Free Barcelona Shadows by Marc Pastor Page A

often an anarchist would shoot somebody on the street, but normally it was somebody who deserved it and I didn’t feel too sorry for them. That was aroundthe time of the bomb at the Liceu Opera House, that guy sure had balls, that Santiago Salvador. I knew him, and one day he came up and asked me: listen, Juanitu, if you wanted to bump off some middle-class folk, where would you go? To the Liceu, of course, I told him, but I didn’t think he’d follow my advice to the letter. Poor bastard, he was a good chap. I saw him sometimes around Riereta. I guess he didn’t blow off enough steam that way and so he ended up exploding there in the audience.
    Enriqueta has something magnetic about her. You don’t know why, but you need to go back to her again and again. When she speaks you’re struck dumb, she hypnotizes you like one of those snakes from the Orient, those ones that come out of a basket. What are they called? Cobras? Yes, that’s it, cobras. Every time I went to see her I brought her flowers, some chocolate, those little details women like. But her expression never changed. It was if nothing excited her, except when she had me between her legs. The flowers withered in the other girls’ rooms, and I ended up eating the chocolates myself. But I insisted and insisted, because Enriqueta was more to me than just a whore. It’s not that I didn’t want to pay, eh, it’s that I was falling for the minx. I could get anyone I wanted, I could get Empress Sissi into bed if I tried. Well, maybe not now, but then, that time when she came to Barcelona, I could have for sure. But Enriqueta was unreachable, as if she were always hiding more than I could discover. She was a challenge.
    “Marry me, Miss Enriqueta.”
    Because I called her Miss, of course, you’ve always got to mind your manners.
    “And what would I do, married? Don’t you see, Juanitu, that I need to make my bits and bobs?”
    “You can retire, I’ll set up a little flat and paint your portrait.”
    “The portrait I can believe, but where would you get the money for a little flat?”
    “I have my contacts, Enriqueta, and pressing the right keys—”
    “I know those contacts well, and for all their groping and sweating and their I love yous, in the end they never lift a finger for me.”
    “Ay, don’t say that, you’ll make me sad.”
    “You’re quite the actor, Juanitu. Don’t cry, what I’m selling, you’re buying, and so it would be a really bad deal.”
    “Come with me to the stall, help me with my business and leave behind this world of vice.”
    “I’ve got to give it up, but you don’t… I know how you are, Juanitu. Like every man. If you married me you’d have a tart to do what I do for you now, and you’d end up leaving me and I wouldn’t have the body or the desire to earn a living for myself any more.”
    “Don’t be cruel, Enriqueta, I want you to have my children!”
    Big cock-up. I didn’t know then that she couldn’t—you know, that the Lord our God didn’t want her to procreate. It’s not my fault, I’m sure, because more than once or twice I’ve had to run away from a swollen belly and an accusing finger.
    “I said no, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
    But there were more words about it.
    You’ve got to have women on a short leash, because you know they are very fickle and hot-blooded by nature, and yours truly kept on Enriqueta until she caved. It wasn’t easy, or cheap, and we came to an agreement. I would set her up with a stall and she’d leave Dionisia. Enriqueta had always liked herbs and unctions and she had a lot of books around the house with remediesand unguents and potions. I set her up with a herbalist’s shop on Sindicte Street. It goes without saying that she never showed enthusiasm, because that’s how she is, and the store didn’t last long. She wasn’t up to the task and didn’t have much interest in selling.
    “That doesn’t make money.”
    “It’s a small but