watchman! Watchman! Watchman!

* * *

Maurici whistled absentmindedly as he walked into the Equestrian. No idea where he'd picked up the silly tune that hadn't left his lips since he'd got up that morning, not exactly with the birds. As he breezed through the bar he greeted Evarist, who was washing glasses in the sink, and a few regulars. Then his long, flexible legs climbed the carpeted stairs at a clipped pace, two steps at a time in the last flight. At the barbershop, Albert was waiting for him. Since they were both very young they'd religiously adhered to the habit of having their haircuts together. They never missed the weekly appointment, always on the same day and at the same time, except on those rare occasions when one of them was sick. Albert needed extra time to have his beard trimmed; his cousin, on the other hand, followed the dictates of the latest fashion in keeping his face clean-shaven.

Physically they both bore the stamp of the Palaus, which was simply stronger in Maurici's case. They shared their classical features—patrician nose, almond-shaped eyes, sensuous mouth—but Albert's were less sharply drawn and his black hair was of a shade lighter. Although he wasn't short or heavy, he didn't reach his cousin's height or share his lankiness.

While he worked on Albert, Eladi, the barber, commented profusely on the performance of the latest tenor sensation.

“When he's got a good day, which is to say when he's not drunk, he sings like an angel. Mother of God, he's got volume! But if he doesn't hit the right notes from the beginning, then we're in trouble. He had to come in three times before he got started. They say he only knows one opera and his teacher's given up trying to teach him any other. He'll only take lessons if someone puts a glass of wine in front of him: no wine, no lesson. I'll be damned! Pity too, he's got the voice but not the brains!”

The rapid clipping of the scissors and the customers' laughter punctuated the monologue. Once the topic of the unruly tenor petered out, Maurici browsed through the paper until he had to surrender his face to the foamy cream. His stubble was so dark that under a certain light it took on a bluish hue women found attractive.

Eladi, on his part, stated, “You're one of those who need to shave at least twice a day, am I wrong?”

“When it comes to hair and beards, Eladi, you're an expert. Never wrong.”

Once the ephemeral softness was restored to his cheeks, he picked up the paper again. Meanwhile Eladi cut his hair and at the same time talked to Albert, who waited for Maurici to go horseback riding afterwards. The most recent development of the Mexican Revolution and the national news didn't particularly interest him, but he paused briefly on the stock market page.

Eladi handled the scissors with his usual precision. “What are we going to do with this lock, Mr. Aldabò? All the wax in the world won't keep it in place . . .”

He didn't wait for an answer. Maurici, as always, dwelled on the sports section. The sunlight streaming through the window, the scent of lotion rising from his skin, and the monotonous clipping of the scissors lulled him into the usual lethargy of afternoons at the barbershop. He turned the page and suddenly felt completely alert. His eyes slid down to a tiny block of print barely visible among the columns: “This morning at 3:25 a.m. the body of a woman was found in the Street of the Three Beds. She has been identified as Rita Morera, age twenty-two, a resident of a boardinghouse located at number five of the same street. Apparently, the victim committed suicide by jumping from the balcony of the third floor.”

Albert's and Eladi's voices faded to a buzz. Unaware of what he was doing, Maurici pressed his lips together and breathed in deeply, as if struggling for air.
His body grew tense. The surrounding objects disappeared into a nebulous spiral that spun faster and faster around him, leaving his head empty. He couldn't see anything but tiny sparks that glittered for a moment and instantly faded out, only to burst forth again within a split second. His memory replayed forgotten words Rita had uttered that last afternoon: “The room was spinning like a merry-go-round.” Quite unconsciously he clenched his fingers over the arms of the chair so tightly that the joints whitened, as if the effort could stop the vertigo. But the vertigo persisted. There was no floor, no ceiling, no chair, only the endless drop into the black hole. He didn't know how long he stayed like that, drifting at the mercy of the emotional typhoon that threatened to swallow him, peering down into the abyss full of dread and horror. He didn't know when it was that Eladi asked, “Can I do anything else for you, Mr. Aldabò?” and the whirlpool and the buzz finally began to slow down and his fingers, sore as if they had undergone some form of torture, unpried themselves from the arms of the chair. He didn't know if the other two men ever realized that the world had fallen on him.