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

watch.
    â€œBorn and bred in Barcelona . . . and my name’s Sánchez!”
    The owner replenished Mr. Sánchez’s glass and offered Maurici sets of dice and cards. He declined and then, instead, ordered sherry. Now and then he pretended to take a sip, but he’d actually decided not to drink any more in order to keep his head clear. As the evening shadows crept into the joint, a young boy came out of the dark mouth of the building, crossed the street, and walked into the tavern, asking the owner to fill up a bottle with ten-cent red wine.
    â€œDisgraceful, that’s what it is! Born in Barcelona . . .”
    The boy stood with his mouth agape in front of the alcoholic who so bitterly cursed his ancestry, till the owner told him, “All right, Manelet, that’s enough gawking for today. Here’s your wine. Go home now.”
    Realizing that the owner must know the neighbors, Maurici was tempted to ask him about apartment number five. But on second thought he decided against it, since he didn’t know how reliable the man was and his questions might raise suspicions. Most likely he’d alert the residents to the presence of a nosy stranger.
    His pupils, like those of a cat, adjusted to the encroaching darkness. After the boy’s appearance, he counted three more people coming out of number five: first a plainly dressed woman who returned shortly after with a package in her hands, and then two men. One of them, white-haired and carrying a walking stick, was the same one he’d seen go in before; the other, who went past the tavern toward the square, seemed to be middle-aged, short rather than tall, with a waxy complexion and a thick black moustache. Maurici took a pen and a notebook out of his pocket and jotted down physical descriptions and the times of their movements. He didn’t know whether those details would be useful but his intuition told him to gather as many as possible.
    A clock in the distance struck half past eight and a light came on behind one of the balconies.
    â€œCan anyone explain to me how come, bein’ born and bred in Barcelona, my name happens to be Sánchez? Ain’t that the sorriest name you ever heard? Sánchez, a dime a dozen . . .”
    For a while, the street was deserted. Maurici killed time writing and drawing pictures on his notebook, never losing sight of the doorway. A few minutes before nine another man appeared, a shadow among the shadows that engulfed the building. Impossible to determine if he was one of the characters he’d seen go in earlier.No trace of the woman from La Perla d’Orient. At twenty past ten, he gave up and paid for his drinks. The drunken, circular rhetoric still pursued him on the way out:
    â€œSánchez, born and bred . . .”
    Next evening at eight o’clock, he was back at Bartomeu’s tavern keeping watch. Instead of Mr. Sánchez, there were two cart drivers with hoarse voices and three-day beards drinking red wine and shooting dice. During the hour he stayed at his table, scanning the paper and smoking cigars, the tavern was visited by a gypsy beggar and a blind man trying to sell the day’s last lottery tickets. Bartomeu scolded the gipsy woman, “Araceli, how many times do I have to tell you I don’t want you in here?” Far from being intimidated, she charged back. Maurici bought the tickets from the blind man, who blocked his view as he shuffled around the tables, so that he’d leave once and for all. The owner and the cart drivers cast inquisitive glances at the stranger in fine clothes that didn’t touch his wine and bought lottery tickets by the dozen.
    In his notebook he recorded two men—neither recognizable from the day before—entering the building one after the other, plus a third who left forty-five minutes later. At nightfall, the man with the waxy complexion and black moustache once again walked past the tavern. The lady of La Perla