Free Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing by Teresa Solana, Peter Bush Page B

silence, dried our hands and went into the dining room to say goodbye to Montse and Lola and announce that we were going to Zen Moments to meditate a while and purge our sins.

8
    The Zen Moments centre was on Escoles Pies, above the boulevard Bonanova, very close to where Mariona lives. It was a three-storey designer building, cube-shaped and painted in several shades of grey. Unlike the exuberant, chaotic gardens that one could glimpse around the nearby mansions, where creeping plants spilled over walls and offered the street their wisteria and magnificent clusters of deep-purple bougainvillea, the garden surrounding the meditation centre was so prim and proper that all its plants looked man-made. There wasn’t a single leaf on the gravel, and I noted that all the flowers were pallid – not one was red. The pale mauve petals of two huge hydrangeas welcomed visitors from their earthenware pots on either side of the front door.
    â€œGood afternoon,” we chorused as we walked in.
    Borja smiled and walked towards the young woman sitting behind a shiny black marble counter that was flanked by an artificial waterfall under an elegant, equally black, stone Buddha that must have been at least a metre and a half high.
    â€œWe are looking for information,” said Borja. “My business partner and I are interested in finding out about your centre’s activities.”
    â€œIs this your first visit?” she asked, returning his smile.
    â€œYes.”
    The young woman got up from her chair and emerged from behind the counter. She was dark-haired and stocky, in pastel pink trousers and a short-sleeved smock that reminded me of the uniforms nurses and girls in beauty centres often wear, though not entirely.
    â€œIf you would be so good as to follow me,” she instructed us.
    A tinted glass door opened automatically and led into a wide, door-lined corridor. There were two offices at the end with signs that said respectively, “Dr Horaci Bou” and “Dr Bernat Comes”. Two doors next to them were labelled “Seminar 1” and “Seminar 2”. The receptionist opened the only door without a sign and ushered us into a waiting room with a window that overlooked the garden. The room was empty, with no chairs; only two long concrete benches without backs that were placed in parallel either side of a small rectangular table decorated with white flowers and white candles. Six white cushions were arranged in perfect harmony on each bench.
    â€œIf you would take a seat, someone will soon be along to help you.”
    The receptionist left, shutting the door behind her. A soft, subdued New Age melody began to waft from a small loudspeaker.
    â€œThis place is spooky,” I said, surveying the empty space.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, you know, I was expecting to find the usual paraphernalia you get in this kind of centre. It’s all very sober, dispiriting, if you ask me.”
    â€œThere’s a Buddha in the entrance,” retorted Borja.
    â€œYes, but it’s stone and not gilded.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “Montse’s centre is quite different and so colourful…”
    The only adornments in that spotless room with white walls and a grey fitted carpet were a standard lamp with a white paper shade, a bonsai by the window and a huge white canvas where black brushstrokes represented what I imagined was an Oriental character. When we’d been sat there for five minutes eyeball to eyeball, the door opened and the same dark-haired girl from reception came in with a tray, two cups, a steaming teapot and a dish of those thin biscuits you find in the slimming section of supermarkets. The teapot and cups were also white.
    â€œSomebody will be with you right away,” she said with a saintly smile. “In the meantime, I thought you might like some green