“It’s probably better if we don’t wait. Let’s walk,” she said, adding, “but I live a good ways from here.”
“How far?”
“Consell de Cent.”
“Why don’t we walk down Balmes? There’s always the chance we’ll find a taxi.”
Let’s hope we don’t find one. He took her arm happily to help her across the street.
Barcelona lay below them, gleaming with a reddish halo that blazed across the sky, creating a magical arch of light. To the left, the lights on the top of the Putxet gleamed, but the houses sheltered on the side of the mountain had their windows closed. If the wind stopped blowing for an instant, their sole companions were the silence and the night.
•
They walked for a long while without speaking. She was the first to say something.
“What are you disguised as?”
“A tailor.”
“A tailor?” she laughed. “If you hadn’t told me. .”
“Louis XV’s Jewish tailor,” he stated, sure of himself.
Then he began to explain that he was studying Greek and composed poetry, was writing a book, “Persephone’s smile,” and he’d spent the afternoon at the Carnival parade and was just returning from a party.
“When I finish my studies, I’ll travel. I want to know the world. I’ll leave without a penny in my pocket. Maybe I’ll get myself hired as a stoker. Poets here all tend to die in bed surrounded by family, and the newspaper prints their dying words, describing the force of their last breath, the whole bit. I want to die alone, with my boots on, face down, an arrow in my back.”
Until now she had led the conversation; she began to grow impatient with his outburst of eloquence.
“Ai!” she exclaimed suddenly, her hand on her chest as if her heart wanted to take flight.
“What’s the matter?”
She took a moment to respond.
“Nothing, my heart. I was just dizzy all of a sudden.”
He looked at her in alarm, not knowing what to say, whether he should hold her, let her go. She sighed deeply and ran her hand across her forehead.
“I’m all right now, it’s starting to pass. I have a weak heart. It must be the kind of life I lead.”
“What does your family say about it?”
“It doesn’t seem to worry them.”
“You should lead a healthier life. Fresh air, exercise, get to bed early.”
“I know the story: lots of fish and vegetables.”
“No,” he responded, a bit disconcerted. “That’s not what I mean. I mean to love more honestly.”
“And die of boredom. No thanks. I decided long ago the kind of life I wanted. I plan only to pick the flowers, as my concierge would put it,” she said, lowering her voice and shooting him a quick, amused look.
He was strolling, staring at the ground, distracted, and hadn’t noticed she had looked at him. He raised his head with a certain regret, “And make a terrible mistake.”
“A mistake? Oh, I don’t want to get married, if that’s what you’re thinking. When I’m fifty and look back on my life, evaluate it, I’m convinced that I’ll be pleased with the results. At least I’ll have had love, dreams, kind words. I’ll have avoided — as we do a puddle on a rainy day — everything that was tedious and vulgar.”
“Even so, old age without children—”
“And no grandchildren, no aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, or any other relatives. The funeral at noon.”
“It’s useless.”
“I should redeem myself?”
A wind blew across their feet, coming from the sea, creating abrupt whirlwinds of dust. It bore thick clouds that traveled quickly across the sky, devouring the stars.
By the time they reached Plaça Molina, the sky was completely overcast and the wind panted ominously at the cross streets and above the rooftops.
“The night’s going to end dramatically!”
“I’ve already told you, I love the wind.”
Her cape was blowing horizontally. She took it off and handed it to him.
“Hold it for me.”
He took it, stopped, and glanced at the sky.
“Which side of Consell de Cent do you live on?”
“Facing the sea, going down Passeig de Gràcia, on the left. Why?”
“Let’s take the shortcut along Via Augusta. They’re working on the street, not an easy walk, but it’s quicker. I mean because of the weather.”
He was neither in a hurry nor concerned about the rain. He simply wanted to stroll down the broad, deserted street. It’ll seem like we’re alone in this world. Midway between Plaça Molina and the train platform at Gràcia was a garden with a very old plane tree right beside a gate, its foliage falling over onto the street. He knew he’d never forget the sound of the wind blowing through the branches of the tree as he walked beside the girl.
Suddenly raindrops began to fall. Scattered drops, round and fat, striking the ground with a dull sound that increased the intensity of the moment.
“Just what we needed.” The girl looked from one side to another, searching for shelter.
“If we want to find a doorway, we’ll have to run down to the pink house. There are only gardens along this stretch,” he said anxiously.
They would have to run like a couple of idiots. Damn rain that was ruining his reverie.
“Put on your cape, it’ll keep you from getting quite so wet.” He pulled up the ends of it and tied them at the level of her knees. “Will you be able to run?”
“I think so.”
Holding hands, they ran down the street, pursued by the rain, driven by the wind that pushed them to one side. From the ground rose a hot, asphyxiating smell of damp dust. The rain slackened for a moment; the cloud that had borne it passed, but a darker one was approaching.
•
By the time they reached the first portal a real downpour had started. They were too exhausted to speak. Their hearts and pulses raced. She took off the cape and shook the water off her, as a bird might.
She looked at the boy and burst out laughing.
“Poor costume,” she exclaimed, glancing down at her pleated skirt, all wet, the hem dirty. “If it were just a bit warmer, I would stand in the rain. When we’re out of town in the summer and it rains, I put on my bathing suit and go for a stroll along the beach. It’s wonderful.”
The wind blew the rain toward the other side of the street. In front of the house where they had taken shelter lay a patch of dry ground, some two meters wide. A streetlight shone on the opposite sidewalk. The girl gazed at it in silence for a long time, wrinkling her forehead. She kept opening and closing her eyes as if she were alone.
“Do what I’m doing and you won’t be so sad,” she said without turning her head. “Close your eyes a bit and look at the light. You’ll be amazed at the colors. You see? Green, red, blue.”
He closed his eyes and opened them slowly.
“I don’t see any colors.”
The girl was engrossed in the game and didn’t respond, as if she hadn’t heard him. After a while, she exclaimed, slightly annoyed.
“You must not be doing it right. You have to close your eyes, but not all the way. Leave a tiny crack, really small.”
The boy tried again, closing his lids, then opening them a little. But the yellowish light was unchanged.
“I don’t see a thing.”
“That means you’ll have a long life,” she said with a touch of disdain. “People who see seven colors die the following day. Today I’ve seen five. Wait, let me try again, see if it changes.”