The Dream of the City Read Free Page A

bad.”
    â€œI’ll tell him, for his sake and mine,” he answered.
    Dimas was still working in the repair shop. The idea that his son might lose his job gave Juan an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. While he got lost in these thoughts, his hand caused the coins in his pocket to jingle: six reales he’d been paid in Doña Inmaculada’s textile store. From time to time, friends from the neighborhood would send Juan on little errands that served more to keep Juan feeling useful than to earn him money. It had been a while since he’d mentioned these chores to his son. The boy saw it as taking alms, and he wasn’t exactly wrong: That day, Juan had made one and a half pesetas carrying packages up and down through the city nearly the entire day, a pittance compared to what he’d made as a conductor ten years back. Moreover, if he did make it to the end of the month, it was only because he didn’t pay for the streetcar. No one would hire a man with only one good arm, and his chance for a job was even less with the flood of immigrants constantly flowing into the City of Counts. Juan resigned himself to what the present offered, and that was better than nothing.
    With worry accompanying his steps, Juan descended from the streetcar. The stop had been inaugurated only recently, just beside the Sagrada Familia, perennially under construction. His other son, the eight-year-old Guillermo, went to school nearby. When he looked up, he saw the church scaffolding was empty: the workers had already gone home. At that moment he couldn’t help but solicit a bit of help from that supreme being who dwelled between the incomplete towers driving into the sky. Juan left behind the vacant lot that surrounded the future basilica and walked along the Calle de Mallorca until he crossed the Calle Igualdad. That was where he lived.
    He began his trek up to the top floor, his breathing heavy. At fifty-two years of age, his weary legs couldn’t hold up the way they had when he and Carmela first arrived in the city. It had been impossible to make a living in his village, and they had emigrated together. Back home, people spoke of the wonders of Barcelona; they said it was full of opportunities, and it was true that he’d found work as soon as he got there. The misfortunes would come later: The city, like a riled beast, had revealed its ruthless claws.
    The wooden steps now creaked beneath his threadbare shoes. There weren’t many floors to climb, only four, but Juan had to stop and rest a moment on each landing to catch his breath.
    â€œFather!” Guillermo exclaimed from the hallway. He ran to Juan when he heard the door of their tiny apartment—just two barely furnished rooms—open.
    Juan took off his cap and jacket and left them on the rack at the entrance. He kissed Guillermo and asked after Dimas.
    â€œHe’s in his room,” Guillermo said, referring to the bedroom the two brothers shared. “He just got home.”
    The boy wasn’t really Juan’s; he belonged to his brother, Raúl, who had suffered the worst consequences of the Tragic Week in 1909. His wife, Georgina, the one the boy owed his blond hair and blue eyes to, had gone along with Raúl during the wave of protests against the conservative government of Antonio Maura between July 26 and August 2. Once again, it had been the poorest of the poor who were called upon to maintain control of the Moroccan Protectorate in the Second Rif War. The war had been a folly of the Spanish administration, still stinging from the loss of Cuba and the Philippines only a few years before.
    Men and women raised barricades and faced off against the ruling powers in the streets of Barcelona. The Catholic Church was also affected: convents, churches, and schools were burned to the ground by the hands of an enraged populace. Martial law and a state of war were declared inside the city.
    The conflict ended after a fierce