Free The Street of the Three Beds by Roser Caminals-Heath

his father had gone to a meeting out of town with another manufacturer. Maurici couldn’t concentrate on the pile of orders pending on his desk. Even though his incursion into the Street of the Three Beds had revealed nothing of interest, he couldn’t wait to go back. Rita might have vanished, but she had an invisible string attached to her; once he picked it up, it pulled him with such irresistible strength he couldn’t let go. Who knew where it would take him.
    A stroll through the looms might calm his nerves. He walked past each row distractedly, oblivious to the frantic beat that in the long run would leave every single worker deaf. “Never lose track of your employees,” his father often admonished. “If you do, it’ll be the end of you.” Suddenly, a scream tore through the hammering clanks. Right behind him, at loom number thirteen, the apprentice Remei Sallent—eight years old and fatherless—held up her left hand as blood dripped from the index finger. The needle had split the flesh of the tip. He recoiled in disgust but the child’s unblinking eyes nailed him to the spot. As a female worker came to comfort her, the girl remained mesmerized on the verge of tears—her eyes riveted on Maurici’s. The foreman rushed to tend to the victim, but stopped short when he came face to face with his boss. He waited expectantly, with an attitude both of deference and challenge. Maurici’s eyes turned to the injured finger, the finger that pointed at nobody but him. The child, with ademanding rather than imploring expression on her face, rose from the bench, took a step forward, and began to fall as if her legs had been cut off at the knees.
    His arms caught her halfway down and laid her on his lap, shaking her up and slapping her cheeks.
    â€œDon’t fall asleep . . . Hey! Girl!” At last he could think of her name. “Remei! Listen! Listen to me! Don’t fall asleep!”
    He felt helpless but it was too late to send for help. He searched his memory for childhood accidents in the countryside.
    â€œBring me peroxide and a bandage, . . . water, smelling salts . . .”
    The child, white as a sheet, didn’t take her large round eyes off him. It was hard to know what she was thinking, but her gaze remained so powerful and intense that it was unnerving. Blood dripped on his white shirt and vest.
    â€œA piece of string!”
    As he tied the string tightly under the wound, a woman yelled, “We should take her to the hospital. It needs stitches.”
    Remei panicked and, for the first time, started to cry. Maurici, securing the tourniquet, mumbled, “Hush! Nobody’s going to the hospital. Drink this,” and he lifted a glass up to her lips.
    Like a magic formula, the words dried up the tears.
    For all the confidence he’d tried to instill in the child, he feared the blood might flow forever. Surrounded by the rest of the workers, he sweated profusely as he held the finger up and applied one piece after another of peroxide-soaked cotton. The looms remained silent.
    â€œThere we go! It’s bleeding less!” someone shouted.
    When the red spots on the cotton began to shrink, he bandaged the finger with improvised skill. Now the girl studied his face with curious gravity. Maurici sketched a smile and, lifting her up once again, laid her down on an armchair in the waiting room of his office.
    â€œGive her something to eat.”
    He wiped the sweat off his brow. He’d gladly drink the rest of the water with a shot of gin himself. The women offered to remove the bloody spots off his clothes, but he waved them away with a vague gesture of gratitude. Then they showed Remei marks of needles on their own fingers. “It’s not so bad, see? We’ve cut ourselves too.” Everyone, even the foreman, looked at Maurici in a different way, as if stamping him with the seal of approval required on every box of merchandise that