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

left the factory. “No mama’s boy, the boss’s son,” they mumbled around the corners, “doesn’t hold his nose up in the air.”
    Only he knew he’d done it out of cowardice.
    * * *
    The day that followed the exploit, Maurici took a cab after work to Plaça Reial. Old men and women sat on the benches of the square shooting the breeze under the palm trees. Children chased each other or jumped rope under the watchful eye of mothers or maids. Under the porticos, smokers and couples took an afternoon break at the tables of the Café Suizo.
    He crossed under the arch and retraced his steps to the bend on the Street of the Three Beds. Fortunately the days were getting longer, and he had at least an hour of light ahead. First, he had to find himself a good place to hide. It would be toouncomfortable to stay curled up under the stairs—where anybody coming in from the street could see him—for any length of time. There were no stores in the alley, except for a small one on the corner that sold only scales, or any public establishments where he could blend in with a crowd. It was a quiet dead end: a forgotten appendix at the core of the city’s entrails. Opposite the building with the three balconies, he saw a low, open doorway. It was a wretched, windowless tavern that could never be accused of prosperity, lined with barrels of cheap wine that stank to high heaven.
    It seemed fitting that he had to take two steps down to enter. He chose a tiny table from among all five of them and sat facing the street. Even though the tavern wasn’t located exactly across from the building, the fact that it was below street level gave it fairly good visibility. The only other customer, youngish and well dressed, was engaged in an undecipherable conversation with an empty glass.
    Maurici ordered cognac, and the owner, who did double duty as waiter, stood gaping at him as if he’d asked for the moon. After he read the signs written in chalk on each barrel, he opted for a glass of claret. He didn’t know exactly who or what he was waiting for, but something told him that, if he followed the comings and goings of the woman from La Perla d’Orient, sooner or later he’d catch some sign coming from her that would cast light on the whole affair. At eight o’clock she’d close the store. With a little luck, he’d be back home by nine. His plan was to sneak into the building after her and, should he hear voices like the first time, to risk going up to the second floor.
    As he sipped the claret a middle-aged man—so distinguished-looking that he stood out from his surroundings—came out of the building, glanced up and down the alley, and headed for the square. Maurici noticed light behind the balcony of the second floor. On the third, however, the blinds were rolled down.
    The evening edition of
La Vanguardia
lay on the counter. He picked it up to browse the headlines; he couldn’t afford too many distractions.
    Suddenly a voice lamented, “That’s just my luck! Born and bred in Barcelona, family goes back twenty generations to the days of Geoffrey the Hairy, and my name’s Sánchez! Now, I ask you, what kind of stupid name is that? It sure don’t sound like an old Barcelona name to me! Can anyone tell me where it came from? Me, a native son . . .”
    It was the lonely drinker, bemoaning the indignity of his imported name. The owner cut his soliloquy short.
    â€œCome on, Mr. Sánchez, cheer up. If all the problems of the world came down to this . . .”
    â€œDon’t even say my name, just don’t say it! It’s too embarrassing.”
    Over the next ten minutes, punctuated by the drunkard’s babbling, Maurici observed two more men of the same type as the one he’d seen before go into the building. Night was falling and the light inside the tavern was so poor it was hard to read. Every other minute he looked at his